Berkeley author Michael Chabon’s touching memoir, Manhood for Amateurs, begins with his declaration that his story started with the birth of his brother when he was five years old, saying: “Before that, I had no one to tell it to.” With no “other,” existence itself is questionable, which is why neglect is so very lethal. I recently heard a remarkable story underscoring this, of writer and conservationist Hannah Bourne-Taylor.
Although we don’t learn much about Bourne-Taylor’s childhood, we know that her family “moved often.” It certainly sounds bereft of attention, like a vacuum of solitary neglect. She describes herself as “bird-obsessed,” and every spring when her favorite birds, the swifts, returned to her area in the UK, she was overjoyed as if returning to life.
Bourne-Taylor did not even realize how agonizing her daily experience of OCD was. It was certainly the most debilitating case I have ever heard of, and I am no stranger to OCD. Not only was she plagued by the diagnostic, endless bouts of checking and re-checking, but she “en-souled” the objects of her checking – that is, she imbued them with a “soul.” When she rearranged a can of beans that was crookedly misaligned from the other cans, she imagined the can was suffering from being out of sync with the rest of the clan. Her most severely consuming preoccupation was when she and her husband moved into a home in the far reaches of the jungle, which had a lovely swimming pool. The first time she went to take a dip, she became aware of ants falling into the pool. “Making eye contact” with the ants put her profoundly in touch with their emotional experience, and she became obsessed with saving them from their terrifying drowning deaths. She did not want the luxury of her swim to be at the cost of their fragile lives. Not only did she build bridges of palm fronds to enable their safe rescue, but she got up repeatedly during the night to make sure they were OK. The ants occupied virtually all of her waking life. And it was a secret and solitary world. She did not even tell her husband, who was to be the first person she ever told of her OCD, until she was 31.
Although we don’t learn much about Bourne-Taylor’s childhood, we know that her family “moved often.” It certainly sounds bereft of attention, like a vacuum of solitary neglect. She describes herself as “bird-obsessed,” and every spring when her favorite birds, the swifts, returned to her area in the UK, she was overjoyed as if returning to life. As the wife of a devoted bird lover with a history of extreme neglect, it is not hard for me to imagine her primary relationships being aviary.
When Bourne-Taylor was in her early thirties, her husband (ironically named Robin!) got a job assignment in the far reaches of Ghana. They relocated, and it was then that she seemed to decline deeply, sinking into her most paralyzing depression. That is when the preoccupation with the suffering ants descended on her, consuming most of 24 hours a day. Until she met the finch.
Of course, it is my rallying cry that attachment, or lack thereof, is the source of both the most profound of injury and most profound healing. And although I have known many a survivor of trauma and/or neglect whose first perhaps only safe attachment was their own child, and plenty also whose preferred attachments are to animals rather than humans, I have never heard a healing story quite like that of Bourne-Taylor.
Finches are tiny birds, perhaps the height of Bourne-Taylor’s little finger. They are extremely reliant on the flock, being so small that when left to themselves, they are easy prey for any hungry carnivore. She describes them as “a flying snack” that will last barely minutes. The proverbial birds of a feather protectively flock together and have an elaborate communication/alarm system. The finch that Bourne-Taylor encountered was somehow lost or separated from the flock. Bourne-Taylor, knowing that was a likely death sentence for the little guy, worried desperately about him for the next 10 hours or so, checking on him repeatedly.
Ultimately she decided she better take some action. She attempted to imitate his chirp, and he chirped in reply, ultimately coming to her. What ensued was a remarkable love story that saved them both. The interested can look for her book, Fledgeling, in which she chronicles the whole thing. The little bird ends up making a nest in her waist-length hair, and for the next 84 days, until he is mature enough to be released into the wild, they spend 24/7 together, making a total of over 2,000 hours.
Bourne-Taylor never named the bird, her mission always being not to make him a “pet” but to return him to his natural habitat. When it was time to let him go, she enlisted her husband to do the “deed,” knowing she would find it unbearable. She also feared that he would not “make it” somehow, that a predator would get to him too fast. And it was a bittersweet time, of triumph and deep grief, when they parted.
Both Bourne-Taylor and the little finch were inalterably changed. What she discovered was that her OCD symptoms were gone. She concluded that the unrelenting preoccupation with care for her little buddy kept her so riveted in the present moment, it was like a compelling mindfulness practice that must have changed her brain. Her OCD did not return. She has since become an avid and prolific conservationist and author.
Of course, it is my rallying cry that attachment, or lack thereof, is the source of both the most profound of injury and most profound healing. And although I have known many a survivor of trauma and/or neglect whose first perhaps only safe attachment was their own child, and plenty also whose preferred attachments are to animals rather than humans, I have never heard a healing story quite like that of Bourne-Taylor. Again, I do not know her trauma story, but nonetheless, the little finch was as successful as any therapist I have ever seen.
It is a hard sell for survivors that relationships can be anything healing, especially as they have ever been so fraught, dangerous, and ambiguous at best. But I do know that as effective as any of the exquisitely helpful and essential modalities for trauma healing are: somatic therapies, EMDR, Neurofeedback, psychedelics, none are sufficient without the healing of the attachment wound: attachment with a sentient other. For survivors of neglect, even coming to truly believe that is a challenge and a main task of healing. It is a default to imagine it is impossible or just not worth it. I have also seen that when a client somehow breaks through to buying in, their healing takes off. A good therapist, as I like to say, is necessary and insufficient, meaning that talk therapy is not enough, but it is essential. My two cents, and I would not take you anywhere I haven’t been!
Bourne-Taylor never had the luxury to find out about the rest of the story about her beloved little finch. In a way, he was like “the one who got away.” Similarly, I often never find out what became of clients I had that I cared about a lot, and then under whatever circumstances, they flew from the nest. They might not even imagine how much I had cared, just as I could not imagine that my therapist cared about me. It was her “job,” so why would she think of me when I was not in her sight? Neglect teaches us to imagine that even when we are in view, we barely exist in the mind of the other, if at all. Bourne-Taylor reminds us that the healing bond works in both directions, which is one reason why couple’s therapy is so profound. And although a good therapist does not rely on or “use” their client for their own ends, it is an undeniable privilege to be in such an intimate and essential role. Like Bourne-Taylor, it is bittersweet when people are truly ready to fly on. I like to reassure them that when they do, the door is open should they wish to return for a single visit, a stint, or even another run together. It doesn’t happen that often, which is fine. And I don’t stop watching the horizon for a little flutter of wings.
Today’s song:
My book “Working with the Developmental Trauma of Childhood Neglect: Using Psychotherapy and Attachment Theory Techniques in Clinical Practice” was published on August 31st. It provides psychotherapists with a multidimensional view of childhood neglect and a practical roadmap for facilitating survivors’ healing.
Way back at the beginning of our relationship, I remember my husband saying to me, only very slightly in jest, that there are really only three important activities to do on vacation: “eat, sleep and make love.” At the time, now over thirty years and many vacations ago, that was actually a terrifying prospect. Not only due to the apprehension of two old survivors of trauma and neglect spending 24 hours a day in the presence of another human but because all three of those activities were quite fraught and certainly not easy or fun for me.
It took a long time for us to find our way and create vacations together that “work” (play? Relax? Whatever!) It seems as if I am writing this about two strange other people, thankfully, as we wrap up a glorious week in Hawaii, USA.
My last few blog posts have been dark and pretty serious. This week, being largely unplugged and reading only the lite version of the San Francisco local paper – the weather, horoscope, food, and books sections – I thought would be a good time to lighten things up and write optimistically about sex. We may all be weary and beleaguered by recent coverage of the topic: abortion, harassment, assault and other abuse and discrimination, so I thought I would flip it and talk about a fave subject of mine: Sexual Health.
In the neglect household, things, for the most part, don’t get talked about at all, and there is no one to ask questions to about much of anything. So when kids experience changing bodies at puberty, “discover” masturbation or notice the differences between their own and siblings or other kids’ bodies, they may be confused, even scared. What might be an area of wonder and expansiveness becomes a shadowy, enclosed secret. Add to that childhood sexual abuse and all the secrecy, dysregulation and emotions that come with that, and we have a child locked in frightening and silent tabu. When I started menstruating at age 9, I did not know what that was. Aghast that something was fatally “wrong” with me, I was also horrified and ashamed of the mess, smells, and evidence. I remember being at school and being terrified to get out of my little desk and leaving a bloody puddle on the chair. And I was afraid of getting caught throwing my little undies in the trash. I don’t remember how my older sister somehow found out and helped me out of that quandary.
The larger world, sadly, is not much better. Although we are bombarded with sexual imagery, innuendo and titillation, there is a poverty of information or, certainly, information that is accurate and useful. Rather sex is commercialized, commodified, sensationalized and distorted by truly impossible role models of bodies, relationships, and functions: instantly rock hard ever-lasting erections, always feverishly wet vulvas, chandelier swinging, explosive simultaneous orgasms – at least in heterosexual couples.
And because there is no safe and reliable education to be had, kids (and adults too) get their “information” and advice from movies, porn, locker rooms and of course, Google and chat rooms of every stripe. And with sex being wildly subjective and colored by culture, values, morals, and individual and mass conscious and unconscious biases, the silent resounding question remains, “What’s ‘true’?”And for the most part, no one knows that everyone else is asking the same thing. Oy vey!
An interesting book I read maybe 20 years ago has stood the test of time even in the book-cluttered recesses of my head: When Sex Goes to School: Warring Views on Sex–and Sex Education–Since the Sixties, by Kristin Luker. It is a brief historical overview of the shapeshifting pendulations of sex education in the US. Essentially it graphically posits the obvious (but not so obvious?).
Sex education in schools historically reflects the prevailing political and moral perspective of the ruling government at any given time. In effect, “s— rolls downhill, and the available information shapes the sexual attitudes and behavior of that era. It is a worthwhile little read. Many who know my work have heard this rant many times before. So let’s talk about a happy and also unifying subject! You might ask, “unifying? did you not just get through saying that it is wildly subjective?” Well, yes, I did. But from a brilliant colleague and friend, Doug Braun-Harvey, I learned the Six Principles of Sexual Health (also to be found in his book, co-written with Michael Vigorito: Treating Out of Control Sexual Behavior: Rethinking Sex Addiction) which cast a wide enough net as to be universal, truly inclusive, even practical. Thanks Doug!
It is easy to believe that because sex is a “natural” function, we are all innately supposed to know what to “do”, and we are all essentially the “same.” After all, birds do it, bees do it. Most notably, children of neglect, living in a world of echoing silence and finding their own answers about most everything, generally tend to default to the belief that what I know about applies to everyone else too. Clearly, I am a freak if I do not know what I am supposed to do. Many a child of neglect avoids sex with a partner completely for a variety of reasons, this shameful ignorance being one of them. So let me start by proclaiming a resounding “NO!” We are NOT all the same, and sexual tastes, much like food tastes, are as widely disparate and diverse as the gourmet (or not!) palette. When you partner with someone new, do you assume you know what their food preferences, allergies, ethical or religious restrictions, or even rhythms of meals might be? Hopefully not! We need to ask! Listen and learn! Then, ultimately, we can cook and eat and if we are compatible and have enough overlap and enough common predilections enjoy a meal together.
And so it is with sex! We must similarly speak, ask, listen, disclose and learn! It seems like a “no-brainer!” No? Well, because in general, no one really talks about sex, including oncologists who fail to alert patients about possible sexual ramifications of their cancer, its treatments, and surgeries; psychiatrists who fail to inform/warn patients about sexual side effects of medications, even psychotherapists and couples’ therapists fail to inquire – it is not obvious that it is OK to ask and to speak up. It is really most “natural” if one is honest, to not know!
In all fairness, I must add that there is the occasional sex-positive exception to the gross generalization above. Let me just say, I am committed to breaking the silence by raising sometimes shocking tabu sexual subjects (hopefully with dignity, tact, and respect for all) with explicit language to model, teach and desensitize talking openly about sex. It is quite remarkable how many long, long-term couples never have! No shame in that! Talking about sex is not “unnatural”; it is just, well, unnatural! Let’s do something about that!
So, once we have “normalized” talking about sex, we must define “what is “normal” anyway?” So many individuals and couples both worry, “I am not “normal!” or my partner is not “normal,” our frequency of sex is not “normal,” etc., making for shame, criticism, blame, confusion, uncertainty, bitter recrimination, prejudice and often sexual impasses and long droughts. (Most people who are not sex therapists have no idea how many “monogamous” long-term partners haven’t had (partnered) sex in literally years!) I once heard a sex therapy expert say, “So-called ‘sex addicts’ are anyone who has sex more than me!” So, in addition to tabu busting and myth-busting being vitally important to me, so is defining our terms! As I often say, and it can be a hard sell, particularly with survivors of neglect for whom “doing things my own way” has been a means of survival, there are few absolutes about anything. Even more controversial, I am known for saying, “There are no facts in a relationship! Just your world and my world,” but we won’t debate that now.
Certainly, with sex, there is no universally agreed on “normal” for sexual feelings, preferences, and practices. There are some that are difficult for me to imagine and understand, and certainly would do anything but try! But I don’t have to do those if I am adhering to the Six Principles. What a blessing! If done well, a true democracy! So here are the Six Principles, only briefly fleshed out here (no pun intended). Assuredly, we shall return again and again to these topics!
Pretty basic, huh? Yet truly game-changing when scrupulously adhered to! And within this frame, the sky is the limit as to what we choose to do!
1. Consent
Consent is, of course, foundational and delineates the difference between trauma/neglect-ridden interaction and healthful, connected and free expression. Couples must agree that “No means NO!” and, in turn, yes means authentic yes! There must be agreement, commitment and safety to be candid, as well as precision about exactly what we are consenting to.
2. Non-exploitation
Non-Exploitation means thoughtful assessment and correction for any imbalances of power and care taken to share the responsibility to equalize and equally respect the dignity of each.
3. Protection from STIs and unintended pregnancy
Protection against STIs is a shared responsibility and endeavor, including agreement and cooperation about both “pre-existing” and newly acquired conditions or infections, agreement about methods to be utilized, and who is responsible for what.
4. Honesty
Honesty means transparency, both overtly and by omission. It also means having the humility to disclose likes and dislikes and to practice consistent and effective communication. Also agreed upon boundaries of “Privacy.”
5. Shared Values
Shared values is again the practice of good communication about what the meaning of sexual intimacy to each partner. Is it about play and fun? Intimacy? What makes me unique, special and sets me apart from everyone else in your life? Self-regulation, procreation, spirituality? Is it even interesting at all? Couples must determine are we, in fact, “in the same movie?”
6. Mutual Pleasure
Mutual pleasure is about creating an interaction in which there is room for the pleasure of both partners. What makes sex really “work” is when each partner is both present with themselves and present with the other while in the present moment. It is a commitment to that, which includes finding out what exactly brings pleasure to them.
7. Bonus Principle: Lifelong Regular Practice
Sexuality pioneer and icon Betty Dodson would add a seventh principle. She taught that regular sexual activity, with or without a partner, is as essential as food, sleep and (other) physical exercise. She joyfully practiced what she preached until she recently passed at 91.
Cursory and introductory for now, this topic will be amply addressed in my forthcoming book now in the works and, to be sure, in many upcoming blogposts. The eager might look up Doug Braun-Harvey, who offers a wealth of information about sexual health!
Sexual health does indeed mean inclusivity, elasticity, growth and acceptance, not only about the vast diversity among us but in ourselves through our lifespan. When I was growing up, categories were rigidly binary and few: male or female. Even gay or straight came later. Then we got bi-sexuality and, little by little, all the other letters coming after LGB in a growing list. Sexual health is widening our lens to include them all but also learning how to observe with acceptance and grow with the changes in our own bodies and sexual functions, including our own feelings and attitudes about sex and ourselves. So many things we might never have thought about until we got there.
Our species has only recently begun to live this long. Only a century ago, humans did not live long after their reproductive years, so the challenges of long-term monogamous sexual activity with one partner for decades post-child-bearing is a puzzle we are still working out! If you don’t have answers yet, well, join the human race.
So much more to say! As Terry Gross would say, “Let’s take a short break. And then we’ll talk some more!” And as Rabbi Hillel taught about the Golden Rule, these six (or seven) principles are all you really need to know. The rest is commentary. So now go and practice!
Today’s Song:
My book “Working with the Developmental Trauma of Childhood Neglect: Using Psychotherapy and Attachment Theory Techniques in Clinical Practice” was published on August 31st. It provides psychotherapists with a multidimensional view of childhood neglect and a practical roadmap for facilitating survivors’ healing.
Like most of us in the U.S., this latest spate of mass shootings and particularly school shootings, has flooded me with every imaginable emotion: grief, rage, despair, fear, impotence and more. When I finally become able to think, my mind is like a jammed Los Angeles freeway cloverleaf at rush hour, with countless vehicles crammed with lives and destinations, competing, stacking up, and sometimes colliding. Invariably I get stalled. And I definitely have to carefully regulate how much news, how many personal accounts of devastated mothers, despairing teachers, and defensive officials I listen to. And I am not even a mother. Of course, no one knows what to “do”.
“One trick pony” that I am, I default back to a few fundamental perspectives. No surprise, of course, to anyone who knows me and/or my work. I remember some years ago, I read a novel – Jody Picoult’s Nineteen Minutes – about a young high school shooter. Tracking his whole life, like a well-crafted work of fiction would, it was a trail of isolation and failed relationships. His distress signals garnered no response, except perhaps discipline and ultimately dislike and ostracization, which made for more isolation, frustration and build-up of aggression. His eventual massacre was a culmination of that long build-up.
It reminds me of the process of ricotta-making: watching a large pot of whey slowly brought to a very high temperature. The heat drives the milk solids to the surface of the liquid, and they slowly thicken, thicken, thicken to a heavy white cap. After what might seem like a long time, it starts roiling and rolling until a powerful bubbling breakthrough boil punctures the cap. It bursts like a volcano or an orgasm. And then, quickly before it boils over, I turn off the heat and cover it. However, in this case, we end up with something delicious and nutritious, not a bloody mess of chaos.
I remember some years ago, I read a novel – Jody Picoult’s Nineteen Minutes – about a young high school shooter. Tracking his whole life, like a well-crafted work of fiction would, it was a trail of isolation and failed relationships.
As with many other varieties of terror and violence, the warning signs of a troubled child abound if one is mindful. Of course, in the world of neglect, no one is mindful. There might be awareness that there is a “behavioral problem” that is likely met with a punitive rather than a curious or sympathetic response or reaction. Or the child may continue to be invisible or blend in with ambient or worse chaos until perhaps it is too late.
For centuries, mental illness has been confounded with moral, social or legal non-conformity. I remember when I first started college and was captivated by early 19th Century Europe, and most notably Karl Marx, I read a book about the origins of the “asylum”, which corresponded to the Industrial Revolution and Marx’s “alienation of labor”. Life was bleak, and the family was giving way to mechanization and a kind of “efficiency” and economy that was increasingly disconnected from kinship and relatedness. What I remember as being most striking was the conflation of “mental health” with criminality, often with a measure of religion thrown in. Their institutions seemed almost indistinguishable—Oy vey. Looking at today’s world, that has not really changed much in many places. Even the designation of “behavioral health” seems to somehow cast mental illness as a “behavioral problem” or “bad behavior” rather than perhaps a medical condition or a social problem.
The most logical observer of “red flags”, of course, would be family, at least a family that is awake and minimally non-defensive, empathic and related. Understanding distress or dysregulation as cries for help might obviate the quest for comfort and affiliation in other directions, such as social withdrawal, substance use or gangs.
I have not worked in an “institution” in decades. I did a brief stint at the VA and a couple of drug programs before I was licensed, and I have not “had to” since. Patients who wind up in those places are hard to work with. The VA system was set up such that when people got “better”, it whittled down their benefits, so there was a clear disincentive to recovery. And the most severely afflicted will maybe not ever get significantly better. I was relieved to be free to work in settings where people improve or even get well. It is clearly a privilege that I (mostly) don’t take for granted.
And too, there is something very flawed about a “healthcare” system designed to intervene only when the “patient” is a danger to themselves or others. By then, it is too late.
What I remember as being most striking was the conflation of “mental health” with criminality, often with a measure of religion thrown in
In one of Malcolm Gladwell’s books, again, I read it long ago, and I don’t even remember which one, he cites controversial data stating that when abortion was legalized in 1973, the violent crime rate dropped dramatically. Gladwell linked the idea that the removal of unwanted pregnancy, and thereby unwanted children, resulted in less disenfranchisement, loneliness, and of course, dysregulation and criminal activity. It makes sense to me. Attachment trauma, loneliness, rejection, self-worth, and all the incumbent dysregulation accompanying these are at the root of the brain and body distortions that can eventually give rise to so much of the “craziness” and criminality we see.
It is hard to tease out substance use, genetics, poverty, race and huge disparities of justice, among many factors, and I do not, by any means, intend to engage in a debate about abortion or this ancient data. For me, however, it is food for thought, and being the one trick pony that I am, the primary attachment is where I always default to. I continue to believe that attention to the earliest attachment injury is likely as a place to “begin”, as we must choose how to approach and clean up this complex and tragic mess.
My heart goes out to the families of all the murdered children and adults, all the new trauma and attachment trauma that these devastating and senseless murders have wrought. Uvalde especially, where the children were so unbelievably young, is incomprehensible.
My heart breaks for the entire generation of school kids whose last two years of education were fractured by the pandemic, and now that they finally can, they may be scared to go to school. My heart is breaking. I fervently hope we can learn from experience.
For centuries, mental illness has been confounded with moral, social or legal non-conformity.
Today’s Song:
My book “Working with the Developmental Trauma of Childhood Neglect: Using Psychotherapy and Attachment Theory Techniques in Clinical Practice” was published on August 31st. It provides psychotherapists with a multidimensional view of childhood neglect and a practical roadmap for facilitating survivors’ healing.
As I was pondering what to write about this week and thinking that of late, my blogs have been perhaps too “dark”, I happened to catch a whiff of the pungent dirty gym socks-like odor coming off ME! The unmistakable smell of Breve Bacterium Linens, or what those of us in the know affectionately refer to as “B Linens.” If you have had a ripe Muenster or Port Salut, B Linens is the bacterium additive that brings the lovely coral red blush to their rinds. I particularly love those two because I somehow remember them as being faves of our mom. And although they don’t bring the Proust-like flood of recall that some foods do, they do bring some kind of smile to my memory. Inhaling the stink rather characteristically clinging to my shirt, I thought, “maybe I’ll write about cheese!”
Last week I had the thrill and honor of appearing on the world YouTube stage for the first time. No, not as any kind of trauma expert; rather, my much-loved Australian cheesemaking teacher and guru Gavin Webber invited me to participate in his special event, “Twelve Hours of Cheese.” No, not for twelve hours, but for a one-hour interview about my own little story as an artisan home cheese maker. And that story I do remember. Not without trauma, the traumatic events were more like little “insults” that ultimately were mostly edible. When people say “cheesemaking! What an interesting hobby!” I say, “No, you don’t get it. For me, cheesemaking is not a hobby. It is a diagnosis!” What an oxymoron and identity shock for this invisible old child of neglect to be out there in the public eye. But before I go on, I better change this shirt because it really is kind of unbearable.
When people say “cheesemaking! What an interesting hobby!” I say, “No, you don’t get it. For me, cheesemaking is not a hobby. It is a diagnosis!”
My favorite album of all time is the Rolling Stones’ 1972 masterpiece Exile on Mainstreet. I remember at the height (or depth) of my dysregulation, bellowing along with Keith, “Everybody goooonnna need some kind of ventilator….” He had a rough childhood, bombs falling in London, a neglectful mom, hunger, an alcoholic father. No wonder he got so hopelessly addicted to heroin for so many years. I am grateful that I dodged that bullet. I can certainly see its appeal. And he is right.
The concept still stands. All of us with dysregulated nervous systems, with stressful daily lives, whether due to personal trauma histories or being a psychotherapist to the traumatized, or both, need these relief valves; ways to recharge and re-balance or simply rest. Perchance I fell into cheesemaking as just that. It really was a kind of an accident. I have always loved cheese, and it was a remote fantasy to try making it someday, like many other little fantasies that never materialize. This time, someone innocently lent me a book about home cheesemaking, and on a whim, I thought I would give it a try. I made the beginner’s cheese that most people start and many end with: quick mozzarella. Oy vey – I was hooked. It was a royal road to regulation. A friend affectionately nicknamed me “Cheese Wiz!”
Like sex, cheesemaking requires a delicate balance between sympathetic and parasympathetic, a focused presence floating on a pulsing excitement. Gavin’s book Keep Calm and Make Cheese is well named. You have to be calm to do it, and it is summarily calming. Perfect! But I get ahead of myself.
Suspecting I had discovered a new brand of self-care, I returned the borrowed book, bought my own copy and then every other cheese book I could find. And it was an amazing vehicle of focus – calm and fun, even though my first cheeses were nothing to brag about, with a failure rate of about 60%. I scoured the internet and YouTube and searched out all the tutorial videos and courses I could find. That was when I found Gavin, who became my go-to authority. I lived for his weekly live stream and live chat program Ask the Cheeseman, and I worked my way through his how-to videos, trying as many as I could. Now in about year four or five of my journey, it seems there is no going back.
And what a great teacher it is. Cheese is a living thing. It grows and evolves, and without proper care and hygiene, it drifts awry, with runaway unwanted mold growth and bacterial hitchhikers and vagabonds floating around where they can make havoc. It is also a great teacher of patience. When I first started making cheeses that had to age three or four months before being ready to eat, I thought, “no way!! How am I supposed to wait?!” Then I discovered the cheeses that take six to twelve months and more. Like trauma healing time, it moves glacially slowly. But ultimately, transformation occurs, and out of a shapeless mess, something new and delicious emerges. It is usually worth it. Not always, of course; that is why the essential brain function of learning from experience comes in!
Cheese is a living thing. It grows and evolves, and without proper care and hygiene, it drifts awry, with runaway unwanted mold growth and bacterial hitchhikers and vagabonds floating around where they can make havoc.
For millennia, around the world, people have been making this simple food with essentially one ingredient. They all seemed to spontaneously discover that although they could not store milk long enough to span the seasons when it was less plentiful, this simple procedure made a nutritious food that lasted much longer and was also delicious. Spontaneously and cross-culturally (no pun intended!), a growing wealth of styles and varieties developed, and a whole world unto itself of methodology and even language was formed. I was amazed as I got acquainted with that new to me little world, that there was a whole new vocabulary and set of concepts to learn, just like everything else. Who ever heard of Breve Bacterium Linens, of flocculation, or Mespohillic and Thermophilic Starter Cultures, to name but a few. However, these terms all became part of my daily life and copious reading.
Even before the pandemic struck and isolation became the norm, entering this world community of cheesemakers made me feel connected to people across geography and across time. It made me feel connected to cows and goats and sheep and all the other mammals that produce milk. And something about working with milk seemed to tie back into Attachment Theory, so although cheesemaking struck like a fallen meteor that lit up the sky and then landed, it also felt somehow very consonant with who I had already been.
When the pandemic hit and we were all locked down, cheesemaking became even more important as a means of regulation. There is something very steady and plodding about a process that takes a long time and a fair amount of fuss, much like therapy, but without (most of!) the pain. And because cheesemaking requires so much sanitizing and cleaning, all the guard rails imposed by the pandemic, with the exception perhaps of face masks, were well known to me. It became an effective, regulating pandemic activity; long days, including sometimes a 90-minute or two-hour stir – a fine opportunity to watch the wealth of webinars and virtual conferences, which were, to me, a welcome spawn of the times. My greatest teachers joined me in the kitchen, and all that stirring was like a gentle afternoon of kayaking in Kona.
Most of all, however, I discovered that almost everyone loves it. Most people I knew had never eaten artisan cheese and were more familiar with mass-produced, ordinary, or even processed cheese like Velveeta or Kraft Singlets. As my product became slowly better and even gift worthy, I began to find a source of great pleasure, joy and connection in sharing it. It made me feel happy and less alone. I started sending packages to friends and loved ones all over, and having my creation go into their bodies makes me feel a kind of organicity of connection. If the pandemic can widely and perilously unite us in fear and deathly danger, perhaps this other microorganism-infused agent could organically unite us in health and love. That is how it seems to me. If nothing else, I found it makes me happy! That regulates me and keeps me going.
All my cheeses are dated on the day they are made. Keeping up with my daily affinage, all the fussy little steps that cheese requires day-to-day during aging keeps me aware of the passage of time, which in “pandemic time” might otherwise seem static, stopped or a seemingly endless Groundhog Day. Time stands still in the brain of the traumatized. Life in present time does inch along forward.
Now, when I meet someone new that I like, the perennial question they are faced with is, “Do you like cheese?” It is rare to hear “no”. “Send me your postal address!” I say, and suddenly I have a new friend. It seems to melt barriers! And it is my favorite way to say, “thank you!”
Here in the US, it used to be rather customary, when taking family photos, for the erstwhile photographer to say, “Say Cheese!” to the assembled photo subjects in an effort to get a toothy, rather gritty smile of sorts. In Madonna’s iconic 1991 movie, Truth or Dare, she updates it to “Say dildo!” I have adapted her practice when I take a group shot and usually get authentic and charming expressions! Whichever you prefer, keep calm and have some cheese! It is alive!
There is something very steady and plodding about a process that takes a long time and a fair amount of fuss, much like therapy, but without (most of!) the pain. And because cheesemaking requires so much sanitizing and cleaning, all the guard rails imposed by the pandemic, with the exception perhaps of face masks, were well known to me.
Today’s Song:
My book “Working with the Developmental Trauma of Childhood Neglect: Using Psychotherapy and Attachment Theory Techniques in Clinical Practice” was published on August 31st. It provides psychotherapists with a multidimensional view of childhood neglect and a practical roadmap for facilitating survivors’ healing.