Destination Wholeness


Achieving authentic selfhood--wholeness--comes from the inside out, a concept many women in my mother’s generation and those before her had not yet studied. The idea that I would need to go inside to find a true self did not occur to me when I married at a young 22. Marriage and motherhood would make me complete. According to my mother and my grandmother that is how it worked.

Since coming to realize the fundamental necessity of having an authentic sense of my Self, I have devoted myself to developing the qualities intrinsic to that solid core. This mission has comprised a crucial component of my work as a therapist, my career as a teacher/facilitator, and the desire to achieve my own inner growth. I have come to believe that we can build a solid self around a core nucleus of wise knowing, and correct action. We all have the power to reach into an inner store of wisdom and to utilize the guidance given from within.

Whatever path or role you choose in life, the events that unfold can lead you into the most significant Self development journey of your life. The message in my book, “Soul Mothers’ Wisdom; Seven Insights For The Single Mother” emphasizes that single motherhood has been a way to wholeness for me and can be for any single Mother. Regardless of your personal life direction, you too can be blossoming into a more authentic self as you derive lessons from life events. As a wise woman, you will think about what and who your teachers are, following the guidance offered with acceptance and gratitude. You will seek to derive meaning from all your experiences, putting events into perspectives that help you understand the story of your life.

As grateful as I am now for my path, I did not want to be a single Mother. In the 1970’s I dreaded it. The “Me Generation” was moving past the sixties free love into open marriage-- and into many divorces. I knew my marriage had problems; and I feared losing the Mrs in front of my name. I fully believed that I needed that label to matter—to be okay. Knowing that I needed a more solid sense of self was an inkling just beginning to percolate in my consciousness.

If not for actually losing that Mrs. label that hooked me (line and sinker) to another person, and gave me a pseudo identity, I might not have had the motivation to jump into the void and find out who I am. I am still seeking that truth; but It took double losses of divorce and the death of my ex spouse-- to turn up the flre inside of me that would drive me toward wholeness. Somewhere inside I knew that without a solid core of Self I would be truly lost. I would not possess the resilience, the strength or the maturity to rear my children, wrestle my own inner demons and rebuild a meaningful life. I have attempted to use every possible experience to teach me how to be Me. How to feel strong, capable, and resilient.

There was one particular experience that happened mid way through my single motherhood that was a key to my seeing myself in all my unvarnished fragility, When I had this experience I was well into rebuilding my life, raising my daughters, and conducting a flourishing therapy practice. I thought I knew myself pretty well. But what I experienced in Hollywood on this particular occasion brought into focus the brilliant hues of my true colors .

The Colors of My True Self



The scene was spring, circa 1990. The destination—Hollywood--the 50th birthday party for the brother of my ex husband’s cousin. Having supported me through the rigors of my divorce, my very married former cousin took vicarious pleasure from my love life. When we were invited to the big bash, I was dating her brother’s old pal, a wealthy psychiatrist who dug the LA scene. At the time I was happily digging the old pal and his money. Flying all over New England and New York in his plane, that was also a boat, was fun and flashy and made me feel special.

My ex cousin’s brother had his own story. Then producing movies that mostly ended up in the can, he’d enjoyed his fifteen minutes of fame playing the other outlaw in “Romancing The Stone.” In fact, it was rumored that the two outlaws had become buddies and that some BIG stars might be at the party.

“It will be a blast!” my friend insisted. Those two know everyone. I think Danny and Michael will be there. You’ll love it.” I knew I would hate it. A Hollywood party? Just the thought of it made me feel strangely out of place in my social worker skin. Privately however, another part of me liked the idea of hobnobbing with the “rich and famous.” I fantasized about the fun I would have telling people that I had rubbed elbows with the stars. I thought about the pleasure my mother would get. She loved bragging about my highflying exploits to the hometown friends, especially her sister in law. All that public p’zazz might ramp up my self esteem. But -- actually being there and relating to such important people? I wasn’t sure about that.

My ambivalence didn’t matter anyway because I was not getting away with a refusal. My cousin assured me that I would love meeting all the Famous and Wanna Be Famous LA types-- like Fran Drescher, (pre-’Nanny’). Familiar with her brother’s social circle, she looked forward to our having some red-carpet gossip after the gala. My boyfriend analyzed my reluctance as nothing but a passing crimp in confidence—Just feel the anxiety and go anyway. But let’s not pass up this sure-to-be fabulous event at Zeke and Nina’s home, high in the dry Hollywood Hills.

Resistance analyzed, and the prospect of a little excitement secretly tweaked, I agreed to go. The next step was to focus my energy and anxiety onto what was really most important —my outfit! Hollywood is known for it’s magnificent, and outrageous couture. Who knew what people would be wearing? I convinced myself that if I was dressed right, I would fit in; I would not embarrass myself by looking plain: and I would be able to get through the evening unscathed by insecurity.

As I considered what would be the proper attire for mingling with the stars, I thought back to another time when we had gone for a “regular” visit to Zeke and Nina’s. Then we had gone out to a “casual” dinner at a well-known watering hole for the Hollywood elite. I was cautioned not to gawk at anyone. They were right. Social workers are trained to be curious. I would have stared!
I didn’t I know it was extremely impolite to act as if Rod Stewart, his wife, and his entourage were any different from Carol and Sam next door. As I prepared for this latest adventure, I remembered that dinner.

Our party was seated at a big round table in the middle of the dining room. From my central location I snuck peeks at Pia Zadora and Rod. Fortunately for me (or for him!) Jack Lemmon was dining in an adjoining room. But our own table was reasonably interesting that night. The men were ordering $500 bottles of wine; and another “good” friend of Zeke’s, the actor who had played the husband on the TV show, “Cagney and Lacey, sat next to me. I was feeling very “in,” having an interesting conversation with him until he abruptly passed out in his plate. Mentally picturing him with his head in his dish, gave me encouragement. If the guests got this drunk, they probably wouldn’t be paying much attention to me. And of course, the wine would be good! Still, I needed the right outfit to be noticed—---and just in case I was.

The right number appeared in a “higher end” boutique on Newbury Street near my therapy office in Boston. For several weeks I made reconnaissance missions between my therapy appointments to check on it. I sweated it out, determined not to spend a penny until it was marked down at least 50 percent. (Social Workers don’t make as much as Actors do but with that outfit, I figured, no one would know.)

The wait paid off. I bought my ticket to tinsel town. Deep baby pink in two pieces, with glamour to boot, it sported a cowgirl style shirt from which bulged huge padded shoulders. The blouse, tapering down from its lofty top, fit coyly around the waist, and flared softly over the skirt. But best of all, the bottom piece, emerging from gentle folds, blossomed into a gored A-line with triangular see-through inserts at the hips. Embedded in these plastic windows shone forth colored mother of pearl sequins, that shimmered like little neon lights announcing the opening night of my self worth. The entire ensemble simply screamed success.

Accessorizing this find properly was crucial. I went on a mission. Pink leather spike heels and a dainty pink bag later, I finished off the basics. Having sacrificed hours of work time to the Goddesses of fashion, I was satisfied. Only the jewelry selection remained. And it had to be right. Huge round silver earrings, and a matching necklace, covered with slivers of glass supposedly been used on a shuttle mission fit the bill. These sparkling beauties would reflect pink, give me something to talk about, and send out light beams of self-assurance. Fortified by my choices, I was all set. My self- esteem, now properly outfitted, would be dressed to conceal the deficits in my wobbly sense of self.

Party night was warm and humid--unusual for LA. The beautiful house, set on a dry hillside overlooking the San Fernando Valley, was filled with people I was not supposed to ogle. Danny wasn’t there. And Michael didn’t show. Still, the hoi polloi arrived as promised: famous directors, producers, and a short, vacant looking, man with a bright scarlet scarf who had played the third robber in the movie, Bonnie and Clyde. Fran made her entrance, with her trademark voice, and wound up in a corner next to a well -known producer of art-house movies.

Dinner was set at poolside, overlooking the lights of the valley. It was Hollywood. Grills fired up a delicious aroma during cocktails, promising an elegant dinner. That is how Nina liked it—the Best and the Biggest. Every closet in the house was filled with furs and fancy clothes, the likes of which I had seen only in movies. Even though some of her treasures were a little out of style, nothing she had worn had ever worn a cheap price tag.

Once on a trip we had taken with them to Palm Springs, Nina had proudly displayed her latest bargain, a basic black sweater, marked down to my monthly mortgage payment. Much taller than I and voluptuous, Nina was making a career out of preserving her looks. I envied those looks. Heads turned when Nina entered a room. She had given up her career as a chorus girl, but still knew how to dress up and make up. I imagined her to be as confident inside as she was star-like stunning outside. Yet, when we spent a girl-friend afternoon together, she would happily skip Rodeo Drive to go instead to some big warehouse store to buy stuff for her cupboards--all the while talking the kind of girl talk that revealed vulnerabilities and insecurities of her own.

But back to the party. By the time the hors d’oevres were over and we were seated outside for dinner, my pink co-ordinates were doing the job my sense of self wasn’t up to. I had made it through introductions to several famous people without fainting. One gentleman, a well known director of live theater in Boston, had commented to my date, while not even looking directly at me, but naming some actress-- “She looks like… “Oh,” I thought with proper social worker disdain. “The women here get discussed as if they are commodities.” However, secretly I got a little thrill from the attention; and silently patted myself on the back for my choice of the lovely pink outfit.

About the time the guests began filling plates with grilled tenderloin and shrimp, the thunder booms began. The downpour, sorely needed on parched hillsides, came quickly. The guests, hungry but too vain to be drenched, grabbed plates and drinks and began a crush toward the only door into the house. At that point, reasonably shed of insecurities, I was unselfconsciously into the food. But the charge was on; and I did the only self-respecting thing I could do. I followed.

Suddenly, I felt wet. “The Rain!” I thought at first. But with disbelief I saw that my cherished outfit was turning a deeper shade of pink. In a torrent of realization I remembered that the director, who had noticed me, now thoroughly inebriated and drinking red wine, had bumped me. I was soaked mortified, and changing color. I stood in the doorway shocked and sorry looking. Ever the gracious Hollywood hostess, Nina saw my plight and insisted I take off the dress and give it to her hovering maid. She would know how to remove the spreading stain. Too soiled and deflated to object, I followed Nina to one of her private closets. There she selected for me the only dress that almost fit me.

Designed for a much taller woman: at least one size too big and at minimum two seasons out of style, it had sleeves that flopped to my knuckles and a drop waist with a big bow on the hips where you don't want to be noticed. I had been hoping for simple. Black—or white—some of her glamorous sequins maybe? Those might even have been fun.……..But to my horror, this thing she was holding up for my approval was a vivid, blinding --Halloween orange. The stroke of midnight had not chimed, but this Cinderella was turning into a pumpkin.

Drenched in disappointment, I entertained a fleeting hope that my pink would come back to me, Alas, I soon realized that unlike Sampson, whose hair might grow back, my dress was never returning. By the time dinner was resuming, the dress, fully soaked with club soda, had turned blue; and I was facing the stark reality of getting through the evening as myself.

“It wasn’t fair!” I thought. “After all my hard work to find that dress! Nina had her beautiful tattooed lower eyelids and her perfect pouty mouth. Fran had her voice and her distinctive walk, and all those others-- well, they had their claims to fame. All l had was my pink outfit!”

The die, however, was cast. I longed to hide in her well -appointed nether room to sulk. The only other choice-- go back to the party looking hexed by some wicked fairy godmother. The dress was ruined, What did I have left? Could I find something else to rely on to feel okay again? In my distress could I conjure up a drop of strength? resilience?

How I had wanted to rely on that pink costume to keep me from feeling mousy. So badly now did I not want to be transformed into an orange! But, did a fashion tragedy have to become a social or emotional one? Awareness of the truth crept its way into my brain. Could I banish self doubt with the magic wand of confidence? In a moment of inner maturity, I woke from the spell of fear and insecurity and turned back into my Self. I would go to the party, neither as a princess or a mouse, but as Me.

Next I decided to have fun. So what if I wasn’t a Hollywood sophisticate. So what if I was really the gawking, ogling tourist who had just had the first manicure of her life. So what if most of me was orange: it was too late for pretense. The house was swimming with interesting people. I determined to become a talking head and work the room. Only my bemused date and apologetic hostess would ever even notice that I had changed anyway. Everyone was engaged in conversations and I headed back to have some of my own. With my head up, I re-entered the party in pink and orange, escorted by an authentic Self.

That evening in Hollywood was one of the most dramatic times I lost myself, but not the first and hardly the last. How can it be so easy to lose Self and get hung up on trappings of flash and success? How easy for perspective to become distorted in the dazzle of others’ outsides. How can Self disappear so quickly into the quick sand of comparisons? My Hollywood night was one of many experiences that have transformed me a little. It taught me that even though I had accomplished much and had been coping as a single mother for many years, my sense of self could still get caught in the trap of outward appearances. I learned—again—that Authentic self cannot be dressed up or covered up. While I might forget it or momentarily forsake it, It can’t be removed. In its stark nakedness The Authentic Self is what we have—what is real. the Core.


Does the socialization process of women teach us that we have to look, talk and walk a certain way to be loved or accepted? Did some higher entity set me up to have that pink dress ruined in order to find myself? We all have little wobbles in our self esteem. but the developing self and the confidence that comes with being a whole person is an ongoing life journey with pitfalls along the way.

Thinking back about the party gives me goose bumps of gratitude.
I can picture myself taking off the dress that had rocketed my ego into the heady atmosphere of pseudo self worth. I can remember the moment when my true being, was released from the spell of the siren song of social acceptability that held it hostage. That pink outfit had meant so much in the beginning and in the end meant more than I ever could have had imagined.

When the outer trappings were stripped away, what was real inside of me came blazing out in full color, bringing its energy into the world and into my own soul.

Under all of our outsides—the hair, the make up, the outfits, the social selves --the way we think we are supposed to look or to be, exist authentic and empowered women. Now when I go into a situation where I feel challenged or start to fall under that old spell, I remember the magic orange moment when I decided to reach inside and find a whole person. Authentic Self can be at your service any time, any place. You have only to recognize her, think of her, and reach for her—and she will be there.


I still love clothes and getting dressed up. I enjoy meaningful conversations with the famous, non-famous and infamous. I don’t drink expensive wine anymore. In fact I don’t drink at all. The psychiatrist and I are married to other people now. I have not seen Zeke and Nancy again; and my ex-cousin and I have moved to points north and south. But Hollywood remains in me.

I cherish the knowing that my Self does not have to attach to any outside person, place or thing for her substance. The inner being exists beyond color and form, beyond people’s perceptions and opinions of who we are. Identity can’t be bought; can’t be squelched, and can’t be rained out. The true nature where reside maturity, resilience and strength lives inside whether we recognize it or not. The authentic self longs to be welcomed with her gifts of peace and serenity. The path of the True Self is one of blazing light and deeper knowing. And the destination is always Wholeness.