Word Winding

attempting to spin cacophony into sanity

Progress Report: B+ in NaBloPoMo

Obviously I approach NaBloPoMo much the way I approached homework in high school… With my focus on the material but not so much on the deadline.

Time to get caught up on the questions I’ve skipped along the way!

Tell us the methods you use to get through a disappointment.

When I am shaken by any level of disappointment, anger, frustration, sadness, uneasiness, or grief, I try and remember to tune into my basic needs first, to eat soothing, nourishing food, drink plenty of water and tea, take a shower or bath, exercise, meditate, and get some sleep.

Obviously I do not do all of the above before allowing the stressor to so much as cross my mind! But I attempt to deal with any pressing bodily concerns first and maybe delve into a soul-warming activity of some kind (music, writing, fun with family/friends, etc). Once I am buoyed by meeting my own needs, I am better equipped to grapple with whatever has thrown me off course.

Maybe it turns out just taking care of myself is enough. Or perhaps I need to work through an aspect of it in a practical, problem-solving capacity. But most of the time, if a negative emotion is clinging to me, what I need is to find a way to slough it off, which can hopefully be done by remaining conscious of my thoughts on the subject throughout the day and by forming an intent around it during my nightly circle.

Have you ever been scared to let go of your grief?

Of course. For most of the grieving process, the grief itself feels like the sole remaining connection to whatever has been lost, making moving forward a dauntingly lonesome prospect.

Letting go begins when other, more sustainable connections to the object of loss have been made, ideally both privately and publicly. Once that which has been grieved for is rewoven into a new position in daily life, it is possible to gradually release the grief.

Do you believe that time heals all wounds?

Healing occurs over time, but time alone cannot complete the job. Our participation is essential. It is our resistance or willingness to grieve that determines the amount of scarring left behind when time has done the best it can.

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Puddles

Kübler-Ross had a good concept. Seriously. But our culture has taken it and run so far past its expiration date.

The problem is partially linguistic; “stage” implies order and direction.

But as we’ve discussed already, grief is messy.

It also tends to avoid conforming to things like neat boxes and really predictability in general.

Instead if “stages,” I propose calling the items on Kübler-Ross’s laundry list “puddles people often blunder through while trying to find the exit from the courtyard of grief.”

Just as grief does not proceed in an orderly fashion from denial to anger and all the way to acceptance (where it, what, vanishes?), one person does not process all grief in the same way. I know I don’t. I may have tendencies, but the depth and muddiness of the puddle depend on what I am grieving and where I am in my own journey at that point in time.

So which puddle is most difficult?

When I lost my mom, it was fear, which oddly is not on the list. Probably someone will tell me fear is actually included in another puddle (and go ahead, of course), but as a child sailing along, learning the ropes and rudder, to suddenly lose the mast is a first and foremost a frightening thing.

Second hardest was probably depression, a despair that randomly shifted between foreground and background and colored most of my adolescence, even as I went through all of the usual teenage drama of school and dating and friendship and figuring out who I was and where I belonged.

When my friends lost their son, it was anger. Outrage. How dare a quirk of genetics rob them of his light, replacing decades with months in one fell swoop.

Denial is rarely a problem for me. I face facts pretty swiftly, not always with grace, sometimes with gritted teeth or deep resignation, but I face them.

And one side benefit to being an atheist?

I am rather immune to the stage of bargaining.

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There’s a drought on and puddles are hard to come by. Fortunately our cats have not been successfully trained to stay off of the kitchen table.

With love for duct tape

During library time in the fourth grade, a close friend and her new friend said they didn’t want to play with me anymore, and I sat there behind them on the close-shorn carpet, my heart in flames.

That was the first time.

One evening in fifth grade, while my mom was at book club, I walked blithely into my sister’s room and stopped short. Our father sat next to her on the bed, clearly in mid-sentence. Her face was blotchy, tear-drenched. At his direction I went to take my bath. Sitting there, staring at the familiar friendly face of the faucet, I tried to imagine what could make my sister cry like that, and an answer immediately rose from nowhere: divorce. I quickly banished the thought. But later, once I was snug in bed, my dad came in to say goodnight. In his preoccupation he sat on my legs and before I could do anything about it he told me. They were separating.

That was the second time.

In sixth grade, my best friend abruptly stopped hanging out with me. As neighbors, we inevitably trekked similar paths to and from school no matter how many detours I took, her with friends, me alone, and within my preteen mind all of their giggles spotlit flaws I hadn’t owned before. Our history ran back to toddlerhood and so I stood holding the severed threads of our friendship for a long time, never sure why.

That was the third time.

In seventh grade my mom told us she had cancer. We were in the kitchen. She had been to the doctor to see about a persistent cough. I remember nothing of what she said. I think I was at the table. I think she was standing. I do not remember the time of day. I do not remember what her face looked like.

That was the fourth time.

In eighth grade, again in the kitchen, my mom gathered me into her lap, coltish legs and all, and told me she was dying. And then she comforted me while we cried. She lovingly, selflessly, bravely answered childish questions like where will I live and who will take care of me while I buried myself into the solidity of her flesh and tried but was unable to fathom a world without.

A month later, she was gone.

That was the last time.

For many people, I imagine their story of the word “heartbreak” begins at that age where mine ended, conjures up images of their first failed romance and continues on, perhaps for decades.

But not for me. Everything from that point on, no matter how devastating, has landed with impact but without shattering. Her last gift was an explosion that taught me where center is and how to piece myself back together around it with love for duct tape.

Because after your heart splinters into shards, living becomes a choice instead of a default. You meet your strengths and your weaknesses both. You learn their exact contours, how to identify them in the dark. And in reassembling them, you claim them all.

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Closing Canyons

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Platypup taking time.

Healing is an intensely personal process, generally rather messy, and sometimes impossible to control. Maybe it’s Ferguson, or Ray Rice, or last Friday’s should-have-been fifth birthday of a much-mourned little boy named Caemon, but today’s NaBloPoMo question is just too tidy for me.

“Do you give yourself time to heal,” they ask, “or do you keep making yourself move forward?” As though you can — or even should! — pick one. As though wading though trauma isn’t a spin cycle of both of the above and their opposites and then some, and you’re lucky if the machine doesn’t melt down in the process.

We all “know” the right answers. Give yourself generous amounts of time to grieve. But not too much; don’t wallow. Make yourself move forward. But not too fast; that’s denial.

Ha.

Easy to see from the outside, sure. And yeah, those are good goals. My aim is not to diminish that.

But from deep inside the belly of a pot of Tear Soup, well, you do whatever it takes to keep your head up. Observers who encourage Taking Time or Moving Forward might as well be recommending you use a particular swimming stroke when, I mean really, can’t they see you’re just trying not to drown?

Ok, ok, back to the question… as much as I might take issue with its crisp packaging, here’s my answer. Here’s what I learned after I lost my mom.

I learned to try and take time if it feels like time is desperately needed in a losing-oxygen-fast sort of way. I learned to try and move forward if it feels like I am sinking slowly into a bottomless bog of grief. I learned to cry deeply and thoroughly, such that a lot of pain might be released in one big bubble rising to the surface. I learned that there is no laughter like the helpless giggling that immediately follows a bout of despair, and I learned to seek it out at the closest opportunity. I learned to lean on loving shoulders and I learned to dive fearlessly into solitude.

And as I went on, I learned that the depth of the ache never completely goes away, but the plateaus in between get further and further and further apart, and eventually the landscape looks more like rolling hills with the occasional mountain. What were once canyons of loss are now like cracks in parched earth.

And beside them grow trees.

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“As part of the healing process, please talk about how you processed the events of Ferguson.”

Yeah. Um.

No past tense here yet. Definitely still processing living in a world where this shit happens routinely.

Here’s my typical routine, though:

- learn of atrocious event
– turn inward, grapple with initial shock, find time as soon as possible to just feel this terrible sadness
– turn outward, devour and share whatever quality media comes my way
– feel overwhelmed and turn back in
– stumble across new info or insight and turn back out
– perhaps eventually work my way toward expression in words or music

… And repeat as long as necessary.

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White Timidity

Why is it so difficult for people to talk about race?

Fear. It’s all down to fear.

For those who have racism tattooed prominently across their chests or emblazoned on their white hoods, it is a violent fear-channeled-into-hatred rejection of any who differ from them, usually drilled in from birth. That’s a no-brainer.

For many people, however, it is a different sort of fear altogether. Fear of saying the wrong thing. Fear of attracting negative attention. Fear of being unable to back up statements in the face of opposition. Fear of creating an argument or of offending or alienating others.

All twitchy little fears that pale ludicrously in comparison to the real fears of racism. The life or death fears. Like going along minding your own business only to suddenly find you are the “wrong” color in the wrong place at the wrong time. Where even holding your empty hands up in a globally recognized symbol of surrender may do you no good.

So get over your timidity and talk about it, already.

(Do plenty of reading and listening as well, especially if you are new at this, and do not hesitate to share the words spoken or written by those who know more on the subject than you instead of always coming up with your own from scratch.)

The American Plague

“… the rate of police killings of black Americans is nearly the same as the rate of lynchings in the early decades of the 20th century.”

There have been a number of insightful, outraged, brilliant articles written in Ferguson’s wake. But when I think back on all I have read recently, the quote above looms ominously out in front.

It is grotesque. Go back and read it again. It doesn’t say total murders of black Americans. Not by a long shot. Just those committed by officers of the peace. Are you horrified enough yet?

Getting there, you say?

Well, don’t get comfortable there just yet. Here’s how often those unfathomable deaths occur:

“About twice a week, or every three or four days.”

What. The. Fuck.

Here’s the article. Well worth reading.

Speak to me only with thine iPhone? Nope.

I have a blog. So obviously I love to write. And I am more at ease writing than speaking. It is not uncommon for me to fail to accurately convey all of what I wish to say to someone in the moment, in conversation, and as a result I will zap a message (perhaps bordering on a treatise) at them later, after the kids are asleep and my synapses regain the will to fire.

But the question my pal NaBloPoMo asks is not where I am cozy and warm and safe and able to edit ad nauseam.

No, the question is stated quite clearly: “How do you communicate best? Speaking or writing?”

The key word is communicate. So key I felt it should be both bold and italic. Huzzah. Communicate, meaning to share thoughts and ideas (thanks, Google).

People are lazy listeners every bit as much as they are lazy readers. And yet there are so many ways of communicating face to face that go beyond the words. Gestures. Tone. Tears and laughter. The impossibly vital role of silence.

Not only am I willing to hang my hat on my being a more effective communicator while speaking than while writing, but I am willing to bet a hefty percentage of beings in this world are, too.

Writing is a tool. A wonderful tool. And if you are trying to, say, schedule an appointment or give directions and are fortunate enough to have delightful but horrendously noisy children in the background, the written word is almost always superior to any attempts at verbal communication.

But every poem, every novel, every textbook and nature guide and blog post I have ever loved is ten times more informative, emotive, and simply more vivid when spoken.

That being said, if the question were simply, “How do you communicate best?” without the focus-narrowing second question, my answer would be prompt and as deeply true as true can be:

Music.

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The Jaguar, the Worry-Bones, and Me

I am a no stone left unturned kind of person by nature. I do not prefer to leave well enough alone. I am insatiably curious. And if it weren’t for a streak of shyness and some manners, I would be rather irritating in my desire to talk things out all of the time in exhaustive detail.

That said, when mulling over the large (and perhaps unsolvable), there inevitably comes a point in which my words, rather than illuminating new landscapes, begin to orbit frustration, sculpting the dejected path of a penned jaguar.

Time to let the verbal approach quietly rest, then, yes. But the issue at hand, whatever it may be, will continue to leap out in inconvenient moments if I stop grappling with it altogether.

This is when I invite my persnickety problem to make a guest appearance in my garden during my nightly meditation circle.

I keep whatever is bothering me in the wings for a time while I settle my mind, open my heart, and work to connect the simple fact of me sitting there to the unfathomable depths of earth and sky, time and space, truth and mystery.

Once I’ve made a fair attempt at the above, sometimes I find my original concern has grown so small as to be no longer worth my time. Other times I explode with sudden insight, the kind that eats problems like mine for breakfast, leaving a trail of worry-bones in its wake. If that doesn’t happen, I may try to reach a more complete description of what is truly going on, or perhaps let my wild imagination take it on an adventure. And occasionally, for a really, really tough one, I just sit. I just sit there and hold it awhile, not trying to put it down, not trying to engage it, just feeling it deeply, with every ounce of my being, uncomfortable though that may be.

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[NaBloPoMo's question for today was, "Do you find it more helpful to talk things out or to let things quietly rest?" So I guess I'm going with, "yes."]

September NaBloPoMo: Healing

To be perfectly honest, I usually don’t open the emails I get every month about NaBloPoMo. It’s a really cool idea, but I’m usually both too busy and too drawn toward writing my own unprompted things to give it more than a moment’s thought. But for whatever reason, I opened this month’s call for participation, and it immediately appealed to me.

The topic is “healing,” the writing prompts all speak to ideas I love exploring, and I have been craving a return to writing here since I have spent the past month or more turning more deeply inward than was readily bloggable.

The prompts are given for weekdays. I may take weekends off, I may not. We shall see. I’m not feeling terribly dogmatic about it. But consider this your heads up — brace yourselves, dear readers, for an onslaught of writing!

NaBloPoMo… Woo!

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