The Wall at Carcassonne

Carcassonne, France  (Photo Courtesy of UNESCO World Heritage Sites)

I have been to Carcassonne, France - twice.  Within the modern city of Carcassonne is the old, original city.  When inside, it's easy to imagine and romanticize about the lives of the tradespeople who lived in community there.  While there was probably a greedy and demanding householder to be served, surely there were opportunities to gather in the taverns and shops, to make music and art and love.

The first time I was content with the knowledge that I didn't know anything about where to enter or what was inside those majestic walls.  I knew I'd have to pay close attention to signs and follow their directions to make my way inside those city walls.  As drove closer and closer, I was filled with anticipation, and confidence, that a way in would become clear to me.  That happened.

The second time I went, I took for granted that I'd been there before, that I'd know what to do to get myself in.  As I drove toward the small town of Carcassonne, I could see the old city still standing guard over it's newer namesake.  But something happened that I think about every now and again as a metaphor for what happens in my life sometimes.

On the second trip to Carcassone, I began to get anxious.  From a few miles away, I could see the old city clearly, but I could not see any place in the wall that looked like an entrance.  Was I on the right road?  Would it lead to the parking lot?  (Yes, the old fortress city has a modern parking lot, complete with yellow painted stripes to indicate parking spaces.)  Every time there was an option to take a different road, I slowed down, I considered turning in a different direction for a moment, then sped on by.

Eventually, as my friends back in St. Chinian assured me it would, the road I was on led directly to the parking lot.  I pulled in, took my parking ticket to be validated at a restaurant or shop inside, and started walking toward the wall. But soon, again, I felt filled with anxiety.  Were was the entrance to the city?  It was weekday morning in March with no tourists in sight.  I started walking to my left, then to my right, then back to the left again.

Eventually, I found that the way in, was straight ahead.  As soon as I got closer, I remembered that you could not actually see the gate from the parking lot below until you got closer to the bridge you had to cross to get in.  I took a deep breath and went across the bridge, into an environment that was filled with gaiety and plenty of attention paid to a solitary traveler in the off season.  

I found familiar shops and tasty treats.  I took the tour of the cathedral and became temporary best friends with the tour guide - she appreciated my attempt to speak French as opposed to the couple who were the only other people on the tour.  They looked upon the darkness of the rooms and decor with disgust and kept commenting about SAD. (Seasonal Affectual Disorder).  The only thing they wanted more than the tour to end, was to spray a generous dose of Tilex on the damp, musty stones. I know because I heard them say that.

I spent most of the day knitting inside a little restaurant with the yummy hand spun yard I'd purchased in one of the shops.  The wait staff oohed and ahhed and encouraged me as they kept offering more and more and more coffee, more chocolate and pastries.  I smiled as I crossed the bridge to leave late in the day.  How silly of me to be so anxious when what I was seeking was always right in front of me.  I'd feared the wall.  It took approaching a little closer to find and opening and what was contained within.

Today, even though I am in Ames, Iowa, living my normal life, I feel as if I am driving to Carcassonne that second time.  Today I felt the enormity of that wall before me that seems to keep me on the outside, while I long for what is found on the inside.  I feel I am in the parking lot, searching left - bam!  Then right - bash! Then back to the left - ouch!

Rather than finding my courage and setting straight toward the wall with resolve, today I panicked.  I stood there before the wall and cried out, well, perhaps lashed out.  Why don't things go the way I want them to?  I yelled at a poor bystander.  

Tell me more about your questions, she invited.  Oh, I did tell her.  Plenty.  As I was explaining exactly what my problem and her problem and everyone other person's problem was, I began to hear myself. In sharing my tirade, I was getting no nearer the wall.  And . . . I was keeping the person who'd come out to see if she could assist, I kept her from being inside the wall.  

I was able to calm myself.  To shed some tears in release.  I appreciate the companionship of the listener who stood by me before she was beckoned back inside to that safe and welcoming place. I could have gone with her, but I felt that my tantrum-ous energy might spill over into the Utopian environment that I do hope to visit again soon.

Tonight I'm sad that I stood outside the wall wailing today when what I wanted was to be inside. But I'll not make myself feel worse by going over every action and word that was so out of sync with what I seek, what I try to offer for others who look for safety and peace inside the walls I help build.  Instead, I'll make myself a small fire of deep breaths, poetry, and hot tea to warm me as I drift off to sleep out here in the parking lot of Carcassonne.  

Tomorrow, after a lengthy spot of meditation - with new light and new resolve - I'll go find the bridge that leads back inside to that wonderful old city.  If things go as I hope, after being renewed inside the walls of Carcassonne, I'll leave with the renewal of  joy and strength to help others find their way inside the protective cities they seek.  I'll take my turn encouraging, inviting as my guide invited me, tell me more about your questions. . . .

Midwest Winter Writer

I've been meaning to get back to the book I am working on.  On such cold, short days, writing inside a warm home seems like appropriate work.   Each time I open the file, though, I am annoyed.

Annoyed that I have somehow added a shaded border to the right side of each page in the document.
Annoyed that this whole process much more isolating and longer than anticipated.
Annoyed that scenarios I see in my mind need so many words to convey them to the pages in the book. (She wept when he turned away from her. vs. The rhythm of his rejection and her tears seemed connected by a biological process.  Each night she tried to climb into their bed as gently as she could, picking up the sheets as if they were made of tissue.  She'd hold her breath as she executed the single motion of lifting the sheets, sliding her body - with bulbous baby belly - softly onto a small slice of bed, and bringing the sheets down again without effecting him.  But he always knew when she arrived.  And he always performed his matching ritual.  "Don't get to close," he'd instruct her as if this was the first time they'd shared a bed. Then, a moment later when he had turned his back to her, taking more than his share of the sheet wrapped around his shoulders, he'd release the words that contained his personal amino acid sulfoxide. "And don't let your stomach touch my back." Those words physically moved through the air, spontaniously rearranging to form a chemical that attacked her eyes and released her tears.  Whether she stayed lying on her back or rolled gently to her side determined whether her tears rolled down silently into her ears, or if they would make a small patting sound that only she could hear as they dripped directly onto her pillow.)
Annoyed that poetry arrives when prose was expected.

Photo by Brenda Brock, NWS, Des Mones, IA

                       Enmity

Minus five degrees,

at five-thirty PM.

This kind of weather 

thaws the souls of

people I've lived with.

Some of those people

. . . . were me.

  

The Religion of Meeting You

religion | noun | re li gion | \ri `li-jen\ |
an interest, belief, or activity that is very important to a person or group

The Religion of Meeting You

No longer will I limit myself to _______ religion,
to tangible operators like interests, beliefs, or action.
I no longer choose one day a week to gather for hymns and
readings that affirm me and like-minded, like acting congregants.

No more creeds, principles, by-laws, or mission and vision
statements.  No more trying to brand or promote the Truth.
No more bring a friend Sunday, or spreading the good news.
No more sacred texts, holy covenants, or zombie ressurections.

Today my religion becomes the religion of meeting you.
We meet where we find one another, as helper or helped.
I am allowed to meet you where you are, in my religion.  I do
not have to inform you on what we agree or disagree.

I do not have to invite you to label yourself as I label myself -
progressive, liberal, socialist, survivor, environmentalist,
depressive, poser, liar, truth teller, pilgrim, healer, teacher,
feminist of the second or third wave, depending.

Now, let me stand beside you so I may know that you are real.
Then, tell me what you need and I will not judge.
                                                                                             ~ Lori Allen

Admit something . . . .

Admit something:

Everyone you see, you say to them, "Love me."

Of course you do not do this out loud, otherwise

someone would call the authorities.

Still, think about this, this great pull in us to

connect.

Why not become the one who lives with a

full moon in each eye that is

always saying,

with that sweet moon language,

what every other eye in

 this world is

dying to

hear?

~ Hafiz, Ladinsky

The best thing about Christmas:  I had all day to lounge around and read Hafiz.  And since this is a Full Moon Christamas, each poem, and there are several of his, that had a moon reference reminded me of the fact that the last time the moon was full on Christmas I was twenty-one years old.  It occured two days before I met my future husband, the father of my beautiful children who are now adults.  That was thirty-eight years ago.

I did not realize until today that I have some expectation that this Full Moon Christmas will herald something amazing and wonderful coming into my life again, just like after the last Full Moon Christmas.

It's hard for me to comprehend why I have this expectation.  In the last thirty-eight years much has changed in how I see and understand the world and my life.  I don't believe that all things happen for a reason.  And because I don't believe in a God anymore, the old addage of God not giving us more than we can handle is meaningless.  I know there is no magical place where we all re-gather, recognizable as the people we are now, after we die.  

Yet, here I am, open to a new awakening in what has become a tedious life.  If this Full Moon Christmas is a portal, let something wondrous come through, with all concomitant props. We'll see how my fifty-nine year old science positive, justice seeking, and self loving person welcomes and makes room for amazig and wonderful.  

A Winter Solstice Metaphor.

There are no salmon in the river pictured above.  It's a creek that flows through Ames, Iowa.  No salmon ever.  Yet, somehow this Mary Oliver poem seems as if it was written specifically for me. Often I am confused about which is a better fit for me - power or powerlessness?  It is hard for me to know if I am the dark force swallowing the light, or the light that has been consumed.  Does it even matter?

Into the River
                    ~ Mary Oliver


I have seen the great fee
leaping
into the river

and I havev seen moonlight
milky
along the long muzzle

and I have seen the body
of something
scaled and wonderful

slumped in the sudden fire of its mouth,
and I could not tell
which fit me

more comfortably, the power,
or the powerlessness;
neither would have me

entirely; I was divided,
consumed,
by sympathy,

pity, admiration.
After a while
it was done,

the fish had vanished, the bear
lumped away
to the green shore

and into the trees.  And there there was only
this story.
It followed me home

and entered my house -
a difficult guest
with a single tune

which it hums all day and through the night -
slowly or briskly,
it doesn't matter,

it sounds like a river leaping and falling;
it sounds like a body
falling apart.

You're Not Helping . . .

Brené Brown on Empathy - Click for 2 minute video

A few years ago a brilliant young woman introduced me to the fabulous Brene Brown video on empathy.  This young woman, Julia, was working under my direction with a high school youth group. One day she came to me and asked, "Do you think they'll get this?"

I was surprised that she thought they needed this video.  I inquired if something had happened to one of the students or in their larger community.  She just said, "No.  But they use what they perceive as their peers' heavy experiences to deflect matters that are part of everyday life.  It's like they want to acknowledge that their friends have experienced sadness or disappointment or trauma, but they want to deflect the emotions because, I think, it triggers their own sad or heavy unprocessed emotions and experiences."

"Yeah," I said.  "Show it."  She bounded out of my office and I sat down to google the video and watch it again.  "This is great," I said to myself as I pressed play and then re-play.  I'm going to use this someday . . .

That day is here.

To all my friends and acquaintances who greet me with "You look exhausted."  Or who respond to me when I decline an invite because I have to work by telling me "Oh no.  You work so hard!  What a saint." To everyone who says, "I could never do what you do.  Or they do."  I would like to tell you, "You're not helping. . ." By talking about these problems like they have nothing to do with you disenfranchises those who have, either by choice or chance, opened themselves to let us know about their pain.

But, you are right, I do work hard.  I do become intimately involved in situations where people have suffered trauma and pain.  So do you.  We have all experienced brokenness, pain, sadness, and being treated badly.  Some experiences are delivered to us suddenly with a lot of physical pain and nameable trauma, causing us to fear for our life in that moment.  But for most of us, experiences that create hurt and brokenness are delivered in small, confusing doses over long periods of time,making us question our reality and the validity of our life and our very existence.

I work with those who can, without involving their perception or sanity, name the trauma that has happened to them. Their bruises, police reports, and major upset to their everyday life provides talking points for honest conversations about what they've experienced and how they might move forward.

Many can't name the exact date or time that the trauma they've experienced caused them to break and fear for their life.  It is difficult for some to even say for sure what their experience was.  This difficulty comes because the experiences imposed on them are calculated, vague, and repetitive, making them difficult to identify or describe as hurtful.  (Gaslighting - a future post?)  These experiences lead to survivors who are labeled the "dramatic" or "addicted" one in the family or group.  They are the ones who "always ruin holidays/birthdays/parties and other people's lives."  The ones who inflict the pain and damage are quick to point out that you "just never fit in" with the rest of us.

When engaging with people who have experienced an identifiable or public trauma, don't pity them.  Don't elevate or glorify those who choose to accompany those survivors on their path.  Instead, consider sharing a bit of your private struggle with those whose struggle has become more public.  You could say, "I don't know what to say to you.  I know when I've experienced pain and hurt, I just want people to be there for me, not asking questions or giving advice.  I can only imagine that you may be feeling that right now, too."  Then, shhhhhh.  Just be there.  You don't need to talk.

When the moment seems appropriate, if you can and if you want to, offer to help. Do not say, "Let me know if you need anything." Rather, throw out a concrete offer of help.  "I can bring you dinner in an hour," or "I'll take care of turning the project in for us next week," or "I can come after the kids are in bed tonight.  I'll just be with you for an hour."  Tell what you can do.  Then, and this is so important, do not take it personally when they decline your offer to help.  If you can't help, tell them that too.  "I have a lot of meetings and deadlines right now, but I'll check in with you on Tuesday."  Simple, concise, communication.  That is what people in pain need most.

Finally, when you hear of a person's sad or traumatic experience, never say, "Oh you poor thing." Follow the advice in Brene's video and what I've shared above. Then go and honestly explore what feelings came up for you as you engaged with the survivor.  Don't be afraid or too proud to reach out to be supported in your own processing and healing from hurts.

One day, when we can all say we've assessed our lives honestly and work continually to see the sameness rather than the differences between us, we will make a better world.  We will be a society of empaths, speaking a language that we now only comprehend in small bits and feelings.

Green is the color of love and empathy.  It is associated with your heart chakra.  It is from this chakra
that you reach beyond yourself, and then back again, to connect with something larger,
deeper, and greater than yourself.  It is from this chakra that we begin to heal ourselves and the world.  

Relationship with the Moon

Since my house burned down

I now own a better view

of the rising moon.  

                                             ~ Mizuta Mashahide


I feel like my house has burned so many times . . . relationships turned to smoldering ashes that refuse to burn out and scatter; trust in a bronze age myth that holds love and wisdom as well as misogyny, hate, and fear; life set on goals that turned out to be tinder for a large fire; societal norms that burden many and benefit few. . .

I will say, as my metaphorical houses have burned and smoldered, I learned that the heat from the flames and red hot coals warmed me with knowledge that I did not posses before the fire began. Always, at some point I looked up and saw the moon, view free of walls or roof.

I do still find myself hanging around  piles of ashes and blackened timbers, poking through the ruins to see if there is anything that survived the fire, anything that could be salvaged to build the next structure. For the strong elements that survive - jewels, hard metals, stone - I am grateful.   These items, tempered by the flames, will become corner stones for what comes next.

After each fire I try to take some time before I begin rebuilding.  I gather the things that survivied and lay them all out on the ground to see the patterns or possibilities for the next structure.

The moon laughs as I go through this uneven cycle - sometimes years between fires, sometimes only a few hours.  If she has taught me anything, it is that everything happens in cycles.  Her cycles turn in predicable phases, mine rebel and ignore pattern or plans.

As I've lived my life's cycle, I have learned to build my houses a bit differently, to not become too attached to them and to use more stone than wood.  I know the smaller the structure, the less maintenance is required; the more windows, the more I will see the sun and stars; the more people I invite in, the more help there will be if the fire comes again.

Tonight, unsheltered, I am watching the moon rise again.  As my soul and eyes grow heavy, I look around to see what I salvaged from the last fire.  As plans turn into dreams moon beams shower me with the light of healing and restoration, unemcumbered by roof or walls.