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.

I'm Like the Dead Sea, You'll Never Sink When You're With Me

Listening to my Spotify Channel Drowning in a Sea of Folk after a long day, I realize I might be like the Dead Sea when I am at my best and healthiest self, keeping people from sinking.  I flow with those who swim or struggle, I detoxify those who dare to ingest my support, or walk near enough my waves to feel the silky salt water wash over them.   Whether or not they were aware, here are people that waded my shores today -

H - celebrated 35 years on the planet today.  The salts that keep her buoyant in the sea are modern medicine, bliss, and occasional foot rubs.

E - celebrating 5 years of being a miracle. The salts that keep him afloat are modern medicine, a calm and clever mom, and the big world ahead for him to make his mark in.

W - birthday blessings to you.  You've probably forgotten that it even is your birthday.  And what could possibly keep you from sinking when it is also the day you lost your precious N?  For a parent to be present at their child's birth is required, to be present at their child's passing from this life is . . . there are no words.  The salts that will keep you from drowning today will be the Love that finds you and brings you the surface every time you need to take a deep breath.

E - turning 19 today, in the harsh reality that life does not operate like all those movies, television shows, and magazine ads.  The salt that brings you buoyancy is getting out of bed each day.  You can do it.

S - not your birthday, but taking a big step in caring for yourself and demanding to be heard.  The salt that is saving you today is that you are unaware of the tasks ahead.

I - not your birthday, either.  Just continually meeting life head on.  I hope you know that your salts will be your bravery, peaceful heart, continuing to share your story . . . and me.  Really me.

D - just another regular day for you.  Your salt is knowing that you are enough.

A - lonely times for you.  Your salt is your willingness to be so alone in order to reach the goal that is so important to you.

VAEM - seen or not, you imps are with me everyday.  Your salts are the dedication your families have to you; our unconditional love for you.

M - everyday I wish we were closer.  Your salts are your bravery in defining the world you see.  You are salt, yourself.

D - not a day goes by that I don't wonder what you would have to say about something.  Your salt is your ability to weave your experiences into a vision for a peaceful and equitable world.

M - every morning I check to see that you are still here, on the planet.  I feel so much of your life is entrusted to me.  Your salt is your inherent wisdom and . . . me.

EOE - I think of how crowded we all are, and that's okay.  I like sharing the planet with you.  Our salt could be each other if we just remember to see everyone of us in each of us.

Song "Dead Sea"

Like the Dead Sea

You told me I was like the Dead Sea

You'll never sink when you are with me

Oh Lord, like the Dead Sea   (Chorus from Dead Sea ~ Lumineers)

From the Common Cold to PTSD. Or, I am the Worst Patient Ever

I've been ill with a Fall Respiratory Syndrome (FRS) for several days.   Okay, it's a cold, but I get it every year so I've given it a more official sounding name.  I lie and tell myself and others that I suffer from seasonal allergies.  But, when I am sick enough, when I am oxygen deficient from respiratory failure and a high temp, I allow the truth to spill out.  FRS is my bodies attempts to make me deal with all the unresolved trauma (not drama) in my life.  This realization usually comes after my appointment at the clinic, but before the steroids and inhalers have had time to fully restore my oxygen levels to normal.  The predictability of my FRS is so annoying.  

"The Body Keeps the Score"
by Bessel van der Kolk, MD

I wish I could stop looking for something beyond  leukotrines, bacteria, and viruses on which to blame FRS, but I've recently been doing a lot of reading and participating in workshops on trauma and it's effects on the body. Affirmation comes regularly that I am correct in my understanding that every malady of my body is traceable back to the trauma of my childhood. Right?  Right.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         But, so what?  Does anyone care if the cold I am transmitting is caused by my unaddressed trauma?   No. Everyone just wants you to stay home and not sit next to them in conference rooms when you have a nasty infection.  Do not, I repeat do not, expect the stranger sitting next to you to reach over and hug your wheezing, mucus expelling body when you share you are sorry to have to be here today, but the course is mandatory and the infection is all the fault of some creep back in 1963.  

In this same vein, do not expect to go to your primary care doc and plan to have an engaging conversation about you score of 8 on the ACE (Adverse Childhood Experiences) test when they had you down for being seen for a respiratory infection.  They are too busy, too embarrassed,or too uninformed to share any sort of meaningful connection between your score and your distressed breathing.  And, FYI, sharing this information will not automatically get you weight loss drugs - even though it should -  because of all that extra cortisol you've been producing over a lifetime.  No, it will not.  You will get steroids that make you gain more weight for the respiratory infection called into the pharmacy of your choice and a "we can talk about your depression at your annual exam" as both doctor and nurse crowd out the door together so as not to be left alone with you in the exam room.  

Per the pattern of my life, I was not really expecting to have a long conversation about trauma with a doctor who double booked me into his schedule for a URI.  And no amount of insight into why I struggle with all the physical disorders I have will heal them.  To get through each day, and each episode of breached health, I will have to rely on the tools I've developed over the course of my life to keep me rebounding - resiliency, positivity, strategic problem solving, and the yearning for connectedness.  And meditation.  And yoga.   And sleep, restorative sleep.

All sarcasm aside, I do understand the connection between trauma and illness.  Trauma, no matter how much you do to resolve the incident or make sense of it, how much you try to divert your memories and your fears, it is a part of who you are.  This is not a hopeless thing - there is much to offer those who have the bravery to ask for help, to seek answers, and allow safe people into their lives to help them in the healing.  And, trauma teaches us much about ourselves and the world we live in.

There are many of us out here doing the work of healing and helping others heal.  We all owe a debt of gratitude to the Vietnam Vets who taught is a lot about trauma.  They were the first significant group of survivors to reach out and tell us that what they'd experienced would not allow them to live the kind of lives we expected then to live when they returned from war.  This led to the naming of PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) and all the ensuing research.  

The passing of research from veterans to the rest of us who have experienced trauma in our lives is a great gift.  This research is changing the lives of many who thought they'd be haunted by memories and nightmares forever.  Dr. van der Kolk estimates that for every 1 veteran who suffers from PTSD, there are 10 civilians who suffer from PTSD due to childhood or adult trauma.  We are a world of walking wounded.  

The prescription is not in a pill (well, some are), but rather in the compassion of those who walk with the wounded.  It is on all of us to create safe places for stories of trauma to be told.  People who suffer PTSD want to disconnect from the nightmares and fear that linger from their experiences, but they do not want to forget the significance of the story.   It is on all of us to believe the stories that are told, to allow ourselves to be uncomfortable as we listen.  Then we must all help hold the stories, sharing the collective or personal responsibility for our part in the story.  Yes, we all hold responsibility in the stories, but that is another post.  This is not an easy process, but it is well worth the amazing and beautiful souls we will unburden.

Many thanks to those who have heard my stories, believed them, and continue to hold them with me.  

There's a Ribbon for It . . . .

Last week I attended the National Sexual Assault Conference (NSAC) in Los Angeles.  As with many conferences, there were vendors in the hallways hawking their materials that support sexual assault advocates and the programs we work in.  As reminders of the vendor's materials for sale, there were give-away prizes like pens and flashlights and, at one vendor, a ribbon lapel pin.

As a snapped up the "ribbon" pin and put it in the free bag handed to me by another vendor, my mind began to turn.  I am no stranger to the pink ribbon, having relatives and friends who are or have been in active treatment of their breast cancer.  I have even paid good money for the privilege of walking a few miles for breast cancer awareness, all the while making the Susan G. Komen organization a bit richer.  

I have worn the green ribbon for mental health awareness, the red ribbon for HIV awareness, the rainbow ribbon for LGBTQ rights, and the denim ribbon of peace.  I know ribbons!

As the two-tone blue pin with the red heart at the top hit the bottom of the bag, I imagined myself touching the pin on my chest as I explained to people that this particular color supported and honored survivors of childhood sexual assault.  Would they ask if I was the survivor or wonder if I knew someone who was a survivor?  When I told them who it was, would people stop and give me a hug?  Would they share a story of their friend, mother, sister, brother, neighbor, child going through the same thing?

I then started to imagine having this particular colored ribbon tattooed on my shoulder to honor some amazing people.  I imagined buying shoes or a t-shirt or a purse with this particular ribbon imprinted for all to see.  Or, what if I sent out an email inviting my family and friends to join me in a walk to raise awareness and funds to try to wipe out childhood sexual assault?  

If you're reading this, you know how you'd react to my wearing this ribbon and that invite to pay money to walk 2.5 miles.  Thanks to those who would give me a teary hug (asking first, of course) and say thanks for reminding us that many people walk with invisible scars.  And, even, thanks to those who would wonder why I can't just move on.  Thanks to those who just can't talk about it, who say they're fine.  You ALL bring me growth and clarity.

I have not posted on my blog for two months as I was in the process of applying for and beginning the work I will now do in the coming years.  This work, sexual assault advocacy, education, and prevention on our local campus, is rife with triggers for me.  I knew I needed to go inward to make certain I was in a place where I could be a true advocate, a strong voice of statistical reason and non-anxious emotional support.  I'm there.  And, I promise, I'm back here.

Now, be warned.  If you are going to google this ribbon, you will have many options for exploration, including Wikipedia, where you will find this ribbon:

Black and white longitudinally-striped ribbon

Gloucestershire Against Badger Shooting (GABS) are standing up for badgers in the Gloucestershire pilot cull area

Since I did not bring back enough ribbons for all of you, may I suggest that you simply treat everyone you meet with kindness and respect, honoring the realities that made them into the amazing people that they are today.  

B, Me, M - a few ACCESS SA Team Members

How to Tame a Wild Horse . . .

Being a grandparent has been one of the wonderful benefits of growing older, hopefully a bit more wise as well.  I hope everyone has a chance to see glimpses of themselves, through their grandchildren, as young children.

When I was little I spent a lot of time in front of mirrors doing instructional "commercials" on everything from cleaning products to personal care tips.  I would have loved to have taken my talents outside the big mirror in the bathroom, to have broadened my topics, when I was five.

My granddaughter, Mica, has the same relationship with my laptop video maker as I did with my mirror.  Here is one of her cutest efforts.

Nina Pada, my favorite cowgirl, shows us how to tame a horse . . . . or wild animal.  May we all be so brave and share our talents without abandon.  Click on this link to see Nina Pada.

Watch Nina Pada tame a wild horse. 

Yoga . . .

 Begin as often as necessary.

                                               

 









This was the advice given to me by Marni, a cancer patient in our clinic who introduced me to yoga in 1977.   I first met Marni as she lay on the wide table in Exam Room 3.  She came in every Wednesday for 10 weeks for a chemotherapy infusion.  Everyone in the small clinic - office staff, nurses, lab techs, and even drug reps - made a point of stopping in to say hello to her each week.  We did this because she always asked us how we were, and remembered to ask about details from our previous week's conversation. Our clinic received much more healing from her than she from us.

She was all we talked about during our shared coffee breaks each day.  "I hope Marni's doing okay," we'd say as we drank salty coffee and nibbled on pastries.  "Did you see her scarf?" we'd ask.  "I know," someone else would reply.  "She spun the wool and wove it herself!" I took up weaving, for a short while, to be more like Marni.

One day when I was checking in on her, she was sitting on the table in Sukhasana (a term I'd soon learn) using the Warrior Breath (another term I'd soon learn) to control nausea.  I just stood by her and matched her breathing for a minute or two.  When she took a cleansing breath I asked, "You okay now?" to which she nodded yes.  I continued, "that's the same thing I do when I'm nauseated." I was going to tell  her that as a child I discovered, on my own, how to avoid throwing up.  Long, deep, slow breaths.  In through the nose, out through the mouth, but I did not get the chance.

"You do Yoga?" she interrupted in a surprised shriek-ish voice that brought her assigned nurse rushing into the room.

"Ah......., no," I said to her.  Then I turned to her nurse and said, "we were just talking about deep breathing to control nausea."  Jan, her nurse smiled and nodded knowingly.  We two began to lecture Marni on the benefits of slow deep breathing to control nausea and pain.

"Yoga!" Marni insisted as loud as her weakened voice allowed.  "It's called Yoga!"  She then proceeded to tell us all about her experiences in her travels to India years earlier and her struggles to bring Yoga instruction to her students at a nearby college.  She distracted herself, while intriguing us, through the rest of her chemo session.  She left that day with Jan and I agreeing to attend her Yoga class five days later in the library of the small liberal arts college where she taught.

Jan went with me to Yoga class only twice, but I was an eager and faithful student.  Even when Marni's chemo was finished, I traveled every week to St. Peter for her class.  My daily poses became easier and my understanding of the ancient practice grew.  I filled in as a guest instructor when Marni was too ill to lead, or I was her voice when she could not speak loud enough to be heard by everyone in the room.

Our relationship continued this way until I got married and the busy-ness of that life pulled me away from Marni's classes.  Two years and a baby later, I sought out Marni to ask for her help, and honestly for her forgiveness.  When I told her I wanted to come back, if I was worthy to try Yoga again, she laughed and hugged me as she said, "You begin as often as necessary."

Because it was hard for me to travel 30 miles each week for class, Marni and I pitched the idea to the local YWCA to offer Yoga classes near my house.  We were billed as co-instructors, but she was also my mentor and guru until cancer could not be controlled by either Yoga or chemotherapy.

Moves, pregnancies, life, and distractions bought me to an on again, off again relationship with Yoga over the years. Always, though, Yoga has been a patient presence in my life.  Just like prayer, meditation, walking, and riding a bike - my muscles and mind never forget how it is done - it is a part of my DNA.  Yoga does not hold a grudge for the lapses of practice, nor does it demand that I suffer through a re-learning process when I bring out my mat or try to match my body position to the one on the Wii Fit screen.  Bidden or not, Yoga flows through and within me - in my breath, flexible muscles, strong skeleton, deep breath, and tranquil mind.

Last month I pulled out the journal I made as Marni began teaching me.  In my mind I heard her say, "Let's begin again."  I found the pages with the stick people she taught me to draw in Yoga poses and started with Lesson One.

Om and Namaste.

Well I Dreamed I Saw a Silver Spaceship . . . .

My Replacements

Top Row:  Ian Allen, Victor Allen, Azalea Allen  Middle Row:  Doc (William) Stodden, Molly Allen, Heather Allen, Eleanor Allen  Front Row:  Lori Allen, Mica Allen, Mallary Allen   - Photo by Sam Wormley

I am a headline reader.  One headline has led me to ponder my children as my replacements when I am gone.  This, in turn, has led me to wonder if my ancestors looked at their children and imagined them as their replacements?  I can't help but believe that in recent generations, this may not have been a comforting thought.   I felt my parents and grandparents (and probably generations before) were judged not only by their parents and grandparents, but by a society that called for repression of feelings and conforming to expectations set out in laws and norms. Maybe the world is still that way and I am living in my own idea of how the world works. . . . which is another topic for another day.

If there is a stream of consciousness that extends from my ancestors through my grandparents, parents, and now me - how do the departed ones regard me?  Did feel sorrow at the darkness that I tried to mask with being funny as a child?  Did they cringe at my sexual profligacy as a teen and young adult? (It was the 70s you know.)  Was it their voices, disguised as my own, who kept asking "what are you doing?" before each marriage?  Or was it them silencing my questioning by feeding me mantras of "You can change, You can change him.  Then love will grow"? Now, do they recognize my aspirations of becoming an artist and writer as the beginnings of a delusional old age?

I may be delusional about how the rest of my life will unfold, but I hold no delusions that, like me, my ancestors were no examples of perfect mental health themselves.  I would like to think that if there is some kind of residual self that continues after death, that the post-earth selves, the ancestors, have opportunities for emotional and spiritual growth - just like those of us who are still earth bound. I hope the chuckles I sometimes hear in my self-talk are part of a chorus of the ancestors, I hope they have all developed a sense of humor.

Though I laugh at myself from time to time, I do not think I am now, or ever will be, irrelevant. I just think my role is shifting from accomplishing and doing to mentoring and being.   I am so much less judgmental of my children and their partners than I was of myself as a young parent.  My admiration for them comes from watching them navigate parenting, challenges, missteps, dreams, embarassment, and accomplishments like the bosses they are.  I celebrate their joy mostly from afar,  I try to respond to the hard parts with "you've got this" a thousand times more than with "let me give you a different way to look at this."   If I have ever said, "here's what you need to do . . ." I am sorry, so sorry that I am blocking it from my memory.

I also  ponder the lives of the children who will be replacing my children, that is, my grandchildren. It is easy for me to let go of any anxiety about their futures.   I feel confident that these young children will grow to enhance, cast off, or integrate the gifts of their DNA - from all the various families of  ancestors who are watching them.

I do not know if anyone in my direct ancestry line has or will set anything in motion to save the world.  Or even a small part of it.  That would be nice.  But in lieu of reversing global warming, curing diseases, or negotiating a lasting global peace - I hope that those people who come into our circles will be compelled by our love for one another, our service to our fellow travelers, and our joy in creating as much beauty as we can.

Now get out there!  You're replacing someone, too, you know.  When you are very silent and still, you can feel their gaze upon you.