holding grief in my
hands like a soft little bird
a silent captive
by 
Books, etc
I’m knee deep in books these days- they are piled in various places throughout the house, library books along with my newest bookstore finds. I thought I’d share a few favorites and some of my thoughts.
Cured by Jeffery Rediger M.D.
This is an encouraging read about spontaneous healing. Dr. Rediger relays a number of stories of individuals who, after being diagnosed with an incurable illness, defy the odds and experience complete remission. All used their diagnoses as an opportunity and made sweeping changes on their path to radical healing. Rediger concludes: “… to reach new depths of recovery, we have to heal the following: our diets, our immune systems, our stress responses, and our identities.” This book is chock full of ideas and hope. Definitely a worthwhile read.
A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles
This is a bestseller by the author of Rules of Civility. It would be an understatement to say that Towles is a master of the English language. I actually began listening to this book but soon felt that I was missing out by not reading it myself. I’m happy I decided to grab it from the library and lose myself in the world of Count Alexander Rostov and the goings on in the Metropol hotel in 1920’s Moscow, where the Count is sentenced to house arrest. Rather than restricting his experience of life, the Count’s plight opens innumerable opportunities to truly live. I am enjoying this one very much!
The Gifts of Imperfection by Brene Brown
I don’t often find myself reading a book for the third time, but that’s exactly what’s happening here. The subtitle, “Let Go of Who You Think You’re Supposed to Be and Embrace Who You Are” is spot on as this book delivers, elucidating a well-researched path to freedom from “shoulds” and encouragement for living a wholehearted life. I have learned a lot from Brown’s hard won wisdom and highly recommend her.
I’d love to know what you’re reading!
by Words
Words, I knew
had power
and then, I learned
they had beauty too,
formed the ground
for mystery.
I was
in love
not knowing then what comes to me now-
I’d found a faithful friend,
one that would
sit with me in pain,
dance across the page with joy.
In my heart we
ran away together.
by Here
can I be found here
in short verse
no longer silenced
by layers of loss?
Today some words came to me-
the first in over a year.
All this time I thought I’d never write again
because life took all the words from me.
Suddenly it feels possible
to move beyond this silence.
by Fall Poem
Ahead I see
the forest
on fire.
Torches of sun-gold aspen
lit and luminous
lifting
flickering leaf-flames
to the pale
and placid
onlooking sky.
Enough
I’m thinking enough is possibly the opposite of perfectionism. I’m not sure yet.
I’ve been doing quite a lot of thinking and writing and reading and talking about perfectionism recently. It is, as Anne Lamott puts it, the oppressor and the enemy of the people. It has certainly been the enemy in my life.
I find myself wanting to make sense of this subject and at this point it’s simply too overwhelming. I am trying to trust that as a friend told me this morning, “I think you’re ready for this level of understanding “. I may be ready but it’s painful and still hard to wrap my head- let alone words- around. I’m raw.
Maybe I can start here: what makes me, or anyone, enough? Seems simple. And it is when I apply the query to others. Just existence, that’s it. That’s all it takes for a human to be enough, to be imbued with value and worth. But for myself, the answer doesn’t come so effortlessly. It’s complicated. Theoretically I may concede that the same is true for me if it applies to every other human like I believe it does. Yet getting something from theory or acknowledged truth to the heart can be quite a challenge.
So I sit in this middle place (the one I despise) of not knowing, not having the answer, not having it figured out. (Not that this place isn’t well known to me, I definitely find myself here often enough.) This is a big player in my life, this battle with the enemy of perfectionism and the deep life-long yearning to believe that I am really and truly enough. It makes this middle place not just uncomfortable but almost excruciating.
I hear the call to be authentic, coincidentally (or not) there were 2 articles in my email this morning about this very thing. But what does that really mean? I think I have stuck my toe in the water of vulnerability and showing up as I am, only to be lambasted by the truth that I have been editing every step of the way. Am I really that fragile? I’m not sure I want to know the answer.
If you are one of those who are truly, unapologetically yourself, know that you have my deep admiration, mixed with a good dose of jealousy. It’s possible I’m on my way but the going is pretty rough, believe me.
by Again, or What it Feels like to Dance with Depression
It’s been a rough day at the end of a challenging week. The end of Summer tends to be a difficult time for me; I’m usually ready for cooler weather and less daylight before it happens. I was listening to a podcast yesterday and a question stayed with me: “Can I be with this?” In other words, can I let go of even a small amount of my resistance and have the intention of acceptance. Can I be with this weather that’s uncomfortable, the long days?
I wonder how many days have been like this for me (yet I probably don’t really want to know), filled again with a sense of hollowness, futility and something that feels very close to despair. Most of my day has been spent going through the motions, doing the things I know I need to do to keep myself from the always lurking edge. That’s what I do on days like this. In DBT it’s called Opposite Action. At times it feels like life is on an endless Repeat mode, that I am, again, hip deep in some sort of psychic mud just trying to take one step. But those are my feelings and I tell myself, again, even though they’re real it doesn’t mean they’re true.
I told my psychiatrist recently that the truth is, this whole thing is a lot of work. I’m well aware that this is true for many. And it is. Getting off the sofa, doing a single load of laundry, brushing my teeth. Back to the basics, again. Frustrated that so many things from this week’s To Do list will get moved to next week. Kicking myself that I didn’t have what it takes to call my dad, again.
Having Bipolar Disorder (Type 2) is tricky to manage. My hypomanic symptoms are adequately controlled with 2 mood stabilizers, but the depression remains something I attempt to manage without the assistance of medicine. Sometimes I agree to try a medication, usually one I’ve tried before, but I am quickly reminded that untenable side effects for me are pretty much a given. And around it goes, again.
So, as with the weather, I ask myself, can I be with this? This reality of my cycling, shifting moods? The feeling that I am a burden with not much of value to contribute. Again and again the negative thoughts and old beliefs come, and all my attempts provide only a slight distraction. But I keep trying. Sometimes it’s all I can do.
by Choosing Real
A few evenings ago, a friend and I attended a National Alliance for Mental Illness (NAMI) family support group. Groups such as this one exist to provide peer support for people who are living with the mental illness of a family member.
My friend and I were the only two in this group of ten to share our own mental health diagnoses. Thus, throughout the meeting, others turned to us, repeatedly wanting to know some version of what it’s like. I don’t blame them. they really want to have some inkling of what goes on in the mind of their daughter, son, wife, sister.
Some of the questions asked were, “what’s mania (or hypomania) like?”, “What has helped you?”, and “How did you come to accept your diagnosis?”. We answered them all as best we could, wanting to help, wanting to give hope,
Choosing Real: it’s hard. I can feel my face growing hot, turning pink. I wonder if I’m saying too much, if it’s safe, what others are thinking. Will they leave this place and talk about me in the car or over dinner, some sort of disappointment- or worse, judgment- in their tone of voice? It’s possible, I know. Yet it’s my story, a part of me.
I am reminded of these words from poet Linda Hogan :
Even the trees with their rings
have kept track
of the crimes that live within
and against us.
We remember it all.
We remember, though we are just skeletons
whose organs and flesh
hold us in.
We have stories
as old as the great seas
breaking through the chest,
flying out the mouth,
noisy tongues that once were silenced,
all the oceans we contain
coming to light.
I am no longer silent. The oceans I contain are coming to light. And it is my truest hope that my choice to be real will make a difference to someone else.
by Broken Open
A teacher says “we are broken or broken open”.
Life has broken me open.
Open to more beauty and joy,
more darkness and sorrow,
more awareness and presence,
a greater depth to love,
compassion.
Open to a desire to live intentionally, fully, vulnerably, as if I have nothing to lose.
A want to slow down, to relish what is precious and fleeting,
a need to slow down, to be here, fully present, fully myself.
Broken or broken open?
The challenge is to stay open, to not live as if I am merely broken- lying around like shards of glass, ready to inflict pain on any who come near.
Because I often feel very broken. Just broken. And I want to go away somewhere, be alone with all that hurts, soak in it for awhile.
Yet redemption of the pain, of my brokenness, is birthed from the opening.
Rumi said, “The wound is the place where the light enters you”. I believe it can also be the place- the opening- from which the light shines out.
So mostly my heart remains painfully tender and I continue to be who is left after life has chiseled so much away, has broken me open.
by