Sunday, October 30, 2005
Red
Red was the color of church at it's most lavish and warm. Christmas drapery, vestments, poinsettias, infused with incense and sounding of carols and bells. Cranberry red tree ornaments, glassy distorted reflections that mirrored my curiosity. Festive color, scarlet ribbons and cherry flavored bubble lights.
My sister-in-law's bridesmaids in dark red velvet dresses for her November wedding. At eight, I thought this wonderful beyond belief.
Red is maple in autumn, berries and redwing blackbirds. Rolling through piles of brilliant leaves in the Irish Hills, a universe in crimson and orange crunchiness.
Red is blood, stark and vital beauty, dangerous and intense. Spurts to send a clamp to stop, the line of tiny rubies marking the flow. Red the saturation of nature, the human body in surgery.
Red was Gigi's ball, my aunt's fat black poodle who loved her ball, food, Aunt Alma and me, in that order. Spiturated rubber, I threw it endlessly as she chased it until both girl and dog were tired. Threw it down the laundry chute until she brought it back, and I would throw it down again. Red ribbons in her topknot when Aunt Alma groomed her, which lasted about an hour. Red polish on her nails.
A red wool blanket, washed and shrunken log ago. Brought out to cover me on winter nights when I had a cold. I imbued it with healing properties. We huddle under it in our dark blue terry robes. Moby kneads it then poses, jet black cat on blood red wool.
My sister-in-law's bridesmaids in dark red velvet dresses for her November wedding. At eight, I thought this wonderful beyond belief.
Red is maple in autumn, berries and redwing blackbirds. Rolling through piles of brilliant leaves in the Irish Hills, a universe in crimson and orange crunchiness.
Red is blood, stark and vital beauty, dangerous and intense. Spurts to send a clamp to stop, the line of tiny rubies marking the flow. Red the saturation of nature, the human body in surgery.
Red was Gigi's ball, my aunt's fat black poodle who loved her ball, food, Aunt Alma and me, in that order. Spiturated rubber, I threw it endlessly as she chased it until both girl and dog were tired. Threw it down the laundry chute until she brought it back, and I would throw it down again. Red ribbons in her topknot when Aunt Alma groomed her, which lasted about an hour. Red polish on her nails.
A red wool blanket, washed and shrunken log ago. Brought out to cover me on winter nights when I had a cold. I imbued it with healing properties. We huddle under it in our dark blue terry robes. Moby kneads it then poses, jet black cat on blood red wool.
Saturday, October 29, 2005
Library
I have lived in libraries. Brought to a local branch from before I was born, I knew it well even before being hired there when I was 17.
Campbell Branch was one of those old style buildings, dark wood and high ceilings, brown smooth undulating floors. But once I was an employee I was shown the lunchroom, also lovely wood and window high up and bright, Barbara's office with the books to be fixed and new books to be marked and organized. The toilet for staff was down a steep uneven stairway, and stored Benny's cleaning supplies. I would learn how to open and close the windows with the long pole with the iron hook, and sit behind the large wooden desk and have access to the cards and learn how to change the due date stamp. I shelved books, and loved to organize the children's picture books, a never ending task, but one that opened such a wonderful world of art and humor. I loved Mercer Mayer and Seuss, Potter and Sendak. I could sit on that lovely bench and alphabetize books. So soothing an occupation.
I got the Dewey system in my brain, I still imagine books according to where they will be on those shelves. Especially the heavily used children's sections. Joke and car books, animals and comics.
It was the first place I got to call adults by just their first names, kind of a cheat because three of them were Barbara, the head librarian was Mister Beldin- always- but I never cared to talk to him anyway.
There were two SLA positions, student library assistant. We referred to ourselves as SLA-ves. In my two plus years there, first was Michelle- a fan, of Star Wars and Battlestar Galactica and baseball and Beach Boys. We went to a lot of movies together, since she had a car. Then Billy, who was only 15 and into Dungeons and Dragons. I crushed on him -to no effect, because he was there. Nice geeky kid.
The patrons made the job even more interesting, especially since the Social Services offices were just down the street. The oddest ones tended to prefer one of us, and Barbara referred to them as "(your name here)'s friend." My "friend" was a tall dyed-red-haired woman in her 60's with bright thick makeup who tended to lean in way too close to tell you all about her day. I eventually figured out that she was nearly deaf. Mr. Belding's "friend" was an old guy who wore coats and galoshes all summer and whose odor would come in about five minutes before he did*. Barbara's was a middle aged Italian man who brought in a passel of kids and reeked of garlic. Incomprehensible and odiferous, but endearing. I don't remember the other two Barbaras (the children's librarian and the adult librarian)'s "friends".
Saturdays would be the children's programs, movies or story tellers, crafts. I would run the projector and try to keep an eye on the short folks. I checked in/out books, took overdue fines, and on slow days, got to study or read. Summer I worked more hours, and read even more books. Once I walked there during a tornado, the sky bottle green, and the floor flooded.
I would work in other libraries, shelving tons of books as I inched my way through school. I have the papercut scars to prove it. I can flip a book to better read the spine and slide it on an overstuffed shelf -all with one hand. If I could make a living wage doing it, I would happily shelve books all the time. Perhaps when I retire, as a place to go every day. Find the corners of another library. The worlds they open up, and the people I would meet.
Besides, that is where I keep all my books, and staff don't pay overdues.
*Tipping my hat to Terry Pratchett and Foul Ole Ron, and his smell.
Campbell Branch was one of those old style buildings, dark wood and high ceilings, brown smooth undulating floors. But once I was an employee I was shown the lunchroom, also lovely wood and window high up and bright, Barbara's office with the books to be fixed and new books to be marked and organized. The toilet for staff was down a steep uneven stairway, and stored Benny's cleaning supplies. I would learn how to open and close the windows with the long pole with the iron hook, and sit behind the large wooden desk and have access to the cards and learn how to change the due date stamp. I shelved books, and loved to organize the children's picture books, a never ending task, but one that opened such a wonderful world of art and humor. I loved Mercer Mayer and Seuss, Potter and Sendak. I could sit on that lovely bench and alphabetize books. So soothing an occupation.
I got the Dewey system in my brain, I still imagine books according to where they will be on those shelves. Especially the heavily used children's sections. Joke and car books, animals and comics.
It was the first place I got to call adults by just their first names, kind of a cheat because three of them were Barbara, the head librarian was Mister Beldin- always- but I never cared to talk to him anyway.
There were two SLA positions, student library assistant. We referred to ourselves as SLA-ves. In my two plus years there, first was Michelle- a fan, of Star Wars and Battlestar Galactica and baseball and Beach Boys. We went to a lot of movies together, since she had a car. Then Billy, who was only 15 and into Dungeons and Dragons. I crushed on him -to no effect, because he was there. Nice geeky kid.
The patrons made the job even more interesting, especially since the Social Services offices were just down the street. The oddest ones tended to prefer one of us, and Barbara referred to them as "(your name here)'s friend." My "friend" was a tall dyed-red-haired woman in her 60's with bright thick makeup who tended to lean in way too close to tell you all about her day. I eventually figured out that she was nearly deaf. Mr. Belding's "friend" was an old guy who wore coats and galoshes all summer and whose odor would come in about five minutes before he did*. Barbara's was a middle aged Italian man who brought in a passel of kids and reeked of garlic. Incomprehensible and odiferous, but endearing. I don't remember the other two Barbaras (the children's librarian and the adult librarian)'s "friends".
Saturdays would be the children's programs, movies or story tellers, crafts. I would run the projector and try to keep an eye on the short folks. I checked in/out books, took overdue fines, and on slow days, got to study or read. Summer I worked more hours, and read even more books. Once I walked there during a tornado, the sky bottle green, and the floor flooded.
I would work in other libraries, shelving tons of books as I inched my way through school. I have the papercut scars to prove it. I can flip a book to better read the spine and slide it on an overstuffed shelf -all with one hand. If I could make a living wage doing it, I would happily shelve books all the time. Perhaps when I retire, as a place to go every day. Find the corners of another library. The worlds they open up, and the people I would meet.
Besides, that is where I keep all my books, and staff don't pay overdues.
*Tipping my hat to Terry Pratchett and Foul Ole Ron, and his smell.
Friday, October 28, 2005
Way
I was taken to a park. There was a slide. Unlike any other time I'd been to a park, there were a bunch of other children, lined up, sliding down, running around to slide down again. I was baffled by this, and patiently waited for them to finish playing so I could have the slide to myself as usual. My mother thought I was shy, and urged me to get in line and play. I tried, I did it, but found it an utterly unpleasant experience. I preferred not to "play" in a crush of strange, pushy and smelly children. Not shy, just not that social.
A similar experience with an Easter Egg hunt. Lined up, I could see several eggs, and figured I'd just go pick them up, never really considering the mass of other children who could see them as well as I could. I hesitated, waiting for them all to run off while I went and picked up a couple. I was aghast at them taking my eggs, leaving me empty handed and foolish. My poor brother who took me to the event, I'm sure he had no idea how to explain. He got me an egg somehow, plastic, empty.
I have liked crowds at times. Christmas Eve morning at Eastern Market is a joyful rush of teeming crowd, cold and friendly with tea, cheese, and chocolate as a reward. I rather like shopping at Haymarket on a Saturday morning. I don't mind when the train is so crowded there is no room to move, as long as my feet don't hurt too badly. I work in a team in a small crowded room all day. I love my work.
But I have this issue with people getting in my way.
In Utah, there is a socially acceptable (well, not to me) habit of people holding conversations in the only passage through an area. In the middle of doorways or crowded hallways, store entrances or grocery aisles. At the airport, I once had to force my way past two well dressed women chatting at the bottom of an escalator. I probably didn't need to have whacked one with my backpack quite so vigorously. Not need, as such.
I missed my train home today because of several people blocking pathways unnecessarily. And another woman on the train "saved" the window seat, others having to stand. A group of three further blocked her empty seat. I was seething about this, until I saw the guy hit her absently with his backpack as he gestured to his two friends. I had to grin, draining my irritation.
I often sit alone at lunch, as a way of resting my brain, and gathering myself together. When I was in Basic, I ate very fast, always the first to finish, even if I was the last in line, because sometimes it meant I would have five minutes alone. I could walk back to the barracks and sit and be by myself. Much as I love friends, much as I love my work, I need the balance of time alone. Having a place to myself. I don't mind waiting until everyone else has taken their turn.
A similar experience with an Easter Egg hunt. Lined up, I could see several eggs, and figured I'd just go pick them up, never really considering the mass of other children who could see them as well as I could. I hesitated, waiting for them all to run off while I went and picked up a couple. I was aghast at them taking my eggs, leaving me empty handed and foolish. My poor brother who took me to the event, I'm sure he had no idea how to explain. He got me an egg somehow, plastic, empty.
I have liked crowds at times. Christmas Eve morning at Eastern Market is a joyful rush of teeming crowd, cold and friendly with tea, cheese, and chocolate as a reward. I rather like shopping at Haymarket on a Saturday morning. I don't mind when the train is so crowded there is no room to move, as long as my feet don't hurt too badly. I work in a team in a small crowded room all day. I love my work.
But I have this issue with people getting in my way.
In Utah, there is a socially acceptable (well, not to me) habit of people holding conversations in the only passage through an area. In the middle of doorways or crowded hallways, store entrances or grocery aisles. At the airport, I once had to force my way past two well dressed women chatting at the bottom of an escalator. I probably didn't need to have whacked one with my backpack quite so vigorously. Not need, as such.
I missed my train home today because of several people blocking pathways unnecessarily. And another woman on the train "saved" the window seat, others having to stand. A group of three further blocked her empty seat. I was seething about this, until I saw the guy hit her absently with his backpack as he gestured to his two friends. I had to grin, draining my irritation.
I often sit alone at lunch, as a way of resting my brain, and gathering myself together. When I was in Basic, I ate very fast, always the first to finish, even if I was the last in line, because sometimes it meant I would have five minutes alone. I could walk back to the barracks and sit and be by myself. Much as I love friends, much as I love my work, I need the balance of time alone. Having a place to myself. I don't mind waiting until everyone else has taken their turn.
Monday, October 24, 2005
Live
We were told the Blue Pigs would be putting on a show. I imagined guys in pig costumes, or maybe blue animals. Trooped into the cafeteria/meeting room, the small stage was full of amps and musical gear. When the police came out (in uniform? Not sure, can't remember) and did loud sound checks, I put my fingers in my ears, my aversion to loud noises combining with my fears of the unknown. Whoever thought that a Detroit Police rock band would play in an inner city Catholic grade school? After a couple of songs, I was in love, and whoever booked them was obviously a genius. They were talented and contagious, endearing. It was Motown and it rocked. My first experience with live music, live performance.
Taken by family to hear the Irish Rovers, I was blown away. Actual people creating glorious music in front of my eyes. I had no words for it, just wanted to sing along, to dance to it all. I would later prefer more authentic stuff, question my earlier taste. Still, they made beauty, and it is what it is.
My first paid-for-by-me concert was much more exciting in anticipation. A work friend wanted to see the Beach Boys. Not my choice, but I was eager, imagined comfortable seats and engaging music, seeing their faces. Yeah, right, in an arena. The Boys were obviously bored and uninvolved, as was I. Mike Love tried to get a bit of charisma going, give him credit. I came out deaf and disappointed. Let's not even go into having Culture Club tickets foisted on me by a group of college friends. Boy George played to the wings, and the playlist was unknown to me, and monotonous. So when Tanya twisted my arm to go see The Police, it took some major twisting. Joan Jett opened for them, and was booed. I was not hopeful. We were at least on the floor of the arena.
They weren't bored. They seemed to hate each other ~found out later they really did~ but such energy they put into it, they were excruciatingly talented, the songs were power, and Sting was audible through the amplification. I was utterly blown away, and still consider it a miracle that I heard them on their Synchronicity Tour. A point of amazement and pride.
Music concerts would always be rare, occasional fairs or street musicians would constitute my live musical fix. When D worked at a ticket outlet, we went to hear the symphony several times, including one with Christopher Parkening. Nothing like music that raises gooseflesh and lives on in the heart.
I found They Might Be Giants. I have seen them eight different places. I had no idea, seeing them live the first time, only having heard their recordings, that they would be a great dance band. They rock. I have never been disappointed. (Well, the one time they were at a July 4th stadium extravaganza, one in a series of 'entertainments' including a children's choir and frisbee catching dogs, but it wasn't their fault.) They have a confetti cannon. They goof around. They are deeply talented, and very fun, and they let their audiences sing along. And we do. Loudly.
The best music is live, and surprizing, unexpected and impressive. Like a stamp, these moments shape my emotional world. My usual musical taste is thrown out when I heard a good band live, the interaction reaches out past my filters and drags me in, skipping.
Taken by family to hear the Irish Rovers, I was blown away. Actual people creating glorious music in front of my eyes. I had no words for it, just wanted to sing along, to dance to it all. I would later prefer more authentic stuff, question my earlier taste. Still, they made beauty, and it is what it is.
My first paid-for-by-me concert was much more exciting in anticipation. A work friend wanted to see the Beach Boys. Not my choice, but I was eager, imagined comfortable seats and engaging music, seeing their faces. Yeah, right, in an arena. The Boys were obviously bored and uninvolved, as was I. Mike Love tried to get a bit of charisma going, give him credit. I came out deaf and disappointed. Let's not even go into having Culture Club tickets foisted on me by a group of college friends. Boy George played to the wings, and the playlist was unknown to me, and monotonous. So when Tanya twisted my arm to go see The Police, it took some major twisting. Joan Jett opened for them, and was booed. I was not hopeful. We were at least on the floor of the arena.
They weren't bored. They seemed to hate each other ~found out later they really did~ but such energy they put into it, they were excruciatingly talented, the songs were power, and Sting was audible through the amplification. I was utterly blown away, and still consider it a miracle that I heard them on their Synchronicity Tour. A point of amazement and pride.
Music concerts would always be rare, occasional fairs or street musicians would constitute my live musical fix. When D worked at a ticket outlet, we went to hear the symphony several times, including one with Christopher Parkening. Nothing like music that raises gooseflesh and lives on in the heart.
I found They Might Be Giants. I have seen them eight different places. I had no idea, seeing them live the first time, only having heard their recordings, that they would be a great dance band. They rock. I have never been disappointed. (Well, the one time they were at a July 4th stadium extravaganza, one in a series of 'entertainments' including a children's choir and frisbee catching dogs, but it wasn't their fault.) They have a confetti cannon. They goof around. They are deeply talented, and very fun, and they let their audiences sing along. And we do. Loudly.
The best music is live, and surprizing, unexpected and impressive. Like a stamp, these moments shape my emotional world. My usual musical taste is thrown out when I heard a good band live, the interaction reaches out past my filters and drags me in, skipping.
Friday, October 21, 2005
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Prayer
Memorized prayers of the Rosary were a mantra for me, a chant that I used to keep myself together during my father's rants. Funerals included Saying the Rosary, a warm overstuffed room as the priest spoke the first part of the prayer, and we all responded, in an hour long ritual that truly did ease grief. The Rosary (other than said at funerals) is largely the Hail Mary at a ratio of about 10:1 with the Glory Be and the Our Father, often recited at speed.
~Hail Mary, full of Grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, Amen.~
The other main prayer was Grace, said before every meal, mumbled aloud. It took me years to decipher it as it was slurred into incomprehensibility through three to a dozen hungry, hurrying voices reciting at once.
~BleesusourLord, Anthezigiffs, Wichwerbout t'receve, from Thighbountythewchristhourlord, AMEN. ~
I had no idea what I was saying until I was about 10. I had to ask, and my mother was astounded and a bit angry. "Why didn't you ask?" How could I have asked? It was magic words said over food. I do prefer it to the Mormon tradition of extemporaneous thanks, which can be protracted, belabored and excruciating. (Nice enough people, but, c'mon, let's eat.)
Living on my own, I did not say 'my prayers' at night anymore, as I could not find it in me to believe them. Gradually, finding my own path, I began to pray again, tough I found it difficult to develop a form. I no longer had any idea where prayers went, nor did I care, but like writing letters never sent, I knew they helped me to understand, to forgive, to heal.
I would reclaim one old memorized prayer from my early life after hearing Joseph Campbell. I didn't like him in many ways, and I think he has some critical flaws, but he laid out the evidence that all religion is myth and culturally bound stories, and that they are all connected, in such a comprehensive and convincing matrix. That myth is not an insult, but a way of understanding the flow of belief and the desire to understand what it is to be human in the world through history. He showed images of art and artifacts that I could never have seen, or seen in that light, in any other place.
He gave me the most cogent definition of God. I remember it as "God is the word to indicate that which is transcendent." Not male or female, but both and neither. Not good or evil, but all the universe, without qualification. Any duality deemed irrelevant, but included. Not me or them, but a way of seeing that does not differentiate, is one and many and all.
I wanted Hail Mary, untainted, consistent with my soul. I did some adjusting, trying to keep the meter, making it about Her. This is now my mind prayer when I cannot summon thought of my own. In a plane about to take off, or land, for instance:
~Hail Mary, full of grace, the Word is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb. Holy Mary, Mother and God, forgive us, thy sinners, now and at the hour of our death, amen. ~
I don't know if it means anything useful, but the old version is certainly jibberish for me. It's a love of the form, the rhythm, the ritual, the lost idea of family and connection. I like the idea of a rosary said at my funeral, using any words that will comfort any friends who might be left to care. For myself, well, I will be past caring I expect, but maybe those voices joined will comfort me even then.
Glory Be to our friends, our loved ones, and our holy spirit, as we were in our beginning, are now and ever shall be, no beginning nor end. Amen.
~Hail Mary, full of Grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, Amen.~
The other main prayer was Grace, said before every meal, mumbled aloud. It took me years to decipher it as it was slurred into incomprehensibility through three to a dozen hungry, hurrying voices reciting at once.
~BleesusourLord, Anthezigiffs, Wichwerbout t'receve, from Thighbountythewchristhourlord, AMEN. ~
I had no idea what I was saying until I was about 10. I had to ask, and my mother was astounded and a bit angry. "Why didn't you ask?" How could I have asked? It was magic words said over food. I do prefer it to the Mormon tradition of extemporaneous thanks, which can be protracted, belabored and excruciating. (Nice enough people, but, c'mon, let's eat.)
Living on my own, I did not say 'my prayers' at night anymore, as I could not find it in me to believe them. Gradually, finding my own path, I began to pray again, tough I found it difficult to develop a form. I no longer had any idea where prayers went, nor did I care, but like writing letters never sent, I knew they helped me to understand, to forgive, to heal.
I would reclaim one old memorized prayer from my early life after hearing Joseph Campbell. I didn't like him in many ways, and I think he has some critical flaws, but he laid out the evidence that all religion is myth and culturally bound stories, and that they are all connected, in such a comprehensive and convincing matrix. That myth is not an insult, but a way of understanding the flow of belief and the desire to understand what it is to be human in the world through history. He showed images of art and artifacts that I could never have seen, or seen in that light, in any other place.
He gave me the most cogent definition of God. I remember it as "God is the word to indicate that which is transcendent." Not male or female, but both and neither. Not good or evil, but all the universe, without qualification. Any duality deemed irrelevant, but included. Not me or them, but a way of seeing that does not differentiate, is one and many and all.
I wanted Hail Mary, untainted, consistent with my soul. I did some adjusting, trying to keep the meter, making it about Her. This is now my mind prayer when I cannot summon thought of my own. In a plane about to take off, or land, for instance:
~Hail Mary, full of grace, the Word is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb. Holy Mary, Mother and God, forgive us, thy sinners, now and at the hour of our death, amen. ~
I don't know if it means anything useful, but the old version is certainly jibberish for me. It's a love of the form, the rhythm, the ritual, the lost idea of family and connection. I like the idea of a rosary said at my funeral, using any words that will comfort any friends who might be left to care. For myself, well, I will be past caring I expect, but maybe those voices joined will comfort me even then.
Glory Be to our friends, our loved ones, and our holy spirit, as we were in our beginning, are now and ever shall be, no beginning nor end. Amen.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Heaven
I have always been fascinated with Heaven. I remember being angry at Adam and Even when I was small, that they messed it up for all of us, and -I- would have left the apple alone. If it had been me, we would live peacefully among the animals with fruit every day, no meat or milk that I had to finish up before leaving the table. No anger, no itchy clothes, nothing scarier than a talking snake. Took it very personally.
I clearly remember once crying at the song Toyland- because I so wanted to be there. Not quite understanding what the lyric "Once you cross it's borders, you can never return again" meant. At times thinking that if I could get there, I would never see my mother again, at others that if I couldn't find a way there very soon, I would not be able to get there when I was grown up. I think I conflated it with other children's songs about the idyll of childhood and Big Rock Candy Mountain (Burl Ives version.) I didn't get the nostalgic ideal of a wondrous childhood, not being in the middle of one.
I could also not wrap my mind around the Christian, Catholic Heaven. Eternity praising God. Like endless Mass. I just boggled at the idea of that as a reward. Despite being assured that once I saw the face of God, that would be glorious. Hm, seeing some old white guy's face forever is... I'm sorry, could you explain that again? Talking with those gone before seemed good, I could chat with St. Joan and ask her about her life, and other saints and historical figures, and Leonardo Da Vinci. (I'd seen an Italian documentary about him, and had a bit of a crush.)
Studying moral hierarchies and operant conditioning, I made the connection to what the literal religious people did with the Heavenly reward and the stick of Hell. I was appalled. This life didn't matter, only the next life? And the only reason to be a good person in this one was to make it to the next one, and avoid eventual suffering? Christian definition of being saved. Saved for what? Was that like saving it for marriage? Yeah, God Said it- but Who Said God Said it? Too much living in the ideal future, with too little attention to the eternal present. Too much like yearning for an idealized past that never existed either. A lazy theology, to believe that idleness is ideal, rather than useful work. How ungracious, to be given this amazing opportunity, and say,"I'll endure this, but I want more, better, different." How petty and selfish. How limiting.
My search for the ideal afterlife was my first step in discovering my own spirituality, my critical and rigorous search for a genuine and attentive life. I developed an elaborate set of rules for being introduced into one's own heaven, who you could talk to, who you could punish. One gestalt involved those who hurt me living through a version of my life as me, feeling what they did from inside me. Being fair, I also had to live those moments of other's lives that I made painful. After all that was done, I could go to any place or time and observe, understand. But, this being eternity, then what? Idleness not being a virtue presumably even in heaven.
When I first read about Nirvana, I was even more deeply confused. True nothingness, loss of personality and individuality to merge with the universe and end the separate life of my soul. Horrifying, frightening. Over the years, finally not hoping for "reward", nor accepting that Someone was there to hand any out, I have come to find this infinitely comforting. When I am ready for this, I become, again, the eternal and infinite. Oh.
Having experienced strange liminal events surrounding deaths, I suspect that there is more to what happens to us when we die. I refuse to define it. I do not know, cannot know, and am suspicious of those who claim they do. I like the philosophy of reincarnation, give me however many chances I need to get it together. I do not desire, but I am comforted simply ending as my life ends. I have love, I have life, how could I be greedy for an unknowable more, or different?
The reward for a life well lived is a well lived life. It's up to me to make it heaven.
If I am given more, I will accept it with grace, and gratitude.
Like that last bit of chocolate.
I clearly remember once crying at the song Toyland- because I so wanted to be there. Not quite understanding what the lyric "Once you cross it's borders, you can never return again" meant. At times thinking that if I could get there, I would never see my mother again, at others that if I couldn't find a way there very soon, I would not be able to get there when I was grown up. I think I conflated it with other children's songs about the idyll of childhood and Big Rock Candy Mountain (Burl Ives version.) I didn't get the nostalgic ideal of a wondrous childhood, not being in the middle of one.
I could also not wrap my mind around the Christian, Catholic Heaven. Eternity praising God. Like endless Mass. I just boggled at the idea of that as a reward. Despite being assured that once I saw the face of God, that would be glorious. Hm, seeing some old white guy's face forever is... I'm sorry, could you explain that again? Talking with those gone before seemed good, I could chat with St. Joan and ask her about her life, and other saints and historical figures, and Leonardo Da Vinci. (I'd seen an Italian documentary about him, and had a bit of a crush.)
Studying moral hierarchies and operant conditioning, I made the connection to what the literal religious people did with the Heavenly reward and the stick of Hell. I was appalled. This life didn't matter, only the next life? And the only reason to be a good person in this one was to make it to the next one, and avoid eventual suffering? Christian definition of being saved. Saved for what? Was that like saving it for marriage? Yeah, God Said it- but Who Said God Said it? Too much living in the ideal future, with too little attention to the eternal present. Too much like yearning for an idealized past that never existed either. A lazy theology, to believe that idleness is ideal, rather than useful work. How ungracious, to be given this amazing opportunity, and say,"I'll endure this, but I want more, better, different." How petty and selfish. How limiting.
My search for the ideal afterlife was my first step in discovering my own spirituality, my critical and rigorous search for a genuine and attentive life. I developed an elaborate set of rules for being introduced into one's own heaven, who you could talk to, who you could punish. One gestalt involved those who hurt me living through a version of my life as me, feeling what they did from inside me. Being fair, I also had to live those moments of other's lives that I made painful. After all that was done, I could go to any place or time and observe, understand. But, this being eternity, then what? Idleness not being a virtue presumably even in heaven.
When I first read about Nirvana, I was even more deeply confused. True nothingness, loss of personality and individuality to merge with the universe and end the separate life of my soul. Horrifying, frightening. Over the years, finally not hoping for "reward", nor accepting that Someone was there to hand any out, I have come to find this infinitely comforting. When I am ready for this, I become, again, the eternal and infinite. Oh.
Having experienced strange liminal events surrounding deaths, I suspect that there is more to what happens to us when we die. I refuse to define it. I do not know, cannot know, and am suspicious of those who claim they do. I like the philosophy of reincarnation, give me however many chances I need to get it together. I do not desire, but I am comforted simply ending as my life ends. I have love, I have life, how could I be greedy for an unknowable more, or different?
The reward for a life well lived is a well lived life. It's up to me to make it heaven.
If I am given more, I will accept it with grace, and gratitude.
Like that last bit of chocolate.
Saturday, October 15, 2005
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Ambulance (Photo- with text)
My dear, wonderful cousins, as I am taken off in the ambulance as a precaution. I knew someone had to have taken pictures, given the number of people at the party. I feel awful that they had such a scare, but at least it was just a scare. Happy Birthday, anyway, Ed. My apologies for belaboring the experience, but it really has been only three weeks now. And I am still amazed when I suddenly realize how beautiful breathing is.
I remember later part of what I heard in dribs as I came around. My dear D giving information to the EMTs, calm and clear and taking care of me. He was the one who unstuck the O2 mask from my lip. He gave my medical information. He sounded so normal, I forgot him. It was so expected, my memory glided over his quiet steadfast presence.
He feels guilty and weird for being so disengaged, and feeling so little at the time. I'm still trying to convince him this is the ideal reaction to a crisis, no panic. He has no more medical training than Army CPR from 15 years ago, but he did everything right.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Suicide
I can't think of a time in my life when I did not imagine killing myself. As a small child, growing up in a Catholic environment, this was the darkest sin. My small misery was such that I still imagined it, even as I felt deep guilt about it. My teenaged angst was variations on the theme of death and self destruction, even as I lived exactly as was expected- explicitly.
I read mysteries obsessively, both fiction and True Crime and came to the realization that a botched suicide was far worse than any circumstances that were the impetus for escape by that route. I also believe I extrapolated that murder was a more reasonable alternative. Why kill myself when I could kill my tormentor? I began to plot my father's murder. But, as anyone who reads mysteries knows, murderers always get caught. I could never come up with a plan that would not leave me in far more chaotic trouble than before. I also thought it through, to foster care or prison, or to adulthood and escape. Just as I could not figure out a sure way to kill myself, the failed attempt being more damnation than the completion. Outliving current troubles seemed the surest path, so I endured.
In my darkest hours, this is what really saved me, imagining who would have to find me. A child? Stumbling upon my bloodied body, perhaps after a day or so? No. I did not hate anyone enough to leave them to deal with my mess. I delayed the act until I could see it through, leaving as little collateral damage as possible.
I began to fantasize escape, a fantasy that lasted until my late 20s. I would drive off and begin a new life with a new name, lost to those who claimed to care. It became acute when I was training for the National Guard, and full time Army was a real option, and my "marriage" was disintegrating completely. It was also the closest I actually came to a realizable plan.
I was in Kansas, OJT for the Army, alone, fights over the phone becoming exceptionally toxic, and I wanted it all to end. My CO, seeing me at the breaking point, sent me to an Army shrink. I knew that confidentiality in the military isn't even a fiction, and "suicidal ideation" was grounds for commitment. I talked about stress to the doc, and silently formed a plan- which effectively calmed me down considerably. I was going to catch a cab, go to a town pawn shop and buy a gun "for self defense", and late at night on the weekend, go to mid-stairwell in the hospital and shoot myself in the heart. Rationalizing that medical people could most easily deal with a dead body, and it would even be near the morgue. I see some potential flaws now, but it wasn't too bad a plan, all in all.
It was payday, I was on my way to call the cab, I had cash in hand. The hall of the barracks was lined with the full time Army folks, celebrating with lots of beer, and extra beer. I tried to politely get by, but they were having none of it, I was cajoled into a beer and a chat. It was the first time in a while I felt included, felt like laughing. I could always go tomorrow, right? I wound up very drunk, and kissing a very nice guy in the wee hours, and generally enjoying myself. Hell, I figured, might as well wait it out a while longer. So, I did.
It would be a hellish year when I got back, but I would survive it. And escape, and find myself again at the behest of the US Army, in barracks. With yet another nice guy. Who would turn out to be wonderful. My only regret being that my time when I could have stopped trying to live anymore, was over, because he would be so hurt, and have to clean up after me. No. Damn.
The fantasies continued, never ever admitted to in any therapy that I would occasionally turn to when I was in a bad knot. Every night, every morning of nursing school, I imagined myself killing myself, a knife through the throat, IV K+ (painful, but fast and certain), not really wanting to end my life, but to not have to get up the next morning and struggle on and keep going. To sleep. And not to dream.
Suicide was the option in extremis, like putting down an animal. Not so constant a mindset by now, but solace if I were to outlive D for too long. I could sell off or give away everything, and finally lay my burden down.
Then I had this brush with mortality for real. In the following week, I had the chance to talk with a therapist through my new employer's EAP. He asked me at the end, somewhat apologetically, "I have to ask if you have any thoughts of harming yourself."
I laughed, genuine relieved heartfelt laughter, "No, not at all," and I was telling the whole truth. I could not harm myself, even in my dreams, anymore. I had not realized what a trap my "escape hatch" was (had become?) I know, for real, down to the basement, that I love life. No conditions, no matter what, I had finally committed to living.
I'm still having flashbacks. My work in surgery means I am there to assist with intubations and extubations, and that bothers me viscerally as it never did before. When an anesthetized patient gags on the tube, I gag and blink back tears. I am even more emotional than my usual easy-to-cry self.
I am also calmer, more forgiving, happy.
I've stopped killing myself. My death will come in it's own time, not to be feared. But, now is the time for life. While my candle holds out to burn, this humble sinner will live with a whole heart, grateful, troubled, whole.
I breathe.
I read mysteries obsessively, both fiction and True Crime and came to the realization that a botched suicide was far worse than any circumstances that were the impetus for escape by that route. I also believe I extrapolated that murder was a more reasonable alternative. Why kill myself when I could kill my tormentor? I began to plot my father's murder. But, as anyone who reads mysteries knows, murderers always get caught. I could never come up with a plan that would not leave me in far more chaotic trouble than before. I also thought it through, to foster care or prison, or to adulthood and escape. Just as I could not figure out a sure way to kill myself, the failed attempt being more damnation than the completion. Outliving current troubles seemed the surest path, so I endured.
In my darkest hours, this is what really saved me, imagining who would have to find me. A child? Stumbling upon my bloodied body, perhaps after a day or so? No. I did not hate anyone enough to leave them to deal with my mess. I delayed the act until I could see it through, leaving as little collateral damage as possible.
I began to fantasize escape, a fantasy that lasted until my late 20s. I would drive off and begin a new life with a new name, lost to those who claimed to care. It became acute when I was training for the National Guard, and full time Army was a real option, and my "marriage" was disintegrating completely. It was also the closest I actually came to a realizable plan.
I was in Kansas, OJT for the Army, alone, fights over the phone becoming exceptionally toxic, and I wanted it all to end. My CO, seeing me at the breaking point, sent me to an Army shrink. I knew that confidentiality in the military isn't even a fiction, and "suicidal ideation" was grounds for commitment. I talked about stress to the doc, and silently formed a plan- which effectively calmed me down considerably. I was going to catch a cab, go to a town pawn shop and buy a gun "for self defense", and late at night on the weekend, go to mid-stairwell in the hospital and shoot myself in the heart. Rationalizing that medical people could most easily deal with a dead body, and it would even be near the morgue. I see some potential flaws now, but it wasn't too bad a plan, all in all.
It was payday, I was on my way to call the cab, I had cash in hand. The hall of the barracks was lined with the full time Army folks, celebrating with lots of beer, and extra beer. I tried to politely get by, but they were having none of it, I was cajoled into a beer and a chat. It was the first time in a while I felt included, felt like laughing. I could always go tomorrow, right? I wound up very drunk, and kissing a very nice guy in the wee hours, and generally enjoying myself. Hell, I figured, might as well wait it out a while longer. So, I did.
It would be a hellish year when I got back, but I would survive it. And escape, and find myself again at the behest of the US Army, in barracks. With yet another nice guy. Who would turn out to be wonderful. My only regret being that my time when I could have stopped trying to live anymore, was over, because he would be so hurt, and have to clean up after me. No. Damn.
The fantasies continued, never ever admitted to in any therapy that I would occasionally turn to when I was in a bad knot. Every night, every morning of nursing school, I imagined myself killing myself, a knife through the throat, IV K+ (painful, but fast and certain), not really wanting to end my life, but to not have to get up the next morning and struggle on and keep going. To sleep. And not to dream.
Suicide was the option in extremis, like putting down an animal. Not so constant a mindset by now, but solace if I were to outlive D for too long. I could sell off or give away everything, and finally lay my burden down.
Then I had this brush with mortality for real. In the following week, I had the chance to talk with a therapist through my new employer's EAP. He asked me at the end, somewhat apologetically, "I have to ask if you have any thoughts of harming yourself."
I laughed, genuine relieved heartfelt laughter, "No, not at all," and I was telling the whole truth. I could not harm myself, even in my dreams, anymore. I had not realized what a trap my "escape hatch" was (had become?) I know, for real, down to the basement, that I love life. No conditions, no matter what, I had finally committed to living.
I'm still having flashbacks. My work in surgery means I am there to assist with intubations and extubations, and that bothers me viscerally as it never did before. When an anesthetized patient gags on the tube, I gag and blink back tears. I am even more emotional than my usual easy-to-cry self.
I am also calmer, more forgiving, happy.
I've stopped killing myself. My death will come in it's own time, not to be feared. But, now is the time for life. While my candle holds out to burn, this humble sinner will live with a whole heart, grateful, troubled, whole.
I breathe.
Sunday, October 09, 2005
Saturday, October 08, 2005
Crack
I was born between the generations. Not part of my parents' Depression fears, nor my older brothers '60's rebellion, I fell between the cracks of the Named generations. I was too young to remember the day Kennedy was shot, too old to have had computer access in my school. Too young for Howdy Doody, too old for Sesame Street, or even the Electric Company. I had leftovers, my brother's Tinker Toys and Lincoln Logs- or the remains of them.
I was not the object of hope, but the salvage from despair. All the anti-drug anti-sex messages were aimed at me, warning me of the excesses of my half generation older brothers. I had missed the boat, and I had escaped the worst of the dangers. I saw from the car window the scars from the Detroit riots of '67, boarded up storefronts, and the death of the older neighborhoods. I remember vaguely the gas wars, and the prices dropping to 30¢ a gallon. My oldest brother was in Thailand during the Vietnam War, it was simply the underlying horror of my early childhood.
What I came into consciously in the popular mind was the fear of nuclear war, and pollution infecting my world. I supped feminism as a right, an inevitability, to grow into as the society would. I assumed that all the old small minded men would die out, and the boys my age would assume the obvious- that women were due equal rights. Assumed to be a goody-goodie- I was not offered drugs in school. Shy and depressed, I was not offered sexual experimentation either.
I remember not being able to find clothes that were not hideous polyester knit, and skirts too short, and jeans not allowed. My mother bemoaned the difficulty of finding slips, and I longed to never wear a dress again. Popular music was a constant, consumed with no more thought than Wonder Bread or canned corn. I was given no choice, so I did not evaluate. Having no money myself, I was not invested in the material culture of my time.
When I went to college, a year after high school, I was 19. I caught up on the mass culture, but not just the current one. I had film classes, and the University Film Society and the Detroit Institute of Arts Film Theater, and the Punch & Judy, and dollar night at the Ren Cen, seeing everything foreign and domestic. I most enjoyed going folk dancing- never shared by my friends. I had friends ten years older, and two or three years younger- when the world seemed to have changed when I wasn't looking. I learned from them, but I was never a part of their soap operas of rotating roommates, loves and dramas, existential angst or nostalgia. I was quietly blundering along my own path, in my own timeline, hiding my experiences as unworthy and uninteresting, not part of the movement of the lives around me.
I am still hopelessly out of step with any group of folks around me. If I have a drummer it is Steward Copeland. I was on my spouse's friend's BBS before there was a www. I love music from all over the world, since before it was called World Music, and I sing Sacred Harp which is a very old form of folk music. Neither truly Buddhist nor ever evangelical, I do try to live in a christian manner and grow the serenity treasured in Eastern philosophies. I have this outlet for my writing that strains the definition of blog. I don't follow the rules unless I think there is a point to them. I don't dress like anyone I know, I never wanted a diamond ring, pregnancy or children, a house or a dog.
I do not do drugs, although I may well have tried marijuana on several occasions many years ago (May Have because I told the Army not ever, so well, can't admit anything, can I?) I am against the war going on, but I despair of making any difference in ending it- just as I despair of ending bigotry or sexism or Global Climatological Fuck Up (GCFU) or ugly fashion. All I can do is object and live my life consistent with my conviction. And with kindness toward all I can touch.
Because if WWI didn't end war, any more than WWII, and the activists of the 60's fell down on all their promises, how can I hope to Change the World?
Perhaps by putting just the right amount of pressure in the crack, in my own small way, in my own time, one soul alive to possibility can make a millimeter of difference. I figured out in second grade that I cannot shush the rest of the class when the teacher asks for quiet. I can, however, be silent myself. I can become myself, only that, and it is everything, in any generation, in any culture, in any world.
I was not the object of hope, but the salvage from despair. All the anti-drug anti-sex messages were aimed at me, warning me of the excesses of my half generation older brothers. I had missed the boat, and I had escaped the worst of the dangers. I saw from the car window the scars from the Detroit riots of '67, boarded up storefronts, and the death of the older neighborhoods. I remember vaguely the gas wars, and the prices dropping to 30¢ a gallon. My oldest brother was in Thailand during the Vietnam War, it was simply the underlying horror of my early childhood.
What I came into consciously in the popular mind was the fear of nuclear war, and pollution infecting my world. I supped feminism as a right, an inevitability, to grow into as the society would. I assumed that all the old small minded men would die out, and the boys my age would assume the obvious- that women were due equal rights. Assumed to be a goody-goodie- I was not offered drugs in school. Shy and depressed, I was not offered sexual experimentation either.
I remember not being able to find clothes that were not hideous polyester knit, and skirts too short, and jeans not allowed. My mother bemoaned the difficulty of finding slips, and I longed to never wear a dress again. Popular music was a constant, consumed with no more thought than Wonder Bread or canned corn. I was given no choice, so I did not evaluate. Having no money myself, I was not invested in the material culture of my time.
When I went to college, a year after high school, I was 19. I caught up on the mass culture, but not just the current one. I had film classes, and the University Film Society and the Detroit Institute of Arts Film Theater, and the Punch & Judy, and dollar night at the Ren Cen, seeing everything foreign and domestic. I most enjoyed going folk dancing- never shared by my friends. I had friends ten years older, and two or three years younger- when the world seemed to have changed when I wasn't looking. I learned from them, but I was never a part of their soap operas of rotating roommates, loves and dramas, existential angst or nostalgia. I was quietly blundering along my own path, in my own timeline, hiding my experiences as unworthy and uninteresting, not part of the movement of the lives around me.
I am still hopelessly out of step with any group of folks around me. If I have a drummer it is Steward Copeland. I was on my spouse's friend's BBS before there was a www. I love music from all over the world, since before it was called World Music, and I sing Sacred Harp which is a very old form of folk music. Neither truly Buddhist nor ever evangelical, I do try to live in a christian manner and grow the serenity treasured in Eastern philosophies. I have this outlet for my writing that strains the definition of blog. I don't follow the rules unless I think there is a point to them. I don't dress like anyone I know, I never wanted a diamond ring, pregnancy or children, a house or a dog.
I do not do drugs, although I may well have tried marijuana on several occasions many years ago (May Have because I told the Army not ever, so well, can't admit anything, can I?) I am against the war going on, but I despair of making any difference in ending it- just as I despair of ending bigotry or sexism or Global Climatological Fuck Up (GCFU) or ugly fashion. All I can do is object and live my life consistent with my conviction. And with kindness toward all I can touch.
Because if WWI didn't end war, any more than WWII, and the activists of the 60's fell down on all their promises, how can I hope to Change the World?
Perhaps by putting just the right amount of pressure in the crack, in my own small way, in my own time, one soul alive to possibility can make a millimeter of difference. I figured out in second grade that I cannot shush the rest of the class when the teacher asks for quiet. I can, however, be silent myself. I can become myself, only that, and it is everything, in any generation, in any culture, in any world.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Slide
I remember the day. We were going to a slide that was as tall as a building. I asked over and over again how tall it was, trying to get the size, the idea of it, into my mind, never quite did. Mom and aunts, cousins and brothers, two cars, a grand outing. But after much searching, it seemed the slide was gone, no evidence it had ever been there. Although I have seen such huge slides since, I have no idea what that one looked like. A family legend, a strange sort of mystery for me still.
So we stopped at a park to picnic. There were long teeter-totters, big enough for all the kids to get onto, which we did. As the smallest one there, I was sat in front, a brother holding me. This is all I remember, until I was surrounded by everyone staring down at me lying in the sand, and my head bursting. I could barely catch my breath as I sobbed uncontrollably. I heard "She's gonna have quite a goose-egg!" This confused me more in my agony. I tried to only whimper, because that hurt my head less. Ice was wrapped in a cloth and put on my head. I had no idea what had happened, sitting there in the sand.
All the older cousins, and my brothers were criticized for putting me on the overloaded see-saw. I heard the stories, they said I flew through the air. I was sad I couldn't remember this, as it sounded rather fun. But then they said I hit my head on the center bar, the fulcrum, a substantial metal pipe, which seemed to me improbable. I was jollied along, more talk of my having a goose egg, they calmed me somewhat, but the pain really was astonishing, worse than after having my tonsils out. I would find out what a goose-egg was, as the bump on my forehead swelled and turned colors. I felt I had ruined the day, and any chance for the elusive slide to be suddenly found.
I think about this now, and realize I had a concussion- by definition a hit on the head causing unconsciousness. I wonder about my migraines, which may well have started with this accident. I wonder who was there, and if anyone else remembers now- especially since I am not entirely clear which cousins. I wonder if taking me to a hospital was even considered, or if it would have made any difference if they had.
I was thinking about lying in the dirt and an ice cold cloth on my head- and finding it unbearable. This is one of those odd moments from my recent acute incident- I pushed away what felt like ice in a cloth on my head, explaining that wet was nice, but the ice was unbearable.
I have been having more flashbacks today.
So we stopped at a park to picnic. There were long teeter-totters, big enough for all the kids to get onto, which we did. As the smallest one there, I was sat in front, a brother holding me. This is all I remember, until I was surrounded by everyone staring down at me lying in the sand, and my head bursting. I could barely catch my breath as I sobbed uncontrollably. I heard "She's gonna have quite a goose-egg!" This confused me more in my agony. I tried to only whimper, because that hurt my head less. Ice was wrapped in a cloth and put on my head. I had no idea what had happened, sitting there in the sand.
All the older cousins, and my brothers were criticized for putting me on the overloaded see-saw. I heard the stories, they said I flew through the air. I was sad I couldn't remember this, as it sounded rather fun. But then they said I hit my head on the center bar, the fulcrum, a substantial metal pipe, which seemed to me improbable. I was jollied along, more talk of my having a goose egg, they calmed me somewhat, but the pain really was astonishing, worse than after having my tonsils out. I would find out what a goose-egg was, as the bump on my forehead swelled and turned colors. I felt I had ruined the day, and any chance for the elusive slide to be suddenly found.
I think about this now, and realize I had a concussion- by definition a hit on the head causing unconsciousness. I wonder about my migraines, which may well have started with this accident. I wonder who was there, and if anyone else remembers now- especially since I am not entirely clear which cousins. I wonder if taking me to a hospital was even considered, or if it would have made any difference if they had.
I was thinking about lying in the dirt and an ice cold cloth on my head- and finding it unbearable. This is one of those odd moments from my recent acute incident- I pushed away what felt like ice in a cloth on my head, explaining that wet was nice, but the ice was unbearable.
I have been having more flashbacks today.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Accident
I was in the back seat of the Studebaker with my brother Bill when the door popped open. I have an image of the road speeding by beneath me. He grabbed me in and slammed the door. This was before seatbelts were standard. I don't even remember locks on the door, but I was very small at the time. I always figured he'd saved my life.
My father had picked me up from ballet class. When he made a fast left turn, the woman in the other car may have sped through the red light. All I know is she slammed into the back door on my side. My father made me anxious driving before then. He was frantic. I simply wanted to go to the gas station to make a call to mom, but I was wearing leotard and tights, I was only eight, and he wouldn't listen to me. It would be many years until I could open my eyes when a car was approaching from the right. I had nightmares.
When I was ten, he was driving us out to the airport, I was flying out to Arizona to visit my brother Dave for the summer. There was a four way stop. Neither he nor the pick-up seemed to notice this. I wound up on a later flight, the car was totaled. More nightmares, more fears of cars coming from the right. More fear of his mindless driving, and my entrapment in childhood.
My mom had taken me to see a movie, it was raining, we were at a red light. A 15 year old in his mother's car skidded into us. No license, no permission, I was appalled and angry, being myself 14. Calmness prevailed with mom. That night I was having sharp spasming neck pain and was taken to the ER. Given a collar and told to use moist heat, my neck would never be quite the same. Different nightmares followed.
Living up in Kalkaska, rural, small town, at the edge of my pay, I was hit by a sheriff of a nearby town- he ran a red light when I was in the intersection. He was treated with great understanding by the Kalkaska sheriff. My inability to afford to fix the damage were answered with a referral to a local garage and a make-do repair suggestion. More nightmares, another version of a trap.
With the ex, who drove way too fast, never asked for directions, but was otherwise an able driver, a bad crash exploded in front of us. Semi clipped a young woman in a Honda, spun her around. We barely tapped her car in this chain reaction. I had just passed my Army CPR classes, and my terror was knowing I had to act. I ran toward her, and cried with relief that she was breathing. She had a head injury, was not wearing her seatbelt, was a nursing student. She joined my parade of nightmares in a year of very different fears.
I'd just been hired for my first full time RN position, we had been looking for a new car, as the Subaru was falling to bits. I took D to work since it was raining. Car ahead of me stops, I stop, fucking SUV behind us does not stop. Well, not like it was going to take much to total the poor old thing. Still. No one hurt, had to rush to get the already mostly chosen new car.
This week, after being on the wrong side of a resuscitation, I had to go for my first week's orientation to a new job. I had hoped to get some help from the Occupational Health nurse when I had my vaccination records done for my increasingly sore neck. Instead, I was given an Return to Work form that had to be filled out before I could start working. A long wait -in a walk-in clinic, since I hardly had time to find a PCP on my shiny new insurance. The Doc there who was helpful and gave me drugs, also filled out the form in a confusing manner. I was in no shape to properly check. Unhelpful, obstructive bureaucracy followed. I prefer to leave it at that. I sorted it out, after much walking, and talking.
Not breathing for a minute, and being beaten up to correct that, leaves me with much the same side effects as the car accidents. The terror and helplessness in the moment. Knowing who was really important. Fury over stupidity and panic. Abiding gratitude. Fearsome images that play over and over in my mind. A desire to change the systemic flaws that make error more probable. The exhaustion of damage in the gaps of life, stress-points and liminal darkness. Fear. Unexpected calmness, and detachment.
Pain in the neck.
My father had picked me up from ballet class. When he made a fast left turn, the woman in the other car may have sped through the red light. All I know is she slammed into the back door on my side. My father made me anxious driving before then. He was frantic. I simply wanted to go to the gas station to make a call to mom, but I was wearing leotard and tights, I was only eight, and he wouldn't listen to me. It would be many years until I could open my eyes when a car was approaching from the right. I had nightmares.
When I was ten, he was driving us out to the airport, I was flying out to Arizona to visit my brother Dave for the summer. There was a four way stop. Neither he nor the pick-up seemed to notice this. I wound up on a later flight, the car was totaled. More nightmares, more fears of cars coming from the right. More fear of his mindless driving, and my entrapment in childhood.
My mom had taken me to see a movie, it was raining, we were at a red light. A 15 year old in his mother's car skidded into us. No license, no permission, I was appalled and angry, being myself 14. Calmness prevailed with mom. That night I was having sharp spasming neck pain and was taken to the ER. Given a collar and told to use moist heat, my neck would never be quite the same. Different nightmares followed.
Living up in Kalkaska, rural, small town, at the edge of my pay, I was hit by a sheriff of a nearby town- he ran a red light when I was in the intersection. He was treated with great understanding by the Kalkaska sheriff. My inability to afford to fix the damage were answered with a referral to a local garage and a make-do repair suggestion. More nightmares, another version of a trap.
With the ex, who drove way too fast, never asked for directions, but was otherwise an able driver, a bad crash exploded in front of us. Semi clipped a young woman in a Honda, spun her around. We barely tapped her car in this chain reaction. I had just passed my Army CPR classes, and my terror was knowing I had to act. I ran toward her, and cried with relief that she was breathing. She had a head injury, was not wearing her seatbelt, was a nursing student. She joined my parade of nightmares in a year of very different fears.
I'd just been hired for my first full time RN position, we had been looking for a new car, as the Subaru was falling to bits. I took D to work since it was raining. Car ahead of me stops, I stop, fucking SUV behind us does not stop. Well, not like it was going to take much to total the poor old thing. Still. No one hurt, had to rush to get the already mostly chosen new car.
This week, after being on the wrong side of a resuscitation, I had to go for my first week's orientation to a new job. I had hoped to get some help from the Occupational Health nurse when I had my vaccination records done for my increasingly sore neck. Instead, I was given an Return to Work form that had to be filled out before I could start working. A long wait -in a walk-in clinic, since I hardly had time to find a PCP on my shiny new insurance. The Doc there who was helpful and gave me drugs, also filled out the form in a confusing manner. I was in no shape to properly check. Unhelpful, obstructive bureaucracy followed. I prefer to leave it at that. I sorted it out, after much walking, and talking.
Not breathing for a minute, and being beaten up to correct that, leaves me with much the same side effects as the car accidents. The terror and helplessness in the moment. Knowing who was really important. Fury over stupidity and panic. Abiding gratitude. Fearsome images that play over and over in my mind. A desire to change the systemic flaws that make error more probable. The exhaustion of damage in the gaps of life, stress-points and liminal darkness. Fear. Unexpected calmness, and detachment.
Pain in the neck.
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