Remember When?

April 9, 2012 By

Family Reunion, 2006: Me, Cousin John, Cousin Tom, Brother Zed, Brother Reid and Cousin Jane.

While doing some ironing the other day, I listened in on the program Here And Now on my local NPR station.  While I steamed away wrinkles from my favorite linen shirt, I listened as Robin Young, the host of the show, interviewed Jonah Lehrer, author of Imagine How Creativity Works and How We Decide.  In a recent article in Wired Magazine, he discusses memory, trauma and the making of a pill that will take away painful remembrances. Fussing away over the fact that my shirt seems to have a huge memory bank for wrinkles that are always in the same old places, I got caught up in the interview and the idea of a pill that is being developed so that those suffering from the likes of PTSD can be relieved of their suffering.

The reason for my interest is that I am at work on a memoir and have been diagnosed with PTSD.  Though I am living a rich and wonderful life after years of therapy and plain old hard inner work, I am still in the process of healing my old wounds. Even now, decades after any trauma, a threatening authority figure or someone using a particular tone of voice or word can easily throw me back into my old ways of reacting. I still suffer from occasional panic attacks. And the anxiety I’ve lived with all of these years can still haunt me.

How does memory work? Does time play a role in how we remember things? What would happen if I chose to take a pill that would wipe away the pain of difficult times? Would I also forget all of the good times? Would I be the same person I am today if I hadn’t been given the opportunity to work through my difficulties and instead been given a pill to erase the misery?

In his article, Lehrer addresses those questions and more, discussing the pros and cons of such an approach to treating illnesses often brought on by trauma, such as chronic pain, drug addiction, obsessive-compulsive disorder and of course, PTSD.  He explains how memories are stored in the brain and that the latest science shows that memories change every time we recall them. Lehrer goes on to suggest, “Every memoir should be classified as fiction.” Though that statement alone is something memoir writers like myself might seriously consider arguing about, my own interest was piqued by the possibility that in the future, one might take a pill to forget the pain we bring through life with us.

Though revisiting the traumatic events of my life has been extremely painful, I believe that I am a wiser person for it. After years of talk therapy, medication from time to time, and now writing my story, I’m healing and discovering the treasures of my life. Facing my own challenges head on has changed the way I see and think about the world. I know more about how my mind works and what I need to do when I feel like I’m about to have a meltdown or a panic attack.  Remembering has opened me up to appreciate the beauty that surrounds me; that without the dark periods I would not know the happy, sunlit times.

Without my need to understand who I am and to live my life fully and openly, I would not know what love and compassion are. I now better understand who my parents were. Why my mother may have come to be an alcoholic and how my father struggled through his life after his wartime experiences.  And though genetics may play a role in some or all emotional disorders, everyday experiences stand out as being number one when it comes to trauma.

In the end each of us has our own way of working through our lives. Perhaps for my father, who lived the untold horrors of war on a regular basis, would have benefited from such a pill.  Perhaps my mother would not have been an alcoholic. And maybe those who have lived through one of nature’s tragic catastrophes like last year’s earthquake and tsunami in Japan would be helped to find a peaceful way to exist after such a horrific experience.

There is also the question of what would happen if the pill that helps us forget gets into the wrong hands.  Is this one more step along the highway to Big Brotherhood?

None of us knows the answer to life’s toughest questions.  And when we do have answers they only work for some of us.  I am grateful that I have learned to deal with my own struggles and need not ask myself what it is I need or would like to forget.

How about you … would you take a pill to forget?

Filed Under: Addiction, Life, Memoir, Mental Health, Navigating Through Life, Writing Tagged With: , , , ,

What I Have To Say

April 1, 2012 By

The floodgates are straining. They cannot be opened up just a little.  I don’t have the strength to hold them so that only some of the run-off leaks out.  It’s all or nothing. By letting the stream overflow on it’s own, I risk being swept away by the torrent when the gates can longer resist the building pressure of words on the other side. Just a few weeks ago there was a void so deep that I was sure it would never fill again.  Such is the writing life and to be expected, I suppose.

For me it seems to be about satisfaction with life in general.  When the river dried up about a month ago I allowed myself to do other things.  I played, pottered about the house, straightening, neatening, and allowing myself to be at peace with the drought of words. I had time each day to notice the moon and stars as evening slowly overtook my world.  I sat and marveled at the early swelling of flower buds, the unfurling of leaves and a robin chasing his image reflected in the side view mirror of a neighbor’s car.  He was  intent on capturing the heart of the lady robin who appeared to be flirting with him. She disappeared each time he would try reaching out to her. I could feel his frustration growing. Can the desire for a mate and the desire to write be the same?  If it has to do with love, it must be so.

Instead of playing with words, I’ve been planting seedlings in the garden.  A few days ago I planted over three dozen plants: Christmas ferns, bleeding heart, tiny shooting stars, native columbine and Alleghany spurge. They are happily growing in the corner of the yard under blooming dogwoods and forest green hemlocks. Now that corner is aglow with new life, Mr. Robin appears to have found a real Mrs. and they are carrying dried grasses and leaves to a newfound nesting spot.  I’m at my desk writing words.

I’ve come to believe that the muse will never abandon me. We need a break from each other every now and then, like two lovers who go off to travel separate corners of the world.  They return vowing never to leave each other again.  They will of course separate again, but only for a time, because as the old saying goes: “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

I wrote the following poem back in 1991 when I was struggling with words and life in general.  Writing it helped me release the pressure building inside my head and my heart.

Words

Push
Through
Spreading
Fissures
I force
Them back
Repress
Meaning
Sounds
Dismiss them
As inadequate
Already said
Yet they must
Begin somewhere
As if there is
A place to start
Here on this line
Reaching those
Who would hear
What I have to say

A few of the plants I put in.

Filed Under: Gratefulness, love, Poetry, The Garden, The Seasons, Writing Tagged With:

Seeking Balance

March 17, 2012 By

My growing garden.

 I was feeling blocked, unable to unplug the movie I’d been screening in my head.  Writing a memoir is difficult work, especially since I’ve spent most of my time for the last month reliving parts of my life that were less than pleasant.  I needed a break from the past.

This week, the days were in the mid-seventies and eighties, sunny with a few clouds, but only a drop of much-needed rain. It was almost perfect gardening weather. I did a tad of pruning and pulled weeds. I bought four gorgeous hellebores in full bloom and this morning tucked them in the ground on what was once a bank of nothing but Ivy.

In Charlottesville, as in most regions of the state, there is more Ivy than any other kind of plant. It can easily overtake a stonewall and bring it crashing down. It can kill trees, shrubs and any plant that decides to take it on.  Last fall I hired a man to pull up all the Ivy on that bank and we built a small patio on top of the rise. This spring my project is to fill the empty garden space with shade loving plants. Hellebores that often bloom in late January, ferns, and hostas are the most likely candidates. But there are many others that will not be overlooked. Since doing my daily memoir writing was not happening anyway, I figured it was a good time to start.

The garden is a perfect place to come to terms with what’s bothering me. Among the plants and the promises of spring I can do some inner weeding.  When I spend time outside with plants, allowing my hands to dig in the soil, my mind and heart opens, awakening to earth messages and spirits sent at this time of year to heal the land and its creatures after a long, dark winter.

Here in Virginia, the winter has been a warm one. The two snowfalls we’ve had are the joke of the season. Now the land is alive with trees and shrubs that usually begin blooming in mid-April. Today we had our lawn mowed. It no longer looks like a typical hayfield in late July. I’m anxious to go off to the nurseries and find more plants for my garden.  Spring officially arrives early Tuesday morning and I’m ready to dance into the new season.

My hands and fingers are happy that I’ve dipped them in the warming soil. But now they again itch for the keyboard. My heart and mind are clear, ready to process the next part of my story. I will gently place the words on the blank screen that awaits them, and this time I will try to be continually mindful of the state of my emotions so that the wall that I ran into a few weeks ago doesn’t stop me from moving forward.

For me, balance is the key.  I am not like the tightrope walker who gracefully dances her way along the wire while balancing her umbrella on the tip of a finger.  I need stops along the way where I can take the time to recompose myself.  The garden is one of those places.

Hellebores planted today.

Filed Under: Gratefulness, Life, Matters of the Spirit, Memoir, Navigating Through Life, stories, The Garden, The Seasons, Writing Tagged With: ,

Taking A Time Out

March 12, 2012 By

Weeping Cherry

I love the quote that Tiferet Journal posted on Facebook today:

“Stop the words now.
Open the window in the center of your chest & let the spirits fly in & out. “

I’m taking this to heart.  I’ve hit a wall in my writing and it’s time for me to take a little break from being so OCD about it.  This week and maybe even next week, I’m taking a break.  The weather here is supposed to be spectacular with temps in the mid-seventies. Sounds like gardening weather to me.  Everything that usually blooms much later in the spring is blooming here now, including magnolia, forsythia, daffodils, crocus, snow drops, cherry trees and pears.  I’m going to clean up what the winter rendered dead, prune and reshape straggling shrubs, get my hands dirty and play with my plants.

I also plan on making art.  The encaustics have been calling my name for several weeks now and I’ve been ignoring them, believing that writing was all I could handle. Not true!  Without some balance in my life, everything comes to a screeching halt.

And finally, being the introvert that I am, I realize I shut myself off in my studio way too much.  Tomorrow I’m having lunch with a friend.  Not only are the windows in my house open letting the promise of spring spirits fly through.  I’m opening the big window in my heart and coming alive.

Filed Under: Encaustics, Healthy Living, Life, Matters of the Spirit, The Garden, Writing Tagged With:

Books

February 23, 2012 By

There is no friend as loyal as a book.
Ernest Hemingway

I love books.  You might say I’m addicted to them.  I have a long list of books at Amazon ready to be purchased.  Right now they are mostly memoirs and books on writing.  I try to order only three or four at a time, but that’s very difficult for me.  They are as tempting as my favorite locally made chocolates or a quart of freshly picked, June strawberries from the farm down the road.  I often tell myself, “I’ll never have enough.” or “I’ll buy it now, because I REALLY NEED it. ”

I also tell myself that my addiction is harmless because books aren’t narcotics or contain alcohol. I’m not into buying diamonds, furs, or private jets.  I don’t need those things and I don’t have that kind of money.  If I did, I’d probably spend it all on books, with a healthy dose of traveling and clothes thrown in.

I’ve been told by those who frequent AA meetings that thoughts like that are called, “Stinking Thinking.” Well, I’m guilty.  And though I’ve known that I’m a bookaholic and do a lot of stinking thinking for a long time, I am in the middle of confirming it as official. We moved to this house almost two years ago.  In the frenzy of the move, my husband and I got rid of a lot of books.  I can’t speak for him, but for me it was difficult.  I chose books that I remembered as not being engaging … that no longer drew me and/or that obviously for one reason or another,  I never should have bought in the first place.  After the move and unbeknownst to me, Bill asked a friend who was helping us to unload all of the boxes of books onto our bookshelves.

I discovered a problem a month or two later when I was looking for one in particular, a favorite poetry book.  All of my books had been unpacked and in some cases packed in such a way that they were all mixed up and out-of-order. You might think I’m a bit anal, but I’ve always grouped genres of books together.  Poetry, Gardening, Nature, Novels, Memoirs, etc.  The only ones I keep in alphabetical order are the poets. There are too many to do otherwise.

So, as wonderful as it seemed to have all of my books unpacked for me, it was a nightmare. I had my work cut out for me.  Just after Christmas, Bill and I decided to finally get our downstairs “Tornado” room put together and unpacked.  It’s underground, where all of the bookcases are located, along with a TV, puzzles, games and a fireplace.  It’s cozy.  Warm in the winter, and cool in the summer.   A perfect place to ride out any storm.

It’s where one night last summer, while Bill was having a meeting of associates, we made everyone go when a tornado warning came across on our emergency weather radio, telling us to take shelter immediately.  We flew to the basement, glasses of wine and crackers and cheese in hand. We sat amongst unpacked boxes and moving rubble for about thirty minutes waiting for the tornado to hit or move on.  One friend laughingly realized she was a “Tornado Virgin,” never having gone through a warning before.   Thankfully, the tornado passed us by and we were safe. No damage had been done, except for the embarrassment of having everyone see the mess and the boxes still needing to be unpacked.  We swore we’d get the room organized.  Reshelving the books was mostly my job since most of them are mine.

Since Christmas I’ve been working a little bit at a time to get my precious tomes in order.  First, I did poetry.  Then came gardening, cooking, and books on using herbs as medicine.  I’m now at work on my books on religion and spirituality, which are many.  I know I could get it all done in one day, but I’m enjoying the slow pace.  Books feel good in my hands.  They smell um, booky. They are filled with wisdom and some actually seem to glow.  No, not like a kindle. Like a real book that’s offering itself to me.

I have discovered that I have many books that I bought and have never read.  As I place each one onto it’s new shelf, I flip through a few pages and immediatley want to sit down and read it from the beginning. There are others I consider to be “old friends” that I’d like to read again or that I simply could never part with.  I started out making a pile of books that I wanted to read for the first time.  I gave up.  There are too many.  And there are three more on their way through the postal system that will be added to the stack by my bedside.

I’m trying to be honest with myself.  I am an addict.  I need to get my problem under control.  Someone suggested that I start going to the library instead of buying books.  That’s all well and good for some, but I like to write comments in books and I’m afraid that wouldn’t do if it belonged to the library.  Maybe I just need to read faster.  Maybe if I stay up later than I normally do and get up earlier I can get them all read.

And just maybe I shouldn’t buy any more until I’ve read the ones I’ve already got … Ah yes, books.  They’re a problem.

Filed Under: Addiction, Books, Life, Memoir, Poetry, stories, wonderings, Writing
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