Easing the Way

When Grief is passing by,

Don't hide.

(Don't make a frenzy, either.)

When Grief is passing by,

Don't shrink --

Reach far enough to meet Her.

When Grief is passing by,

Don't quake 

At every little word.

When Grief is passing by,

Be sure
Love's gesture can be heard.

When Grief is passing by,

Know that

Her ravaged heart is weak,

But knowing eyes and gentle smiles
From soul to soul can speak.

Branch, Bowed

There's a time to join the rain

in tears . . .

     for words hastily spoken,

     silence unbroken . . .

     for unseen pleas in another's eyes,

     blinding deafness to mute cries . . .

     for failing to ask or understand,

     sadly missed moments to lend a hand . . .

     for letting trust give way to doubt,

     poor judgment driving friendship out.

There's a time to join the rain

in tears.

Learning to Read

Through the strange gymnastics of life, by the propulsion of seemingly random somersaults and flips, I landed without fanfare -- nay, without any applause at all -- on a mountaintop in a rugged abode, feeling strongly that this sudden and unusual placement was nothing short of a great mistake.

Anyone looking at me, after all, could see the magnitude of the error.  If they couldn't, I worked hard to ensure that they did.  I polished and buffed the gleaming marble chip on my shoulder, that sure sign of privilege (whereby dirt is outlawed); that reliable reminder of old honors, craved approval, and now, odious misunderstanding.

"Thou, Turquoise, of all beings," discriminating eyes would question, "how comest thou to live amongst mice, moles, snakes, and -- bears?  Why didst thou leave the trusted conglomerations of dryer vents, those picturesque, tidy arrangements of homes and lawns exuding fabric softener, pesticides, and all the fragrant toxins that make life hospital-sweet?"

"Perhaps," I would stammer, "because they give me -- migraines?"

Not good enough. This was not poetic.  This was not even prose.  This was so far beyond the pale, it failed to qualify even as "nonfiction."  The crowds were displeased.  No awards would be forthcoming.  One vocal objector even went so far as to declare, "The old Turquoise has died."

Indeed.  ("Felled by detergents and deodorizers.") 

My objectors having lost all interest in me, my fading suburban self was left to ponder, dumbly, the clicking of crickets, the chanting of cicadas, the grazing of deer, the shadows of flying hawks, the lumbering of bears, and the silence of the trees.

Each new morning, I'd rub my head and wonder, anew, exactly how and why I'd arrived here (something about not having been able to breathe properly -- having had to run, literally, out of our more suburbanized house to gasp some inhalable air -- but why, why, why?).  I rubbed my head in perplexity each new morning for almost five years straight.  Until . . .

One tender Spring day, the sun beaming on my face (as it had so often done "in the old days") allowed me to remember how it used to be.  Suddenly, I was "back there."  Time stopped for me, and a few moments of Eternity seeped in:

I remembered frolicking in the woods as a child, hunting for new and uncharted paths, digging for colonial treasures, scavenging for Indian arrowheads, devouring the history of the Lenni Lenape in the public library, feeling at one with the sun and the earth and the trees  . . .  and never, ever feeling afraid.

So confident was I of God's love and the possibility of miracles, I once took my cat into the woods, perched the two of us on my favorite fallen tree, and tried to make her talk.  If God could make this breathtaking forest, this wondrous day shimmering in green and gold, surely He could make my cat talk.  The question was, would He?

In His Wisdom, God chose to let my cat remain silent that day.  In that correspondingly docile wisdom peculiar to children, I understood.  Perhaps I wasn't worthy of this favor, perhaps my cat had nothing to say.  Or perhaps God preferred to keep my golden tabby cloaked in feline mystery.  I would continue to love this furry creature and to wonder what she thought, and the world would continue to be a resplendent garden made for a child.

My adult self breathed deeply as Eternity faded into the present.  Blanketed in peace, I listened to the the birds, felt the warmth of the sun on my arms.

Once again, it was all so . . . good.

Like Helen Keller, who in a burst of inner light, suddenly realized that meaning was being conveyed to her, that there was a message in her hand to be deciphered, so did I begin to realize that God has a message for me -- right here.

Now, when I awaken to the splendor of that orange fireball rising over the hills, I no longer rub my head in confusion.  My mind, instead, rushes to grasp what God has written to me today, this very morning, on this blessed mountain -- with trees, hawks, bears, and sky.

Silent Ancestry

Elder trees,

      Ringed with years,

            Guardians of the green and brown,

                  of leaf and bark,

                        of tender grass nestled 'neath,                              

Grandparents of the wild.

Wings of Steel

Unfold and glide,

       Wings of steel,

              Mighty shields.

Protector shadow

       Soaring overhead,

              Graceful warrior of brush, bloom, and sky,

Brother Hawk.

Of Blogs and Eardrums

Perhaps I am ready to disclose the Web address of my blog to some actual persons.

I say "perhaps" because one can't be perfectly sure.

It's rather like the moment just before one executes a diligently practiced dive from the diving board.  I did one truly successful dive once -- straight down to the bottom of the pool.  I knew it because the pressure changed so fast, I heard and felt a loud, hard click in my ears, and I thought I'd ruptured my eardrums.  This, consequently, became my last "straight down" dive -- at around age 10.

Hopefully, sharing my blog address won't turn out to be anything like nearly rupturing my eardrums.

Under the Cloud: The Hidden Toll of Multiple Chemical Sensitivity (MCS)

An unspoken -- often unrecognized -- and painful aspect of MCS:

I've found that, within the 24-to-72-hour window after a significant chemical exposure, emotions can loom larger than usual.  The chemicals seem to act directly on the brain.

I had three back-to-back, strong chemical exposures last week, paving the way for an unexpected, unnecessarily heightened sensitivity to something a friend had said.

When I began to detoxify, the matter looked and felt so small and manageable, even negligible.  Before I'd begun to detoxify, however, I'd nearly wrecked a beautiful friendship by speaking my mind while "under the chemical cloud."

This pattern has occurred before.  I realize now that I must postpone airing my thoughts on "emotionally noteworthy" matters until I've at least begun to detoxify from a strong chemical exposure.  (At which point there may be nothing "emotionally noteworthy" to discuss.)

My friend responded forgivingly to my verbal mishap.  This really made me cry.  What a mess I'd made.  My lovely friendship now has a scar which needs to heal, caused by my speaking out in haste, and definitely at the worst time.

To all those equally ravaged by MCS:  Hang in there until the emotional "cloud" of the last chemical exposure passes.   And feel better -- soon.

Native Child

Graceful child of the wind,

What makes you dance?

Do you hear His heartbeat

In the breeze?

Gentle child of the rain,

What makes you laugh?

Do His sweet baby footsteps

Pitter-patter with each drop?

Joyful child of the sun,

What makes you smile?

Does the warmth of His Mother

Enfold you from the clouds?

Precious child of the snow,

How sparkling are your dreams!

Do the angels go "swish-swish" with you

When you make "wings" facing Heaven?

Loving child of my heart,

Sunflower bright,

Seedling bursting into life,

Song sung for the very first time . . . . . 

Like the wind, like the rain,

Like the sun, like the snow,

May you stir always to His rhythms,

His sparkle,

His Love.

By His Light

Words can be doors, opening into narrow minds.
 
Words can reveal a picture, a pattern, a meaning where none had been perceived.

Words can lift labels, revealing unique faces and minds instead of complacently assumed "types."

Words can free those imprisoned by secrets.

Words can uplift those cast down by shame.

Words can illuminate the hidden cross behind the outward defect.

Words can speak for the vulnerable and forgotten.

Words can bind the unseen wound.

Memory: The Essential Spark (Part 2)

Circling the Periphery

I revisit a key passage in my first installment of "Memory:  The Essential Spark": 

"One cannot dependably embark upon a new beginning, however, until he can harness his present reality -- however beautiful or ugly it may be -- to the visceral rhythms and textures of his past.  This fusion of present and past is the essential spark that will propel him forward with significance.  The present moment, alone, packs no such momentum." 

In this passage, did I mean to say that a traumatized person with amnesia must fill in his largest "blank spots" with memory before he can move on with his life?

Emphatically "No."  That would leave the amnesiac's life "on hold" indefinitely.

While the amnesiac's worthy goal would be to fill in his blank spots with substantial recall, this cannot necessarily occur "soon."  Nor is it always and everywhere possible.

The amnesiac can, however, work creatively with the "life material" he still has.  Songs, scents, and tastes, for example, are often noteworthy for "bringing us back" to given times in our lives.  These can be useful sensory aids to reaching our most uplifting memories that remain much closer to the surface.

By utilizing the memory he still possesses, the amnesiac can at least begin to circle the periphery of the forgotten parts of his life.  He can rekindle some of his old interests, his old hobbies.  He can begin to cultivate, anew, his old talents.  He can pick up the threads from his previous life by revisiting those positive avenues of pursuit that still remain viable.  He can begin to feel, through sensory and emotional "cues," his visceral memory of himself. 

All of this serves to link the amnesiac back to the familiar old "rhythms" and "textures" of his past.  There is an undeniable movement and power to this reconnection with the sense of self.  Synthesis with "the old self" has the domino effect of strengthening the entire person and setting him back on the path to real growth. This, in turn, exponentially increases his ability to recall the smaller, more routine elements of his past existence.  Recall becomes, now, a continual and expanding process, however mundane the details of recall may seem.  

In this way, the amnesiac is effectively placed "back in Time."  He is once again a player on the field of Life.

Simultaneously, the ground is also prepared for his potential recollection of bigger and more challenging "missing chapters."   

The Impending Purification

I envision, at some unnamed date in the future, a "detergent-and-fabric-softener, et al." environmental cleanup that would rival those mandated for asbestos and Chinese drywall.

When they realize the incredible particulate damage to human health wrought by the pungent, peppery, acerbic, neurotoxic synthetic fragrances that define most laundry, cleaning, hygiene, and deodorizing products in America, people will be rushing to throw out entire wardrobes, bed linens, curtains, carpets, and all upholstered items in their homes.  The invisible particulate of these neurotoxic fragrances clings, cloyingly, to all absorbent surfaces it touches.  Library books, milk and juice cartons, paper supplies, and plastic-wrapped foods are not spared.

Turquoise's Theorem

Every mind is a jewel, with a luster and resonance native to itself.

Memory: The Essential Spark (Part 1)

Continuity.  Without it, we're sunk.  With it, we thrive.

Continuity is based upon memory, history.

Traumatic ruptures in our lives lead to fractures of our personal narratives.  When our fractured life stories are missing whole chapters (either obscured or completely forgotten), we are captives of the present moment.  This chronological captivity, devoid of beloved keepsakes and other time markers, is like landing on foreign turf without a suitcase or a map.  We lack the customary tools of orientation and survival.

Thus resigned solely to the present moment without easy access (in words, memory, or both) to our past inspirations and motivations, we have little that is familiar to grab onto, and nothing to use as a steppingstone to the next chapter of our lives.

Even partial amnesia can lead us to "invent" new beginnings that are not rooted in our concrete personal histories, but which spring, instead, from misty visions of what we "think" we "should" do next.

One cannot dependably embark upon a new beginning, however, until he can harness his present reality -- however beautiful or ugly it may be -- to the visceral rhythms and textures of his past.  This fusion of present and past is the essential spark that will propel him forward with significance.  The present moment, alone, packs no such momentum.

We need the knowing, organic force of our own history behind us.  The more smooth and fluid the narrative, the fewer missing chapters there are, the stronger this root of future motivation will be.  Our personal history nurtures and animates who we are.

In the richness of our personal histories, in our memories, we are reminded most strongly of our "reason for being," of fresh wonder, curiosity, awe, of that which innately inspires and drives us.

We are creatures of Time, living in Time.  Because we cannot see one Eternal moment, we are dependent upon all the clues that memory can give us in order to anchor ourselves firmly in Today, with secure bridges between past and present that we can easily traverse.

Without the gift of memory and the history that memory builds, these critical bridges collapse and we fall into the void of timelessness.  We are not equipped for such a void.

We need the "tick tock" of a clock.  We need the rhythm of routine.  We need as many details as possible to remind us continually of who we are, why we want what we want, why we work, why we love, why we pray.

Let nothing and no one deprive us of our personal and collective histories.  History is the backbone of our lives.  In memory is our fuel and inspiration for the future.

Illumination

There is a moment of illumination, when God gives me a glimpse, just a small and fleeting hint, of Himself in another person.  A glimpse is all that a natural being steeped in a world of sin could tolerate, but this tiny glimpse is everything to a soul starving for Him.

It is not a "vision" in any sense of the word.  It is a blind feeling of something deeply familiar yet glorious.  This blind feeling, unseeing though it may be, transfigures for me even the physical appearance of the person.

Unvoiced

Traumatic amnesia has a discernible pulse, like the vibrations Beethoven relied upon during his encroaching deafness.

One can't hear the actual crack in Time that occurred at the moment of instantaneous re-indexing and "forgetting," but one can feel its stunning reverberations like the throbbing after a concussion.

One knows the amnesia is there, under the surface, silent but filled to the brim with old moments and old meanings, merging at times with the present, causing the thoughts to jam and the responses to slow . . . . because the internal intersections are so overloaded with thoughts which can be neither "seen" nor "heard."

Yet, these thoughts exert their effects.  They are not "dead."  They are not "gone." 

They live, and there is a sound that belongs only to them.

Shopping Right

I set down my green basket with the thin steel handles on the floor, parking myself in a non-express line on the far left of the supermarket.  Two customers before me had rolling carts filled to the brim.  The young woman with a cart behind me laughed, asking if I wouldn't do better on the express line.  The express lines were long and snakelike, now winding around the magazine racks.  The narrow air pockets between express customers pulsed with tension.

Feeling natural for the first time in 30 years, I took a deep breath and let the truth roll out.  "I was listening to the John Tesh radio show, and he said not to look at carts but at how many people are on the line -- checkout times and so on."

The young woman got it, still laughing.

The older woman in front of me smiled, too.  I was happy.   This was a good place to be. 

Twenty minutes later, I was still standing in the same spot due to an unforeseen coupon problem of the lady before me.  My neighbor behind me made conversation with her cellphone.  My neighbor in front of me tossed an extra smile or two over her shoulder.  The cashier, despite having to call out “Key!  Key!”  at least four times, was a calm, competent girl.  Moreover, she looked like my niece.

“Well, Mr. Tesh,” I thought to myself, “time isn't everything.” 

Who could wish for more?