The Disrobing of Pretense

I must quit

this school of sham,

this lofty institute
of enlightened professors

who walk into walls,

of spectacled scholars

who quote empty texts,

of illumined souls

who drop salt into wounds,

of brilliant minds
that refuse to ask questions.
I must quit
these dried-up reservoirs

of stale sentiment

who pride themselves on “love” . . .

a sickly, insipid love

as expansive as

a shallow grave,

a love which does not care to know

the other,
a love shrunken by mediocrity,
fed by complacency,
propped blithely on the bed of its own merits --
a love which simply
cannot be.

The Softness of Stones

Crouched before a tombstone,

she bent her head

and wept into the sweet green blades of grass,

because the dead suddenly seemed

more real to her

than the living.

Decades past,
indifference had mocked

her terror,

plucked out of her grasping fingers

those tenuous ties to family,

casting precious memories to the wind

like so many dead petals.

Family

never noticed.

But a green, tufted knoll cradled in birdsong and epitaphs,

tender confidante amongst the aged stones,

softly received her

first tears.

Eye to Eye

While grey fluffs of feathers trilled like finely tuned piccolos

and fire-red altos warbled, flutelike, from the treetops,

Myself spied, across the trees and brush,

Himself.

As our eyes met (click!),

he lowered his head

and turned away,

instantly deferential . . .

the gentleman.

I wondered if he'd really go.

When I proceeded on my way,

he turned back.

"Ah!"  I thought.

"He never meant to leave."

Calculating, observant

was he.

Poised tall on some old wood now,

he watched me walk.

"Thank you, kind sir,"

thought I,

forgetting, for a split second,

who he was,

thinking dimly, faintly, that I must cross before him.

I did recall, however,

that the door to the house

was locked

and I -- keyless.

It was then that my mind was jarred awake

to the reality of this other.

Yet his cloak

(peculiar!)

had faded to light brown

on one side . . . . .

Evidence of a lost battle?

Perhaps not.

Perhaps simply a worn coat

received in just that condition.

A stealthy beggar was he,

this silent figure in black.

So patient was he,

so patient,

still waiting . . .

while I pondered and walked

this way, then that,

wondering when to cross,

and how, precisely,

to get inside.

In a flash,

legs flew 

(mine)

with invisible

wings.

He was behind me, somewhere,

and I could no longer see him

watching me.

Hands pounded

(mine)

on the door fiercely, desperately,

while lungs roared

(also mine)

as if to save my life.

But only "as if."

Pretending, was I,

(heart pounding nearly

out of my chest).

Pretending, was I . . .

only because

it "could have come to that."

But, of course, I will never know.

Only Himself knows --

Himself,

who heard others open the door for me

and who, undaunted,

lingered at length,

sniffing, double-checking,

before lumbering slowly
on all four feet

downhill.

Heartache vs. Trauma

Some thoughts jotted down to myself a few months ago . . . copied and pasted here with some small additions:

There is a marked difference between what I'll call "heartache" (e.g., long-lasting or recurring sorrow over loss or emotional deprivation) and "trauma."

Heartache can involve sorrow, grief, and all the colors of emotion that raw pain and angst can produce.  Heartache can be intense, persistent, excruciating, depleting . . . but heartache remains "linear," "predictable."  Heartache does not intrinsically bring about a loss of control of one's environment or a direct impact on self-management. 

Trauma, however, involves a "three-dimensional" shock to the entire person.  Whether it is sudden or prolonged, it remains a jarring factor, an intrusion into normality, a severe interruption that shatters one's internal clock and has the capacity to alter everything -- including one's memory, sense of self, metabolism, and neurology.  Trauma, unlike heartache, shakes and rattles everything in its path.  It is the polar opposite of "predictable."  It robs the individual of the dignity of any regular rhythm and sense of control of his environment. 

With heartache, one still retains the capacity to manage one's environment and one's self in a reasonable, predictable manner.  One's basic sense of self remains essentially unchanged.

With trauma, everything of that nature is up for grabs.  One cannot guarantee, for oneself, control of anything.  That certainty, that reliance on predictability, is simply gone.  One's basic sense of self can be profoundly altered. 

Trauma can be accompanied by heartache.  Heartache can be accompanied by trauma.  But the two have different qualities and repercussions.

Apples and oranges can be placed into the same fruit basket, and often are.  But they remain two different fruits.

It is extremely important, therefore, when discussing painful issues with another, to clarify this very crucial difference between the essential quality and repercussions of "grief, loss, and deprivation" -- and the essential quality and repercussions of "trauma."

Why?  Because, for example, one person who has suffered pain and loss but no trauma might be involved in a discussion with another person who has, in fact, been traumatized.  This first person must be made aware that trauma is yet a different animal which must be understood on its own terms.

Because trauma assaults the very self at its core, it has the power to "fog up" the traumatized person's internal approach to daily challenges -- challenges otherwise thought to be "simple" or a "mere matter of employing the will" by the non-traumatized population.  It is the "daily employment of the will," precisely, which has been severely intruded upon -- first by trauma and, later, by its burdensome aftereffects. 

Trauma, therefore, can leave many unjust humiliations and perceived incompetencies in its wake.  The traumatized person may have lost various aspects of memory and, along with those lost aspects of memory, certain life skills or cognitive/emotional processing skills.  Or perhaps these skills were in the process of developing and were then rudely "interrupted" by the trauma.  With even small bits of memory retrieval or reorienting, some or all of these things can come back, rebound, begin again. 

To discuss which thing (e.g., heartache vs. trauma) causes qualitatively "more suffering" and "less suffering" would, of course, be exceedingly ugly and uncharitable.  Suffering cannot be weighed or measured.  Each person's suffering -- whatever it happens to be -- is as much as that person can handle, and that is enough for a listener to know.  Pain is pain.  All pain is worthy of respect, attention, and compassion.

However, if one is attending to heartache in another, one does well to clarify that point to oneself before speaking, so that one speaks appropriately to the true source of difficulty.

Likewise, if one is attending to the repercussions of trauma in another, one had best know that.  The special needs brought about by trauma are simply different and, to many people, quite unexpected.  The angle of approach had better be different if one is to speak intelligently to a victim of trauma.

If an individual person has experienced both heartache and trauma, he obviously cannot be divided into two separate entities.  Still, the distinction applies as much as ever when the two different sources of pain and difficulty exist within the same person.  Each source of distress must be heard and appreciated for what it is.  This may require extra questions and clarifications on the part of the listener. 

It's just so important for one to ask as many questions as necessary of another before blindly assuming, "Ah, I know exactly what you're talking about."

It's supremely important to be perfectly sure that one really does. 

Stepping Out

Emotional recovery, it seems, is often launched when one cares enough to ask what happened to other people.

Feet vs. Wings

While Intellect, that earthbound tool,

can run a mean race with its capable clay feet,

Wisdom -- restrained by humility and even by earthly failure -- 

can soar.

Dull-Witted but Wise

Untethered from the heart,

high intelligence can become a reckless rider,

brainwashed by Pride to goad fiercely,

leaping blindly over the bounds of Charity,

risking a splintering crash.

But a heart burning with love,
though its owner be slow of mind,

can become a St. Joseph of Cupertino --

plodding and clumsy in the world's eyes,

but elevated, literally, in God's.

After

In the aftermath

there are days like this,

when the rain drips with indifference,

when the sky numbs with gray,

when abandonment

saturates the marrow of the bones,

and the soul bleeds.