A fascinating and beautiful read! We hear and read a lot about PTSD and what that looks like in individuals, victims of abuse, trauma, war. We’re learning more and more about how trauma impacts the individual and what the paths for healing can be. Yet, this is the first book I have read that untangles how trauma impacts across the generations. This book is a deeply shared and touching examination of the story of the author’s mother and the far reaching tentacles of her mother’s adverse childhood experiences (known as ACE). The separation of her mother from her own mother during the time of WW 2 in Europe all set the stage for the author’s exploration into what happens when trauma is inherited and how the maternal past and present is affected. The forward of the book states, “It represents a living autopsy of sorts, a dissection of the seen and unseen, of what lies beneath.” It is a touching “imagined history of maternal memoir” as well as an educational primer written by someone who has a grasp of the psychological wounds of early childhood trauma, its scars, and of healing.
It’s hard to believe it’s coming up on the end of September and before long 2020 will be over. It’s been a long year. A long drawn out year. With the pandemic, the political climate, and now the death of Ruth Bader Ginsburg it just feels like too much to take it, to deal with, to continue to live with. I’m tired.
My journals have filled up quickly this year. Here’s the stack of them and I’m almost through volume #7. I’m finding that I need the blank page more often these days. Somedays I only write a line or two. Then there are days like earlier this week when I wrote almost 20 pages. My pen would not stop. Ever had a day like that? Where you are just the scribe and you are not even sure what you are writing?
I often get hung up on expecting that what gets on the page will all have deep meaning, be profound, or answer the most elusive question I have. Ha! Give that one up!
Here’s the thing. Just write. Take a few notes on something that spoke to you. Take a picture of the birds on your patio or a fresh flower that just bloomed. Write a short prayer or poem. Respond to the tree in your yard.
Life will still be going on. All the muck and muddiness of the year isn’t going to go away overnight. Just record something on the page of your journal and things will lighten a bit. Then, do it again tomorrow. I’ll be on the page with you. #readingandwritingalife #journaling #journals #writing
Wishing you well!
The page is a safe place to take off these masks, to be naked, bare faced, bare voiced.Fruitflesh: Seeds of Inspiration for Women Who Write
So, I picked up my book, Fruitflesh: Seeds of Inspiration for Women Who Write that was sitting here on the couch. I opened it to a random page. “Masks” is the seed I opened to. Wow! talk about weird.
I think about masks, we all do today. This piece of cloth that we now pick up on the way out the door the way we do our car keys – don’t leave home without it! We are, hopefully, getting use to putting it on the way we do a seat belt. It is for protection. It is for safety.
Putting on the mask reveals a lot of who we are. Whereas, in the past, we often thought of taking it off as that which revealed the true us. There is a lot to ponder here. How do you see your masks? What do they say about you? To you? Find a safe place/page to take yours off. Pick up a pen or put your fingers on the keyboard. See what shows up.
*thank you to my friend Viktoria http://www.facebook.com/viktoria.valenzuela for my beautiful mask! She is amazing!
Dancing in the Narrows: A Mother-Daughter Odyssey Through Chronic Illness by Anna Penenberg
Reviewed in the United States on July 7, 2020
I loved this book. A single mother and teenage daughter are thrown into a journey for health and healing that they had no idea how they would navigate but they did! I imagined how I would have been had one of my daughters been struck with an illness that defied diagnosis. I found myself on each page with them, riding years of questions, partial answers, wrong information and desperate quests. I cheered them on as they took road trips to find the right doctors or alternative health care providers. I cried with them when they hit another dead end. I prayed for Dana to heal and rejoiced when she was on the way to recovery. And, I cheered for Anna when she embraced her own life again. It is a story of not just a physical healing but of life transformation for Dana and Anna both.
I did not know much if anything about Lyme disease. I knew it came from a tick bite and what the bite might look like. I knew there was a treatment of some sort for it. This book is also informative and educational about this disease. And, around the growing and exciting fields of holistic healing and alternative medicine. A valuable read.
I love this quote from the poet Hafiz. Sometimes I don’t like the place where the circle is. Sometimes I love the place where the circle is. Sometimes the place is soft and cushy. Sometimes it is sharp and prickly. Sometimes it is light and joy filled. Sometimes it is dark and depressive. Yet, it is always a place of a lesson.
What lessons have place taught you?
A writer is who I am, not what I do. Writing is a part of my being.
Larraine Herring, in her book, Writing Begins with the Breath says writing helps us be our authentic self.
I miss the page when I do not come to it. I find myself adrift in a sea of letters that form no words, that are a pile of pick up sticks or a box of legos with no organization or sense of style or design.
To write requires calming the spinning spirals in my brain and then stringing them out into coherent sentences and meaning.
My friend, the San Antonio artist, writer, and preacher, Enedina Vasquez, had a group of us do an exercise where we wrote a poem/prayer on a long strand of ribbon. The ribbon I wrote on is pink, for my granddaughter, Clara. It was, if I remember right not long after she was born. I have always kept the ribbon rolled up in a tight ball, placed in a small box. A few days ago I cleared some of the clutter off my bookcase altar. I unwound the ribbon and reread what I had written. To write the poem/prayer was more than an assignment; it was/is who I am.
The ribbon is now in a larger container, a round bowl. It lays there in spaghetti like swirls, almost alive looking, breathing in the spaces between the pink swirls of pink.
I see the energy of the writing I put on it six or so years ago. I walk by the bowl and find myself wanting to fluff the strands or better yet, finding the beginning and running my fingers over the words, reading them silently or outloud, owning and embracing my writer self. Regular and intimately, one more time, I reweave the early days of being Granny to Clara, the way my Granny (Clara) was to me.
The ribbon poem/prayer lays in the bowl, waits for me, and breathes.
The ribbon in my life…the women…Granny, Minnie, Mother…Women unnamed before them…sisters, daughters, girlfriends…and now…Miss C…How can one little girl tie all the women together?
Be the tiny stacking doll that joins us all? Becoming a grandmother… having a granddaughter…”Let’s go meet your granddaughter” he (my son-i-law) said.
I held her. I already knew her.
The ribbon joined end to end. Connections run deep.
My 3 sisters and I are having a great time reading the book, Joyful: The Surprising Power of Ordinary Things to Create Extraordinary Happiness by Ingrid Fetell Lee. The cool thing is that because we live in different places (well, two of us live in San Antonio) we are doing this with a Google Hangout meeting once a week, we have a designated Google document set up to drop in resources and we post on our private WordPress blog. Wow! Technology for creativity and connection! I’m loving it!
Check out Ingrid’s webpage:
and here’s a little happy face with a quote from the chapter on Play.
Happy Reading and Writing a Life
It’s April. April is National Poetry Month and that has me to thinking about poetry and poetry books I’ve been given as gifts and what a gift poetry is. I believe that a book of poetry is always an appropriate gift, to be opened and re-opened over time and situation, something new being revealed or perhaps there is comfort in the familiar cadence the words evoke, a comfort forgotten.
Often I forget how much I love poetry and that comfort, the astonishment, and, yes, even the questions it elicits from deep recesses of the mind and heart. There is something in the rhythmic flow of poetry that settles a runaway mind or brings a smile to the lips. Or, a tear to the eye.
Read poetry this month, give a poem or a book of poetry as a gift. Read it out loud to yourself, to a child, or to a friend. Listen to someone recite their poetry, or read a long loved verse from Rumi or Mary Oliver (or your favorite poet). Discover a new poet and get to know them. It is always a good thing!
While reading Mary Oliver I often tend to go into “pondering” mode. So many of her lines, so rich and juicy, jump out and suspend my pen above the page.
“I Happened to be Standing” is a poem that took me to that place.
Pen in the air, what is it that pulls my pen to the blank page? What is it that pulls it down to record my grocery list or sketch out random thoughts, catch them in midair and watch them appear like magic on the page?
Pen in the air, diving onto the page, coming up from inside the fibers of the page, or maybe from the fibers of memory, thoughts, questions, or the grocery list that become one with the pen and paper.
“I am the pen writing the page” is a line I recorded in an earlier journal. Here, in this place, there is no division between me and the pen, the pen just an extension of my fingers, blood to ink, tracing my thoughts onto the blank page.
Standing…Posed…Ready…Attentive…Cat-like focus…Watching my surroundings…Ready to pounce on the page. Step back…Wait…
I am patient and tuned for a sound that vibrates my pen.
Another Mary Oliver line, “the real poem” draws questions.
Is the “real poem” what gets written down or is it the “standing still with pen in air” waiting? listening?
Perhaps it is both as the written poem is just the finished marker on the journey. Is there such a word as “poeming”, the verb form of poem? All of it, the action of writing the poem is as important as the finished poem on the page.
“Not simply visiting this world” is a line from Mary Oliver’s poem When Death Comes. This last line of this poem resonated deep the morning I read it. I want to stay awake. I want to know what I want to do with “my one wild and precious life” (Mary Oliver) and how “to live the only life I have”. (again, Mary Oliver)
Mary Oliver’s poetry inspires me, moves me, rattles my nerves somedays. Her words vibrate a life energy, let me see things in ways otherwise unseen. I am still wondering what drew me out to take a picture of the sunset the other evening. I can see the edge of that time of day out the top of the kitchen window most evenings. I just note it, go back to the stove or the sink and the sun sets.
But, this evening, something/someone moved me to grab the camera/phone and take several shots. Then and only then, almost as an afterthought, my eyes caught the tree branch and something more. My first impression…a black garbage bag had blown into the spiny branches, still winter weather bare.
And, then, I saw her (I’ve decided she was a she) with a capital “S” saw her. Was that really an owl? Her head turned a slight turn and there were her two little ears, distinct as the sunset was orange and pink. It was sunset and even though the sky was vivid colors the graying of twilight almost hid her. She sat and sat, quiet and still, only once lifting herself to the next branch and then still again.
“Do not simply visit this world”….There are messengers, in places, and from voices we miss, right in front of us. These voices are often quiet, even silent, not loud, in your face, distracting voices of chaos or distortion.
Visit the world, awake and aware, of these different messengers (voices)….the sunset, the owl, the silence, the moon….
What do they have to say to you? Who else speaks to you?