Write a Book, D*** It….

Words have always been my muse, my vice, my addiction. They have been my RX, my therapy, my refuge. I have inscribed thoughts and brought visions to life, first on scribbled paper, and later on carefully crafted tech platforms, as a way of not only being a beacon of light to those struggling in the dark around me, but first in a desperate attempt to both remember who I was, and more importantly to prove to myself that I hadn’t been irrevocably lost….especially during the nights when my buried soul was muted, buried, and left in violated silence.

When I have lost all words is when those around me have really started to worry.

And some people have told me over the years that I say too much, my posts are too intense, too transparent, too revealing, too deep, too blah blah blah…and after being hung up on what those people have felt, and their approval, for so long, my answer is this: you don’t like what I write? No one is holding a gun to your head to read it. Unfriend. Unfollow. Unengage.

I know that many of my posts are not for the faint of heart. “I” am not for the faint of heart. I have so much complexity and layers, dichotomies and paradoxes, I confuse even myself sometimes. I keep myself on my own toes, and not purposely. I wish I was simpler, easier to figure out, a more “peggable” type, trust me. I feel like I live my life with a label of, “great potential, super talented, and wonderful heart, but a never ceasing brain and vast awareness of people and places, and the desire to know and experience all of it while conversely being a desperately solitudish introvert, creates a living disability of characteristics akin to a squirrel, grasshopper, butterfly, and cockroach (all things I’ve been called), all rolled into one. She functions with mesmerizing multitaskedness and overachieving capacity, or she doesn’t function at all; there is very little middle ground in this woman’s life. But Jesus is her rock and stay, her grounding incense; and thank God. Without this core foundation and purpose, Carrie would fail at life.” I know these types of observations, I help write them all the time as a teacher.

From my “un-haters”, 😉, I’ve been asked repeatedly to write a book about my story. I am terrified to do so. When I post on social media or my blog, and certainly my paper journals, it’s risk free, very little rejection, and I can amuse myself with the illusion that hundreds are reading my words and being encouraged or inspired, even if not a soul glances at it.

But writing a book is a whole other game. However, this comment posted here,from a friend the other day, with it’s blatant message, stirred something in me. So while I’m not ready to write the book quite yet, I feel that the sunset of this next year will provide a rhythmic end to this phase of my life, before starting the next, I AM going to begin compiling posts, entries, etc., to begin the process, and I need your help! Any suggestions on topics you’d want me to include, the best ways to go about writing a draft, the publishing process, etc., I desperately need help with.

And to all of you who have ever told me to write a book, thank you, thank you, thank you. I’ve saved all of your comments as encouragement and focus. So, as my friend Keith said, d*** it, let’s get this party started.

What My Body Said to Me, On Trauma and Healing

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I will protect you, it said,

I will keep you warm,

I will brace for the impact of the enemies’ scorn.

I will block the poisons,

I will steady your gait,

I will absorb the toxins that overload your weight.

I will be your blanket,

I will be your warmth,

I will be the shelter for your storms.

I will carry your load,

I will ease your burden.

I will be your ceaseless soul warden.

 

Your feet will be firm,

Your walk will be steady,

Your body will not sway, no matter how heavy.

Your skin soft to touch,

Your hair full and smooth,

Your lips like honey, your eyes the bluest hue.

Your voice sweet with sunshine,

Your embrace eroding strife.

Your curves and your arcs filled with the essence of life.

 

Until one day you whispered no more.

Until the day you had to even the score.

Until the day the shell was cracked.

Until the day the heart was broke.

Until the day the gut became woke.

Until the day this frame caved in.

Until the day the your weary being rattled like tin.

 

I am here, you said.

I can give no more.

I have been strong too long.

Now my tune is an empty song.

I am broken, you said.

I am bleeding, instead.

The whole has fractured into pieces,

And the once flowing life now freezes.

 

I gave you my all, you said, now it’s my turn to grieve.

It’s my turn to cry.

It’s my turn to reject the tormenters sigh.

I am in shards, I am in limbo.

I am splintered and sharp,

I am interrupted and disrupted, intermittently sparked.

My chemistry’s shot, my defenses are blown,

My skin is dry and tacky, my lips smack of stone.

My curves and my arches are now bumbles of blah.

My eyes, once transparent, are emptily flawed.

My hair, once shiny, and vibrantly borne,

Now hangs limp and torn, razor-ended and shorn.

 

We need rest, it whispered.

We need to be renewed.

We need new life once again to flow freely through.

We need joy, it murmured.

We need to laugh more than cry.

We need to absorb the fragrance of a satisfied sigh.

We need to divest of the dead, the swollen, the mold.

We need to breathe in the spirit of the sun, made bold.

We need our curves and arches to achingly yearn,

For the shared embrace that warmly takes turns.

 

It is our time to heal, you longingly said.

For the you without me, cannot be, because your being resides in the home entitled me.

Body and soul cannot abide wholly without the other.

We’ve been through hell and highwater hand-in-hand, together.

Now it’s time to batten down the hatches,

Use our warrior energy to heal the scratches.

We are done fighting enemies that attack us from without,

We now need to battle the enemies who lurk about.

We’ve survived numerous calamities and frontal assaults,

Now we need to attack the foes that grate like asphalt.

Our roads are clogged, our channels filled,

Our springs of life are achingly stilled.

Our weapons are depleted, our ammunition zapped,

Our heart overworked, and our gut is attacked.

 

So, breathe, and rest, and let your worries flow,

Sit, and stare, and let yourself be slow.

 

Our journey isn’t over, our next steps have just begun.

But we can no longer be divided, body and soul, all or none.

 

For first we must just be,

for before we can be one,

we have to become fully and completely, and utterly, undone.

apologize

 

Glenn, My Veteran Hero

I had a neighbor for several years. We became good friends because he felt that I, as a single parent, in a less than perfect neighborhood, was a vulnerable and an often sitting target.

As we got to know each other, I noticed the limp in his walk, endless hours on the phone he would spend, pacing back and forth. And I would hear is seemingly agonizing nightmares he would live through at night, even when all windows and doors were tightly fastened. He was a mystery to me.

Until one day, needing to borrow a tool that he had, I walked in on him crying, and looking through a box of memorabilia. It was then that he told me his story. He showed me his double Purple Heart medals from Vietnam. He showed me pictures of the day he enlisted. He showed me newspaper articles celebrating his heroism.

I assumed his limp was from the heroic injuries he sustained, and applauded him for his service. I assumed the phone calls were to a long lost lover or child. I assumed his nightmares were due to his poor health habits.

But it was then that his face grew dark, and the demons flitted across his countenance like the nightmares I heard him relive at night. His body froze in a twisted position of terror. He then started convulsively sobbing, reliving his victimization, as a first year enlistee, of being raped and sodomized by his commanding officer, leading to destruction in his body that would never heal properly. His hours on the phone were with the VA. For years he had drank his agony away, and only then had the VA doctors and counselors finally begun to address my neighbors experiences. His nightmares harkened him back to that night when not only were his innocence and idealism ripped from him, but every semblance of trust in authority, trust in himself, and trust in his ability to ever be lovable or love again. I sat and just absorbed who he was, what he was saying, what he was saying when he didn’t speak at all, and I walked away from his house that day, forever changed.

I then became his defacto advocate, driving him to the VA, talking to necessary parties on the phone for hours, all while seeing this gentle hulk of a man who often shadowed into a fetal position, a shell of who he once was, slowly start to stand straight, a semblance of a smile flitting across his face, a strain of laughter filling the air.

As the years of opioid addiction racked his body a second time, due to the constant pain he experienced, the VA decided to use medical cannibis to treat him; so I was asked to be his medical marijuana caregiver. I took him to his doctors appointments as he was on full disability and couldn’t drive. He started bbqing and would often feed us, and we gardened in our shared plot together, what was once very clearly a delineated line between my thriving garden, and his weeds, became a single lush space.

Once he shared his story with me, and I believed in him, this whole other side of his personality emerged. It was like I was seeing him whole, unbroken, like the young boy he once had been. He would keep the neighborhood nasties away, and I would make sure he took all of his meds, ate on a regular basis, and would sit silently with him and just “be” when he needed to talk.

Then one night, after a couple of harrowing weeks of conflict with a friend of his, who had betrayed him in a business deal, I woke up to lights and sirens and commotion outside. Sheer mayhem. Found out the next day that my neighbor had 51-50’d himself, the grief of losing that friendship being the straw that broke this camels back.

So remember, we don’t celebrate today simply for those who never came home, for those for whom we know why the flag is lowered to half-mast. But we remember those who DID come home, but will never be the same. And we need to remember those whose lives are a daily struggle, often lived at a half-mast capacity, because they did the most heroic thing of all; they lived to tell their story, and owning it has almost destroyed them.

Glenn, I don’t know how you’re doing, or where you are anymore; but if I could see you, I would tell you thank you for your sacrifice, thank you for protecting my kids and I when we couldn’t protect ourselves, thank you for allowing me to bear witness to your story, to hold space with you, to help carry your grief, and know that your brokenness and survivor stance kept me from going off the deep edge in addressing and owning my and my children’s own story of trauma and violation. Your struggle was not in vain, and even while you struggled to maintain a sane and living relationship with reality, you played a pivotal role in me staying rooted and grounded in mine. I will never forget you.

#ptsd #veteran #woundedwarrior #sexualassault #memorialday #owningyourstory

The Woman and the Wolf…on Interpreting Dreams…..

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I rarely dream. And when I do, I rarely remember them. And when I remember them, they are nightmares of the past, often repressed memories that seep their way into my sleep-tossed thoughts. These dreams seem to dangle their legs on both side of the consciousness fence…just enough trigger me awake in a fervent night sweat, but elusive enough for me to not be able to own and disarm them. It is a rare and significant event when I dream, and I remember it’s contents when I awake, and it isn’t some mocking joke of the pain of my past, but instead a mysterious puzzle that I WANT to piece together.

This was the type of dream I had last night; and I have mulled over it’s contents since I awoke, wondering what message it’s sending me.

Ask me twenty years ago if I believed then that dreams meant anything other than an oddly fragmented amalgamation of the sum of all of our various parts and passions, pleas and plotlines, pieced together in some helter skelter chaos, and I would have kindly, but firmly disavowed any other perspective. But now, I’ve lived too much of life, seen the evidence too often of thin spaces where spiritual and physical meet, where supernatural and gravity dance, where what isn’t said or even coherently thought into existence plays just as much a part of ordering our daily steps as what we view with the naked eye.

So this is what I dreamt.

I was above a bustling, busy, belligerent, boisterous populated scenario. It wasn’t a geographical place, it was just filled with people, lots of them. Shades of gray and grime and grit were what painted the neverending seemingly dark night of a collective soul, almost languishing in a rave like unified movement.

But I was above it all, in a gondola of sorts, flying over the rushing commute hour frenzy below. And while there were a few people there with me in the gondola cab, it was like we were existing side by side, but weren’t cognizant that each other was even there.

Except there was a police officer with us. And he and I were interacting in such a way that we shared a somewhat intimate, beautiful embrace…just a hug… but it was genuine warmth at its’ most beautiful.

But then it wasn’t.

I pulled away, my guard going back up . Nothing he said or did led me to react in such a way, it was simply my lack of believing he was genuine.

And then I saw a pair of earrings, shining in the otherwise darkened gondola space, hanging from a sellers arm. They caught my eye, and with their encompassing shine, my whole being felt refuge, safety from everything going on below, and from the few people in the gondola, including my cop. But what drew me in and imprinted itself on my mind, searing a space in my heart until this very moment, was the design on  saw on the earrings.

In an etched silver metal design, there were mountains. And below the mountains was a gray wolf. And below the gray wolf, or rather wrapped in his furry embrace, was me, securely lodged in a place of warmth and light. I felt confident. I felt safe. I felt free. Oddly.

And I woke up, for once, with a steady heartbeat. And steady hands. And dry sheets, cool to the touch.

It was a dream, rather than a nightmare. A mosaic of hope, rather than a ritual reminder of terror and pain. And I smiled. And it was good.

And then I looked up what a wolf in your dream DOES represent:

To see a wolf in your dream symbolizes survival, beauty, solitude, mystery, self-confidence and pride. You are able to keep your composure in a variety of social circumstances and blend into any situation with ease and grace. You are also a loner by choice. To see a white wolf in your dream signifies valor and victory. You have the ability to see the light even in your darkest hours.

Wolves are seen as majestic, beautiful and as a source of sacred wisdom,” she explains. In general, though, Richmond says dreaming about wolves entails facing a fear. She suggests asking yourself what you are frightened of and how you can control the situation. “Certainly the North American Indian cultures and tribes find the wolf a very important dream symbol,” notes Richmond. “It is considered a strong warrior symbol and is associated with wisdom and healing.”

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When Holy Thaws

I felt this today. This week. These last couple of months. This overwhelming darkness, sense of unraveling. This cry of anguish and angst over moments that have been seared into my mind, of haunting “why me’s” that I have heard inaudibly whispered from those I love. I have been doubled-over, stumbling, from carrying the chiseled burdens of those who I watch struggle to stay afloat, drowning in the chain of shattered dreams. I know God, that You are the closest to those who are stripped of all that comforts, that You are the balm that heals from the fractured slivers of hope. But now, in this empty space, this barren land, please come to us like rain. Even if the darkness doesn’t fade, let justice flow over and around us like a river, flooding our land with all good things. Strengthen this weary soul so that those who look to her for strength see that she is their rock because of He who steadies her. Use this long night that has exposed us raw become the dawn through which Your greatest purpose and presence can be born in and through us. Amen

The Restless Nest Tattoo

When I told my tattoo artist I wanted a tattoo this last time around, I kind of mumbled and stuttered. I wanted a mandala that looked earthy, not bling-blingy; stained-glass, but not showy; colorful for once, but not too bright. Several of the color themes we discussed were no-gos for me. Finally, we settled on the colors of a sunrise. Or a sunset. I was so confused. 

And this confusion is reflective of the rest of my life right now. Because just a week ago I was so angry at my oldest that I wanted to strangle her, almost driving off a cliff in Olympic National Park,  while driving on vacation, due to words that were shared between she and I, that could’ve caused World War III, right there, in our rental car. 

But then two days ago, after dropping her off at college, I shed tears all the way home, then sobbed uncontrollably at the silence and emptiness of the house once I walked in the door. I was mourning  that a phase of my life had come to an end, while another was yet beginning. 

This was what I had raised her to do. The last 19 years of our entwined, deeply engaged lives, have been preparing her for this moment, when she would step from the nest, spread her wings, and fly. That’s what was SUPPOSED to happen.

So why is this mama bird feeling so bipolar, one minute thrilled to have the TV recording space free of the usual 100 episodes of Spongebob, REPEATEDLY recorded by her, while in the next breath, catching my breath, because this will be the first year ever that we have to watch our favorite shows separately; in one breath rejoicing that I don’t have to feed a picky eater every night, while in the next breath hoping she eats enough to keep herself alive while working two jobs and going to school full-time; and simultaneously feeling ecstatic that my oldest child can now experience adulthood for herself, rather than through her rose-colored YouTube vlogs, while always worrying incessantly about whether she’s safe driving mountain roads by herself. 

So I don’t know what this tattoo means. In some moments it’s a sunset, one chapter of life closing; while another moment it’s a sunrise, with the new, next chapter beginning. 

I’m not sure whether it’s the stained-glass seen from the outside, our experiences blending in with millions of other families with young adult children; or whether the glass is seen from inside the darkened room, the light shining through, illuminating this moment in time as our time, our moment, where the grief and joy meet, in mesmerizing patterns of sentimentality and novelty. 

And I’m not sure whether the tattoo reflects the bling-bling of my daughters “bougie mountain” style, or whether it’s  the organic, homespun natural style of me. 

But you know what? I don’t have to choose. It can be all, or in parts, and anywhere in between. Because the symmetry holds it together. The patterns deeply outlined and etched, inked into my skin, are constant reminders that in a world of hellos and goodbyes, of joy and pain, of gift and loss, that the fabric of our lives can’t be woven without both; to have only one and not the other, would be like Van Gogh only painting with one color, or Michaelangelo simply drawing doodles on binder paper, or Beethoven simply plucking  out chopsticks. 

Ecclesiastes says that there is a time for every activity under heaven; and sometimes those moments happen in cadence, together, clinging to each other, in balance. 

And so I’m learning to value the silence while I grieve the quiet, appreciating easier menus while being ok with longing for the empty seat to be filled, and resting in the fact that I’ve more than prepared her to make her mark in this world, even while I worry sick that she’s safe while doing so. 

So this tattoo represents all of this experience, from full nest, to a restless nest. His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me. And her. 

And thank God I have two more years before I have a fully EMPTY nest. I will need a whole tattoo SLEEVE to express that moment in time.

Arrow Tattoo

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“Neither seek nor shun the fight.”- Gaelic proverb

Archery is a unique experience. It is somewhat counter-intuitive in nature. You have to pull back in order to release, you have to clench in order to liberate, you have to gather  in order to set free. And hanging in the balance of those two acts is that moment of tension, of unknowing, of what some call liminal space. Liminal space is time between the known and the unknown. It is a transitional moment of intensity when we stand in the path of the unknown. Richard Rohr says that liminal space is  when we have left one room and not yet entered the next. It is that graced time when we are not certain, or in control, but when the greatest growth and change can occur.

I kind of see it as the Saturday between Good Friday and Easter morning.

I have lived much of my life the last 15 years in this space. God made it clear where I didn’t belong, but not always making it clear where I did. belong And what is it about human nature that we want that space to claim as ours? We want to draw our line in the sand and say, “This is mine. Back off.”

But in this liminal space, it’s not always clear how we are to proceed.  Conflict, by it’s very nature, is conflictual. When conflict arises, I don’t know about you, but I tend to freeze. Then sometimes I “flight”, sometimes I “fight”, and sometimes I “fawn”.

The Celtics have a proverb that says, ” neither seek nor shun the fight.” It has resonated with me since I first heard it. Because it, like the tension-spun arrow, reminds me that it is in that moment of unknowing that is often times exactly where we are meant to be. I have had plenty of experiences where I have to shun “the fight” in my life. And I have had plenty of experiences when I have had to “seek the fight” in my life. I am far more comfortable with shunning than seeking. But the reality is that, ultimately,  I am learning to be the most at peace in the “neither” part. Forego the teachings of the “neither”, and  often times you overarch the seeking, or passively underestimate the shunning.

Life often calls us to advance. But before we can do that we have to retreat and reinforce our defenses. Sometimes we have to just “be”, when we don’t even know what we are “being”. But God does. And I’m learning that it’s far more important to be where He wants me to be, then to be where I think I am. ……if that makes sense.

And when I need a reminder, I have this tattoo as a memorial stone, harkening me back to times when I DID just “be”, and how that it’s far better to be in the plans,and hands, of God, than my own.

 

 

 

 

 

Grief, Exhaled….. Tattoo

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This tattoo took me over the edge from being a person who had tattoos that were “cute”,  to a half- arm- sized tattoo on my left arm.

For a while I often wondered if it was “too” big, or “too” out there, or “too” much, quickly covering it up whenever I was around someone who maybe I  thought would judge me as having gone “too far”….

It even caught me off guard at first, startling me into thinking I had black marker on my arm from teaching…

But then…. as I’ve slowly evolved and grown as a person over this last year, this tattoo has become not only my life’s mantra, motto, but it’s the embodiment of how I’ve chosen to see life.

The impetus for me to formally verbalize my thoughts, cohesively turning them into the deeply etched phrase here, was in living through  the most recent of traumas in my life.

Without going into detail, after being a single parent for over 10 years, I remarried, only to find out that my husband of less than a year had been serial cheating on me during the entirety of my knowing him…. friendship, dating, engaged, married. To sum up one of  his mistress’s words, which he corroborated, he married me because I provided a good reputation for him, and I loved his children.

A whole different trauma. A while different betrayal. A whole different grief.

And from these ashes, these words took shape. While I created this for MY life, I choose to treat everyone who comes into my life with these life affirming beliefs as well,and pray that I can pay my pain forward, through being a vessel of transformed grace and hope.

So here is what I think….

BEAR WITNESS….Do you see injustice? Do you see abuse? Do you see oppression? Do you see evil? Don’t turn your head. Don’t shut your eyes. Don’t silence your screams. Don’t ignore the pain. Face the storm. Sound the siren. Summon the jury.

REVEAL TRUTH….The truth can’t set you free until you first unwrap it, unhide it, and uninhibit it. Truth speaks for itself. Don’t drown it out. Don’t shovel it over. Don’t bury it in and slam the door. Lay it down, and out, for all to see. Bare your naked soul. Call it for what it is. It is not YOUR burden to carry the sins of someone else. Lay blame where blame is due. And then step back, unburdened, and fret not anymore, the shadows no longer hold you captive.

HOLD SPACE…..Sometimes there is nothing to do, but sit with the grief, let the tears flow, tend to the shuddering silhouette. Grief bottled in is no mourning at all. Don’t rush. Don’t downplay. Don’t compare. Don’t rebuke. Simply……..be.   Light the candles. Rest in the refuge. Be silent in the sanctuary. Stand down.

EMBRACE PAIN……Life causes all of us pain. We either allow it to shape us, or we spend our lives fighting, as it swallows us. Before we can heal, we have to simply acknowledge it. Weakness isn’t in being betrayed, or in losing, or in being ripped apart. Weakness is in acting like it never hurt us to begin with. Let yourself feel all of the bitterness and rage. Let yourself be broken. Let yourself fall apart. Let yourself be real. It’s ok to not be ok.

CARRY GRIEF…..Never let someone tell you that you EVER heal whole again, unscarred, unblemished, unfractured, back to who you once were. You don’t. And don’t try. A part of your grief will go with you for the rest of your life. Own it. Respect it. Carry it. You are who you are because of the heartache etched on your heart. Make grief your ally so that, rather than embittering and imprisoning you, it creates a compassion for others you meet on your journey who need to know they aren’t alone. Because no one can walk this road solo. And no one is untouched by grief. And the darkness doesn’t discriminate, but it DOES fade to the corner when we light the path together.

HONOR JOY……There WILL be moments, even amidst the worst of the storms, when laughter will bubble over, the sun will beam bright, and life will kiss you with joy. Don’t downplay it. Don’t sabotage it. Don’t disgrace it. Don’t ignore it. Don’t destroy it. Don’t disown it. Honor it. No matter the cards you’ve been dealt, you’re  bound to draw an ace at some point. Hug it. Enjoy it. Grasp a hold of it. And….even if it’s just the eye of the storm, and the clouds are drawing nigh again, engrave those moments as memorial stones of what can be, what has been, and what will be again. Because the darkness and storms may rage for a night, but even the gloomiest midnight ends. And the sun comes up. And joy…..joy….. joy…. always comes in the morning.