The Blessings of having a disability

My physical challenges are not something I discuss very often because I don't let them stop me from doing what I want to do. After all, I traveled to Chicago for the first AWP conference on two canes, a month after hip replacement surgery, and performed poetry at the Green Mill Jazz Club.

 My condition has resulted in severe arthritis in all my joints. As a one-year-old, I had congenital hip dislocation, and had to be in a full body cast for a year and braces for the next two years, a daytime one that came up from a shoe to buckle around my pelvis and a nighttime one that was a long rod between my feet (I learned to walk around the house by swinging from one foot to the other). When I turned 12, the doctors discovered my hip shelf had never developed. I had surgery on both hips which involved bone graphs, a giant pin and smaller pins, and a body cast from under my breasts to my feet, followed by crutches. (8 weeks in cast and 10 weeks on crutches on left side, 10 weeks in cast and 12 weeks on crutches on right side.)

 .

But after that, I was very active! I danced, walked, biked, did yoga, and carried kids on my hips as a mother

and as a professional nanny. I carried boxes of groceries to feed the homeless, hiked up hillsides to camp, and moved furniture as a preschool teacher. I carried babies on my back and split wood for the wood stove. I walked two miles to work and back, and then went out dancing!

Dancing with Poetry: with Word Dancers in Santa Fe

The hip replacements were not a surprise at ages 54 and 55. The pain was intolerable due to being bone-on-bone. The surprise was when my doctor told me my bones were like those of a 70-year-old woman. I have no cartilage in my hands, and my feet are telling me maybe there as well. My orthopedic surgeon is aware that I am reluctant to do more surgery; I am grateful for the hip replacements but my hips are not the same.

 The blessing is that I was able to get on disability and Medicare, which enabled me to focus on my writing. I didn't have to search for another full time job that involved being on my feet.

 The blessing was to appreciate all that my body has learned and enjoyed, knowing that some of those activities will never feel the same. The blessing is learning about prana healing and healing circles and the power of prayer.

 Today I walked around the duck pond, walking past the pain in my back, to enjoy the fresh air and sun on my face. After one circle and a rest, the second trip around was better. I used to love being outside and could get almost anywhere by walking or biking—I took so much for granted.

 Today I am grateful for the yoga classes on line that help with flexibility and stamina. I notice that yoga is being added to writers' conferences and retreats. I'm not the only one who needs a break from sitting to stretch and breathe deeply.

 I am grateful to better understand my students in writing workshops who deal with chronic pain. At least mine can be assuaged with arnica, CBD oil, and the infrared heating pad. Tylenol only when desperate....

 I am grateful for the fact that my condition was passed down through the women in my family and I have a son and grandsons.

 The blessings of my disability is that I am not always spontaneous and can't just run out the door, hoping to get everything done. I have to plan my steps, how much is realistic and where to stop and rest. That may not seem like a blessing to you but in fact, it makes me more productive in the long run because it makes me more focused.

 The blessing is that whenever we are different from the models shown to us on the media, we know we also have gifts, talents, and an authentic presence. We are quick to compare ourselves and judge. I hope that the checkout clerk will be patient when I pack up my groceries. I wave on the driver of the car paused at the corner who may not be patient enough to give me the time I need to cross the street, in particular if it is icy. And I have to swallow my pride and tell the bus drivers to lower the ramp so I can ascend and descend, or they will be watching me hesitate, cling to the handle, and haul myself up.

 I don't mind the silver in my hair but I do mourn the way my body once was able to joyfully express itself without holding back or paying the consequences later. I don't mind that my body is a map of desires, births, accidents, and inheritance, but lately getting up from kneeling is a project accompanied by pain in the knees. (O no!)

 Thank God for suitcases on wheels and for Uber drivers! For friends who help push the grocery cart and unload the trunk. For the grace to receive the help I need instead of resentment that I need it. For grabbers and extra-long shoehorns. For all the ways my body has been my horse, as the poem goes, and is now my nag.

 Question
       By May Swenson  
 Body my house
my horse my hound  
what will I do
when you are fallen
 
Where will I sleep  
How will I ride  
What will I hunt
 
Where can I go
without my mount  
all eager and quick  
How will I know  
in thicket ahead
is danger or treasure  
when Body my good  
bright dog is dead
 
How will it be
to lie in the sky
without roof or door  
and wind for an eye
 
With cloud for shift  
how will I hide?
 
 
 
 
 
 

Taking Care of Ourselves: Self-love and Gratitude

A few years ago, I remarked in my Writing for Healing group at Pathways that it takes more work to care for ourselves than ever before. By caring for ourselves, I am referring to ways to uplift our spirits. I am referring to feeling connected to each other and to our inner guidance, and living in harmony with all that is around us, including Mother Nature. To be positive and to experience calm. We feel our pain and yet we do not let it stop us from moving toward healing and wholeness. Our life force is strong and our hearts are open. Of course, this also means eating well, getting enough rest, de-stressing, exercise, gentle touch, and loving relationships. 

Here we are in 2021 with the pandemic all around us and I know people are exhausted and disheartened with the continuing social isolation, economic uncertainty and the challenges of constant family interaction, which might include a lack of privacy or abusive family dynamics. The boost of optimism during the inauguration was followed by the climate disaster in Texas, mutations of the virus, and roll out of the vaccine inhibited. 

We need to remind ourselves that we are experiencing a transition to a consciousness of our collective responsibility to care for the earth and all humankind. It may feel daunting to realize how much we need to lessen our carbon footprint. As we awaken to the sanctity of all life--knowing we share this one planet--we will have to make changes personally, and together as a country.

One simple way to uplift our spirits is to shift our focus from regret, worry, or frustration to gratitude. 

Ultimately gratitude is a practice, one that we have to be pro-active to get better at.

How can we feel grateful when life is painful, difficult, or traumatizing? When grief feels unending and even our ability to survive is precarious? We need to establish a practice that we use in good times and in bad. In difficult times, this practice might be noticing a few simple things in daily life: someone we love, something we care about, the changing skies and seasons, a memory of good times, a scent, a set of colored pens, a book from the library, our own strong hands or feet, words of wisdom from our ancestors, or that someone loved us when we were a child. I have lived in places where we had to haul cold water from a faucet as there was no indoor plumbing, and to this day I am grateful when hot water comes out of the tap. I have heard trees crashing along the street during a storm and to this day, I say a prayer of thanks for a home. If your home is not safe or you can't turn on hot water, are there other things you can be grateful for: the neighbor who sheltered you, your strong arms that can carry buckets, the fruit you picked from a tree, the sunrise? 

Why is this so important? Gratitude strengthens us, boosts our immune system, and increases our ability to be flexible and to reach out. Gratitude is like a magnet, attracting more good into our life. Or maybe by shifting our focus, we see the good that is already there, or recognize the good that is possible. 

What if at the end of the day we thanked ourselves for our tenacity, our determination, our willingness, our love, our kindness? What if we were grateful for our dreams, for not giving up, for believing in a better world? How would that change our identity, our sense of who we are, and give us support to keep moving? What if we think of social isolation as a gift of time to reflect and get in touch with our inner voice and of our exhaustion as permission to find respite and to detach from the world a bit? 

We are so much more than our worst days. We are creative and our minds are very powerful. From years of leading writing workshops, I know our biggest challenge is to love ourselves unconditionally, not because of what we do but just because we are. If we are here, as Joanna Macy says, we belong. If we are here, we deserve to be loved. Take a moment and reflect on the ways you are grateful that you showed up during this time of planetary transformation. You have what it takes to be an authentic loving masterful human being. 

Reimagining the Holidays

 The season of celebration approaches and we must re-imagine Thanksgiving and winter festivities. We are advised not to gather in each other's homes and people tell me that they have encouraged their families not to come or have cancelled their plans to travel. Some of us are sad and disappointed, I imagine some of us are relieved, and many of us are resigned but a few of us are thinking up creative ways to stay connected: through the screen we can at least see each other's faces.

I offer a way to shift your perspective. We have been forced to take a pause and that pause has been filled with quiet contemplation, walks in the park, and moving events online, and also with the Black Lives Matter movement shaking us awake to racial injustice and one of the most tumultuous, emotional, painful and challenging elections in history. What if we applied the lesson we are learning to a new imagining of Thanksgiving? Instead of remembering a story told from the conquering invaders, what if we returned to the simplicity of gratitude for the harvest? Not a holiday to celebrate the survival of the pilgrims but a holiday to consider reparations, repair, and restoration to Native American people? What if it was a day focused on our hearts instead of achievement and conquest? There are Native American poets featured on the Academy of American poets website as a starting place to celebrate their rich culture. Or we can listen to Native American flute or watch a youtube presentation.

We can remember all those who provide the food at our table, the farmers and those who labor to bring in the harvest, the truckers and the grocery store stockers, the bakers, the clerks. We can pause to thank Mother Earth for her bounty and reflect on how all living beings are inter-connected. We can think about our carbon footprint. Instead of feeling bad or discouraged or worried, we can decide to change something we do habitually to being more conscious and caring of our impact. 

The winter celebration of Solstice is a time of remembering that in the darkness we yearn for Light and that in dark times we can contemplate what is true, where to focus our intention, and what is meaningful. The shortest day of the year and the official beginning of winter can be a time of ritual, lighting candles or fires in the fireplace or sparklers or lanterns as a way of calling in the light. Write a letter to 2020 to throw in the fire or draw things you want to let go of. You can do it as a family. Read poems. Create an affirmation to carry you through the transition to a new era. 

Some people are already putting up their Christmas trees and decorations, needing cheer to face a long winter of social isolation. What if we also plan outreach to others? Bring back the delight of cards in the mail and include seniors at a nursing home. Think of how we can contribute to our community besides donations: buying tickets to the local BIPOC-led theater? Books from a local bookstore? Is it posting a positive meme on Facebook or a shout out to an artist you know to draw attention to their work? 

There is healing in stillness and silence. Mindfully make the coffee and start the day with reading something inspiring instead of the news. Spend a few moments in gratitude and reflect on past joys. Is is a walk in the woods, a gathering of friends around the table, a beautiful view, a moment when your heart sang? Put on some music and dance. Take out your pen and write. Cut up magazines to collage. Creativity uplifts our hearts and you don't need a lot of supplies.

Not all of us have the privilege to be in stillness and silence. Offer your silence to the world. Give your love in small ways and bigger ways. Write an encouraging newsletter instead of just recounting what you did over the past year. Suggest inspiration: podcasts, books, music, meditations that have meant something to you.

For those in busy households with kids or parents, how can you find more mindfulness? Is it singing together or handing out glue sticks and paper? Can you slow down enough to let the kids help make meals or create a quiet reading space using a blanket? Can you play a board game or bead or build with Legos together? Do yoga or make popcorn strings to wrap around the tree? Learn a new language or listen to an audio book? Can you make clean up a game instead of a chore? 

I know it takes patience and it takes cooperation. Once upon a time, we went into the dark of winter without the screen to entertain us. We sat by the fire and told stories, we mended and repaired, whittled and polished, we sat quietly. We prayed. We listened to the sounds of the fire and of the wind. We had animals to care for. We played music and we watched the stars. We made things by hand. We cherished our elders.

How can you make the holidays meaningful? What are you willing to let go of to move toward joy?

Chicken Soup for Grief

All she could imagine cooking was chicken soup. She wasn’t even sure she could eat the soup but at least she could nourish someone else. She had made matzoh ball soup every winter for years, she used noodles to make a more traditional chicken soup, she taught herself to make mole from chicken stock adding the mole paste from the jar of Maria’s. (Why roast chilis and mash up sesame seeds when Maria’s was good enough? she reasoned.) These days she mostly ate pudding and cookies and yogurt, soft sweet foods, erasing years of determination to serve healthy choices: fresh sautéed vegetables and salads, lamb or fish, only olive oil, nothing with sugar. How he craved sugar! She remembered how he would add sugar to a raw beaten egg and pretend it was dessert. He loved her cooking, said he could tell she cooked with love. It was love: she put up with the cigarettes, the excursions to other states without notifying her first, the flat tires because he insisted in driving over the cactus-laded hillsides instead of the main road, the strangers brought home from the bar at 3 am, the frantic calls to her during work. (The questionnaire at the doctor’s office:  Are you able to take vacations without him? and how when she answered yes, the assistant was surprised, raised his eyebrows. As if she had done something wrong. Gave the wrong answer.  That was when she knew, that was the moment. It wasn’t just moods, it wasn’t just something to be cured with hot soup and salads or even acupuncture and therapy. It was terrible. Those lines of neurons laid down in childhood, those genetic misfirings, those attempts at self-medication, it was all part of a pattern no one seemed able to break.)   She had gone to retreat, recuperate, take a breath, because of his insane hours, because of his insistence that he didn’t want to live, because of the gun he had hidden from her, because of the suicide notes he read to her to ask her opinion, (how do you write the right thing when you are going to break someone’s heart into pieces and what right did he had to do that to us? she fumed) because their couple counseling broke down the day he drank too much and she was too angry to stay. That morning when his soul had left his body, there had been a black crow feather on the doorstep. She picked it up. She knew it was a sign but she didn’t—couldn’t—she was on her way to therapy, to the rest of her life, to her life savers of groups and activities. His body was already cold but she wouldn’t find out until that evening. And now she came to visit carrying a whole chicken, carrots, celery, an onion, a box of noodles. She would make soup. Nothing would stop her. Not the fact that the temperature was in the 90’s and soup was comfort for a winter’s day. Notice the way she carried all the ingredients in a bag she could hardly lift, more than enough to make two pots of soup. She brought her grief and her release, her freedom, her love unstitched from the place where she had been woven into a tapestry of despair and fear, of hopelessness. He told her I don’t want to be here and he meant it. But she wanted to. She wanted to soar, to sing, to commune, to praise, to bless, to be blessed, to love, to be connected, to be whole.

Resiliency: accepting what is: what cannot be changed

I believe with all my heart in the power of affirmations.

I use them every morning to start my day with something uplifting. They raise my vibration and give me focus and vision.

Positive affirmations can change the way you feel and the way you respond. They create new neural pathways in the brain. And they are powerful senders of energy that is reflected back by the response of the Universe. When we say “yes”, the Universe says “Yes.”

There are plenty of articles and books about the power of positive affirmation. You can watch Abraham and Ester Hicks discuss it on youtube. Unity became a movement due to the power of Myrtle Fillmore healing herself through prayer and meditation. Writers from Wayne Dwyer to Eckert Tolle discuss the unlimited power of thought.

I believe gratitude is one of the most powerful affirmations of all.

However, I also need to practice acceptance: the things that cannot be changed.

While I was in Puerto Vallarta, I created a bilingual poetry event during Día de los Muertos. I appreciate how the Mexicans honor their ancestors during this celebration. They build ofrendas in their homes filled with the favorite foods for when the dead come by. They clean and decorate the graves of their loved ones in the cemeteries and spend time together at the gravesite, telling family stories. They also have ways to poke fun at death to remove the sting. Everywhere you see calacas and calaveras, miniature sugar skulls and skeleton figurines from every walk of life: the mariachi band to the soap opera star, the barber to the teacher, the bus driver to the bride. They remind us that death comes for all of us, none of us are getting out alive.  The Mexicans call death La Muerte, and La Catrina and La Sebastiana.  I found a poem by E. R. Mares which listed Spanish names with meanings such as The Stinky One, The Bony One, the Hag, the Bitch, etc. The poem is essentially about near-misses, how the poet had close calls but survived. My co-performer and I were calling these names in Spanish to each other across the stage, almost as if taunting Death or enticing Her near. 

Suddenly I had a revelation that Death is part of the natural cycle of life, death and rebirth.

I had placed a candle on each table and at a certain point, asked audience members to light their candles and hold them aloft in honor of someone they had lost. As I looked out over the sea of flames, I realized that we have all lost someone…or will lose someone…or we will die. I was not alone in my grief. 

My son was not coming back. This was the beginning of acceptance. This was a turning point.

There are things in life that will never change, no matter how many affirmations we say. The only thing that can change is our attitude. I will never have the same flexibility I had before hip replacements. . I will never be a professional dancer, for example (but I still can dance.)  Some of us have lost people or relationships or ways of living. Some of us have lost homes, cities, or freedom. Some of us have lost dreams that won’t come true.

Acceptance is letting go and moving on. I will never stop loving Sam but I had to accept his death. This is part of my healing.

What things do you need to accept? 

Cultivating Resiliency part 1

How can we cultivate resiliency? What is resiliency and is there a way to strengthen it? How does being resilient change our lives and the ways we cope?

Resilience is defined by the ability to bounce back after trauma, to cope with or to heal after a crisis. We think of bouncing back after health challenges such as cancer, heart surgery, joint replacements, serious infection, root cannals, as recuperating, but actually we never recuperate to be exactly as we were. We may have scars, we may have new body parts, we may have a new diet or restrictions on activities or we may be advised to increase physical activity. With an on-going illness such as diabetes, MS, CP, Lupus, Parkinson’s, we may think of resilience more in terms of attitude and determination. We practice gratitude for what we have, we choose to be disciplined about therapy and we ask for help and guidance in order to enhance our lives. We continue those activities we love as best we can. Resilience after pregnancy doesn’t mean we bounce back to the person we were, even if we get our figure back. Our hearts, emotions, minds, time, stamina, are all stretched, sometimes to the limit. We give up sleep, autonomy, our own comfort; even our friendships may change. But we live more fully, deeply, richly. So resilience is not only coping or bouncing back or healing but change, growth, and transformation.

Resilience after an emotional crisis is a sign of healthy moving forward. Whether it is a loss of a loved one or our relationship with someone, a way of life or a job, a home or homeland, a dream or our abilities, we mourn and let go. Sometimes this happens in cycles, a wave of rising and falling, as we are reminded of what has been altered, perhaps by an anniversary, a special place, children and grandchildren, a certain fragrance or song. When we are resilient, we are able to feel whatever it is we are feeling, then we move on to another feeling which may be relief, gratitude, love, or acceptance. We may find ways to express our feelings through art, journaling, a support group or a friend's listening ear; we may choose to weep, scream, pound our fists; or we may draw, pray, dance, walk by a lake. But we don’t stay stuck in the past. We remember we have other relationships, ideas, projects, homes, dreams and a life to fill. We may be more compassionate; we have gained insight, wisdom and new perspectives.  

  

Michael was the love of my life. He made me laugh and he listened to me, he took me seriously. He was the first person I ever told, “I am an artist.” He healed past physical and psychological abuse with his affection. He was fun to travel with, always ready to explore, gregarious and enthusiastic. He also had wide mood swings. Some days he couldn’t get out of bed, some days he couldn’t sleep. He would call me from another state or even disappear across the border and not call at all. He would bring home people he had met at the bar at 3 am. He was also suicidal, telling me that he didn’t want to live daily, that life was too abrasive. With a diagnosis of bipolar disorder, we began to understand his suffering was not going to be cured by will alone.

We lived in Santa Fe, a Mecca for alternative healing, and I began to search for alternatives to prescription drugs. Earthwalks for Health was part of my search. Earthwalks connected us to indigenous artists and local sages for a week-end of learning about their healing practices. This is how I met Joan Logghe, beloved Santa Fe poet.

           

 Joan was the founder of Write Action, a writing support group. I was writing poetry with another group at the time and encouraged Michael to attend Joan’s group. He found it satisfying to pour out his brutally honest thoughts on paper and not be judged. One week, he couldn’t attend because he was going out of town so I suggested that I could go and “keep his seat warm.” I loved it and we continued attending together weekly. We felt supported and accepted. It was energizing to hear common themes go around the circle and to be reassured that coping with Michael’s moods was not isolating us.

            

Joan had worked with Natalie Goldberg and used the same basic writing instruction that so many writing instructors and writing groups would come to rely on: spontaneous timed writing. However, Joan used poems as prompts. 

Eventually Michael became more and more mentally unstable and one night he gathered up the courage to kill himself. I wept until my eyes were swollen shut but I was released from care-giving and uplifted by a burst of creative energy. To be able to pour out my grieving heart onto the page in the writing groups was cathartic. To feel that others cared was life-saving. From that point on, writing became not only a way of self-expression but a life raft that saved me from drowning. When emotions feel overwhelming, writing helps me to stay focused. Writing helps me to analyze and understand what I am feeling and to make a shift from emotion to clarity.

There is no sharp dividing line between self-repair and self-realization. All creative activity is a kind of do-it-yourself therapy, an attempt to come to terms with traumatizing challenges –Arthur Koestler

What I learned about resiliency is that it is important to name and claim your emotions. When we feel something, the amygdala part of the brain lights up. This is called our flight or fight center. Studies confirm changes take place in the brain when we feel or name our feelings. “When you put feelings into words,” wrote UCLA psychologist Matthew Lieberman in an article in UCLA Today ”you’re activating this prefrontal region and seeing a reduced response in the amygdala. In the same way you hit the brake when you’re driving when you see a yellow light, when you put feelings into words, you seem to be hitting the brakes on your emotional responses.”

In one MRI study, appropriately titled "Putting Feelings into Words" participants viewed pictures of people with emotional facial expressions. Predictably, each participant's amygdala activated to the emotions in the picture. But when they were asked to name the emotion, the ventrolateral prefrontal cortex activated and reduced the emotional amygdala reactivity. In other words, consciously recognizing the emotions reduced their impact.

Suppressing emotions doesn't work and can backfire on you. Gross found that people who tried to suppress a negative emotional experience failed to do so. While they thought they looked fine outwardly, inwardly their limbic system was just as aroused as without suppression, and in some cases, even more aroused.

To reduce arousal, you need to use just a few words to describe an emotion, and ideally use symbolic language, which means using indirect metaphors, metrics, and simplifications of your experience. This requires you to activate your prefrontal cortex, which reduces the arousal in the limbic system. Here's the bottom line: describe an emotion in just a word or two, and it helps reduce the emotion.

http://www.brainfacts.org/sensing-thinking-behaving/mood/articles/2015/fear-and-the-brain-an-introduction/

Therefore, the emotions move from the amagdala to the prefrontal cortex, which decides how to respond. Here is where writing about our experiences not only sends helpful chemicals such as dopamine and serotonin to the brain, but the emotions move from flight or fight to determine how best to respond.

• How do you feel when you wake up? At the end of the day? After work? After your evening activities? Is there a way to express what you are feeling?
• Are you sad/frustrated/angry/lonely/upset/frightened?
• Are you relaxed/filled/content/happy/satisfied/joyful/curious?
• Keep a feeling journal and note the ups and down through-out a day.
• Chose an emotion and write to it, telling it you let it go. Use Joy Harjo’s poem I Give You Back as a prompt:

I Give You Back 

                                            

I release you, my beautiful and terrible

fear. I release you. You were my beloved

and hated twin, but now, I don't know you

as myself. I release you with all the

pain I would know at the death of

my children.

You are not my blood anymore.

Forgiveness

In 1989, I attended synagogue on Yom Kippur, the day of atonement, in Israel. I was invited by an American family to babysit, to take their child home when she became too restless to stay. They belonged to one of the only conservative synagogues in Israel. The toilet paper was torn ahead of time and the lamps were on a timer. As we walked to the synagogue, the profound silence was cathartic to me. The cessation of traffic was highlighted by the serious and yet joyful mood.  The women dressed in white fluttered in the women’s balcony like doves, the children were free to wander among the men praying downstairs, the sounds of plaintive Kol Nidrei wafted up like smoke from a celestial fire drenching us in holiness. Although I couldn’t understand all of the Hebrew, I could follow along in the prayer book as we enumerated our sins and asked to be covered by God’s merciful forgiveness.

The High Holy Days are a time of repentance in the sense of self-reflection, to consider harm you may have done to others and ask their forgiveness before God opens to your page in the book of life  at the end of Yom Kippur. I loved the fact that we asked for forgiveness as a congregation, that we were part of a ritual cleansing as well as personal evaluation. The community supported us as we declared those sins, those choices and decisions where we missed the mark, aloud. This year I read Michael Lerner’s additions to the traditional prayers  in Tikkun Magazine and was astounded by their clarity, admitting to sins of social injustice as well as the more personal sins of slander and lying, not looking out for others, neglecting our obligation to act as responsible members of a community.

Last year I taught a writing workshop at Stillwater prison for the purpose of holding a reading during Victim Awareness week. We entered this exploration together. They wanted to hold a reading to express their remorse and I would do whatever I could to help them make that possible, to write stories and poems that were well crafted, thoughtful, and honest.

I told them, “You can’t just write a letter of apology and expect to be forgiven. Your victim may never be able to forgive—but if I were a victim, I would want to know how you have changed. How you are different now and would never commit that crime again. I want to know about the work you have done on yourself.” The word I used is metanoia, literally with-mind, to find mindfulness which is translated in the RSV New Testament as repentance. To me, the concept of metanoia goes beyond repentance, it means that you have changed. That you would never commit that crime again because you are not the same person that you were.

As a victim, it can be a long hard road to healing. It can take years. It can take forever. I was lucky to have a therapist who was able to guide me through the trauma and tell a new story of survival and strength. After years of silence about my rape, I was finally able to speak about it, write about it, read my writings aloud at an exhibition through the MN State Arts Board called The Art of Recovery. I also have written about it in both memoirs Flowers in the Wind and To Catch a Dream, hopefully to find publishers someday. And yet, my impulse was to forgive the man who perpetrated the rape immediately after it happened because during the four hours he held me captive, I listened to his story. I knew he was a victim as well and that the violation he was pouring out onto my body were the results of his own abuse, humiliation and anger. It is not an excuse. I don’t believe forgiveness needs to include forgetting. However, I remember with compassion for both of us.

A few years ago I attended a Radical Forgiveness workshop led by Rev. Sher McNeal. We formed a circle and she read questions such as “Have you ever been hurt, ever been unkind to someone?”  “Have you ever been bullied,  have you ever bullied someone?” The acts of unkindness, abuse, violence mentioned became more and more specific. We were instructed that if we were either victim or perpetrator, to step into the middle of the circle. Then she asked us to look each other in the eyes and say, “I am sorry that happened to you”. No one knew who was victim or perpetrator. Rather we witnessed that with each question, some of us stood in the middle of that circle together.  Sorrow and forgiveness included all of us. Remorse included all of us. Forgiveness included all of us. Kinda like Yom Kippur. A covering over us of Divine Mercy.

After my Restorative Justice class, I felt that I would like to lead a class of victims and perpetrators, although not  from the same crime as I am not a therapist but a devoted writer who has used writing for healing through my own intuition. However, it was interesting to me to realize I would not want to face my own perpetrator in a workshop, no matter how genuine his intentions were to make restitution. I know he went to prison and I have no desire to be in any form of contact.

The work I needed to do was on myself:  the crime was a wake up call because at the time I was far away from living my own integrity, spiritual life and values and that I needed to remember self respect. I had to heal the belief and guilt that if I had been  attentive, I would not have been a target. He had told the court, “I picked her because she was the kind of girl who would never have a man like me.” At the time, I was recovering from rejection and was hanging out with  gay men because I felt safe and comfortable; they pampered me.

If my perpetrator had entered the Radical Forgiveness circle with me, would I have been able to look him in the eyes and say I am sorry that happened to you? Would we be able to weep together over his life wasted in prison and my years of PDST and distancing myself from relationships? Would we be covered by the mercy of God? I like to think it could be so. 

Coming Home to Joy

Eight years ago if you had told me that I would be able to survive, I would have looked at you in disbelief. If you had predicted that I would find ways to heal, I would have been astonished. After my son's death, I could only put one foot in front of the other, day by day. I had tremendous love from friends and family and support from colleagues and counseling and yet, I was in such a state of shock that I was operating on instincts, not rational, not able to foresee any future at all.

My instincts told me to go back to work, that it was better than the agony of my own turbulent guilt, and I did until the wheel of fortune took me to Mexico and Alejandro. My instincts told me to hold onto Alejandro, who was both a distraction and a refuge. He knew how to live on a pendulum between deep denial and enjoying life's sensual pleasures. I knew he would not pity me, but in fact, one of the last straws between us was the way he demanded I show up to work at the gallery when I had dengue fever and should have been in bed recuperating, with a kind hand bringing me cool drinks and Tylenol.

Seven years ago when I moved to Minneapolis, if you had told me that I would find ways to meld my gift with my passion to be of service, I would not have believed you, even though my hunger for poetry had come back. Coming to Minneapolis was another turn of the wheel of fortune: my son asked for my help with childcare. I used to claim I would never live in such a cold place. Here I still am, 7 years later.

That first winter, I attended a poetry reading at The Loft for the publication release of Songs Along the Way. I remember it because the temperature was 20 below and I asked my daughter-in-law to give me a ride. I assumed there would be a small turn out. I was still disoriented, in an altered state, and raw with grief that felt like my skin of my heart had peeled away. I was surprised to watch the auditorium fill up but despite standing room only, the seat next to me remained vacant. Was it Sam's spirit come to comfort me? I left that reading to go home and write my first poem since leaving Mexico.

Five years ago if you had predicted that I would create a life I love, I would have seen a small glimmer through the fog. I would have considered the Twin Cities writer's community as a place to begin. I created brochures and sent out proposals, showed up for open mics and asked questions, attended every reading I could get to. Won a McKnight grant, published a book of poetry.

Three years ago if you had told me that I would feel joy, astounding joy that permeates my entire being, the joy of doing what I am meant to do, of  using my gift and my desire and my vision, that I would heal, I would have been astonished. I would not have been able to imagine it. But joy has been gifted me, I feel blessed.

Sam's death is not something I got over or ever forget. If I choose to hold the moment of getting the phone call in my mind, or seeing his body at the funeral home, or the afternoon at the Chama where we scattered his ashes, the visceral reaction is as potent as ever. Sharp unbearable pain shoots through my heart. In the poem I wrote a description of my grandson, "When he smiles, it is enough to crack the scotch-taped fissures of my heart back into shards. It is your smile, carbon copy family trait." These memories are enough to crack all the fissures back into shards. The fissures that I have spent the last seven years filling in with gold lacquer, painstakingly matching each surface to the other to resemble the whole.

Poetry performances for Dia de los Muertos where I shared my anguish, poetry performance at Patrick's Cabaret where I told the story also healed me as I realized that death comes for all, death is part of the cycle of life. Death is natural. Sam's death was a choice he made and I can choose the way I mourn, publically and privately.

What I learned as a writing instructor/facilitator is that when I write, there are two paths. One will take me deeper and deeper into the story: what happened to me and what I feel about it. There is no end to that branch of the story. I can tell it over and over, because the emotional pull is powerful. Or I can choose another branch: what it means, what patterns I see, where it leads me, what has been the lesson, and how I can change and transform because of it. And as the writer responsible for the circle, I deliberately choose that branch. That is what I write about and share. When I led workshops under the funding of the grant, writing with battered women and homeless youth and heart patients and care-givers, I was writing weekly or twice weekly and choosing that path over and over again. What does it mean to me, what did I learn, where do I find inner courage and strength, what do I still have, what are my blessings? And I began to heal, not only enough to keep going, not only enough to be engaged with laughter and friendship and love and curiosity and pleasure, but real joy. An inner knowing that I am where I am meant to be, that I am living my dreams, that I am connected to others in deep ways and that I love my life. I am blessed. I am grateful.

If you had told me even last year, that I would be overwhelmed with ecstatic bliss, that I would dance again under the Mexican moon, that I would be filled with Presence of Spirit and that I would be overcome with love, I would have been incredulous. This joy is beyond any previous experience I have ever had. Beyond when I fell in love, when I gave birth, when I sat in a Spanish cafe and listened to flamenco, when I celebrated with friends, when I held my first book in my hands, when I spoke my truth on stage and was held in the arms of my audience. This joy is a state of being. I have come home to myself after long years of wandering. Like Dorothy clicking together her ruby slippers and saying No place like home. It is the center towards which I have been traveling all my life. While I am here, I know I can always return. Whenever grief or disappointment or frustration or longing knock me off-kilter, I know it is here, waiting for me, invincible, mine.

Year End Review

The window for advance sales for transparencies of light is closing today. However, that doesn't mean you still can't order a copy; only that it doesn't count towards my print run. For those of you who have ordered it, bless you for supporting my endeavers to be a voice for women who are silenced by their cultures, their families or their own inhibitions.
http://www.finishinglinepress.com/ under new releases

Now with the intensive promoting behind me, I am preparing for spring readings.

Check my website. Each reading will feature different poets reading with me or musicians or dancers. This is still in process and not finalized. If you would like me to join your book club or writer's group to share my poems, my writing discipline and practice, my experience with publication and marketing, please contact me for setting something up after March 1st.
Of course, I am still reading selections from Ceremonies of the Spirit as well. What a joy that book has been for me!!!


I am also available for blog touring...if you have a blog and set up a date for me to be interviewed or post and be available for comments from your guests, that can also be arranged.

In the meanwhile, we are headed towards the cold, dark part of the year. Here in Minnesota we got over a foot of snow. The streets are silent and the only people who are out have to be. It is quiet in my home. I have lit a candle for La Virgin de Guadalupe, as it is Her Day, in honor of the Feminine Divine. I have been catching up with my blogs and my emails and next, maybe I will be couragous enough to tackle that box of notebooks full of scribbles from various writing sessions: the Mid-town Writers Group, the class at Face to Face, the women's retreats. And get back to scanning my memoirs, written on a word processor. (It seemed like the latest at the time, who knew that in a few years, those disks would be useless?) With the gift of a laptop from my good friend Chicago poet Ned Haggard, life is much easier and will be during recuperation from hip replacement this January.

I want to reflect back over my year, what I have accomplished and what has sustained me and urged me on. All writers know there are rejections and I am persistently rejected by some of my favorite publishers and literary journals, still I get off my knees, dust myself off, find another avenue. I want to acknowledge two amazing community efforts that did accept my work: Poets for Living Waters at http://www.poetsgulfcoast.wordpress.com/ and Saint Paul Almanac. Also Mississippi Crow, edited by my good friend Nadia Giordana who never stops coming up with new ways to promote not only her own work but others, especially women. Her blogtalkradio interview with me can be heard on my website: http://www.wendybrownbaez.com/ on the interviews page.
And Finishing Line Press accepted my manuscript for transparencies, for a spring birth.

I didn't do as many performances this year but Heal the Earth was my way of honoring and celebrating with a deep sense of gratitude our Mother Earth. It was amazing to work with 12 other women to make these events happen, to feel the energy shift as we created sacred space and shared our passion for the natural world.

The readings with Saint Paul Almanac were fun, I got to meet other writers and poets whom I had heard of and had never met. Especially Julia Klatt Singer, whom I knew from http://www.northography.com/. I have always admired her poetry and she will be part of my book launch in March, along with Joan Calof, story teller extraordinaire.

My biggest accomplishment was installing In the Shelter of Words, a multi-media art installation created by at risk youth from a writing workshop I taught. It showcased a CD of their words and was installed at Altered Esthetics Gallery, as part of Night On the Street and at Mid-town Global Market. Passers-by could catch a glimpse of what it means to be a teen who may not have a home, may be parenting and going to school, may be struggling to overcome choices made in the past. The sukkah is now in my garage, and someday it will be brought to another community venue with more poems added.

For the first time I read a poem while Sarah Arneson did an interpretive, intuitive dance. That was amazing, to see my words come to life and I want to do more.

This year has also had its troubles: my sister passed away form pancreatic cancer, my friend Wayne Crawford was also diagnosed with it, and the first anniversary of my husband Alejandro's death reminded me of how much I miss his vitality and being with him in Mexico. But I did take a Spanish class with the intention of interweaving more Spanish into my poems and gave a presentation at The Works: a Writer's Salon on Versos de Calaveras.

The poetry salon at All About the Journey http://www.allowharmony.com/ was a great opportunity to speak with writers and share my insights. Guess what I told them? Discipline! If you want to break out from writing to publishing, you have to be disciplined about submitting, editing, being critiqued, and blogging or keeping up your social networks. We are all in this together, my friends! Writing is a way to connect, to build bridges between us, to create understanding and awareness where there was once judgement or distance. We all have a story---but the stories are sort of the same story--overcoming adversity, appreciating how precious beauty is, wanting love and validation, wanting to give of ourselves deeply and with honor, peace and justice, truth and magic.
Don't you?

The year 2011 is approaching fast and I want to fling confetti this new year's eve. I have lived through my own story of deaths and loss and rejections and yes, self-doubt. But I am here, and I have a story to tell. Listen.

Heal the Earth: a celebration with poetry and music

Heal the Earth
a celebration in poetry, music and dance

of our connection with Mother Earth
with musical interludes by Eunice Collette,
a blessing by healing facilitators

Chrisma McIntyre and Kristin Burich,
and poets Wendy Brown-Baez, Nancy E. Cox,

Didi Koka, Nicole Lynskey, Margareth Miller,

LouAnn Shepard Muhm, and Zilla Way
featuring original artwork by Laurie Langer

and a dance by Amy Sabrina

Saturday Oct 9 @ 3:00 pm
St Paul Central Library
90 West 4th at St. Paul, MN 55005