It’s been a hard writerly slog the past couple weeks, both mentally and emotionally, but I’m grateful for the image of William Faulkner protecting the sacred circle surrounding my WIP and me. He’s doing a helluva job keeping those demon voices at bay. Sure, they slip in now and again but with one well-aimed profanity, he sends them running for the hills.
Take a look at this article from The Guardian to see how Jane Austen would fare in today’s publishing world.
I’d really like to start posting everyday because when I let too much time go past, I get overwhelmed by all the subject possibilities.
For instance, I’m back from our car trip extravaganza and I could post a Yellowstone photo of the fireweed with the backdrop of tree remains from the ’88 wildfires:
I could share how wonderful it was meeting
and her gorgeous children, Catgirl and Tornado Boy, and the dissertation-slaving Mr. C. Laurie and I only had a bit of time together but our online interactions made me feel as if we’d already met. She’s just as smart and funny in person as in cyberspace.
Hmm, what else? Oh yes, I’m totally enamored of my hoop. I took it on the trip and hooped all over the place. Along a path in Yellowstone where I converted several older women to a hooping existence, alongside a swimming pool, in various hotel rooms, on the lawn of a hot springs resort in Montana. Wherever I could grab a few minutes. Hooping wakes me up AND calms me down (kind of a non-narcotic, non-stimulant speedball effect).
On our first day of the trip we stopped at some tiny store/gas station in Arlington, WY, where the actor James Woods was buying orange soda and chips (which he started eating before leaving the parking lot). According to Zebu, the men’s restroom in that place was literally overflowing. Ugh.
Random thought: I feel so vindicated in the knowledge that the “moderate” John McCain and his “straight-talk” campaign have imploded!
I’m reading COLD MOUNTAIN right now and am in awe of the writing. I know I’m way behind the times here, but better late than never. I read another adult novel on the trip, a Pulitzer winner from the 80s, and was not so impressed. Charles Frazier, though, is the real deal.
I’m happy to report that I’m back on track with my WIP. Zippy thought of some plot point while on the trip and said, “I know you don’t want to talk about your book but I was thinking…” Well, let’s just say I was less than graceful in shutting down that conversation.
This morning I got a call from my neighbor letting me know a local radio station was giving away tickets to Bob Dylan at Red Rocks. Well, I hooped away while hitting redial and while I got through a bunch of times (the first time I nearly choked on the jolt of adrenaline), each time the phone just rang and rang, and then went to the busy signal. Sigh. Guess it’ll be a Zebu-only experience tomorrow night.
Okay, I’ll stop here with a vow to post more often so there’s not so much stuff to wade through.
Zebu got sick yesterday.
Still sick today.
We hope to leave tomorrow.
I’m trying to catch up on sleep missed last night tending to the delirious, sweat-soaked Zebu.
Had to cancel Saturday night in Yellowstone but should still be able to meet
on Monday.
Here’s hoping all your plans are falling into place……..
Saturday night Zippy and I went to Red Rocks for the concert.
Mavis Staples – WOW!
John Butler Trio – very good.
Michael Franti and Spearhead – TRANSCENDENT. One of the most moving experiences of my life. MF is angered by the daily dose of bullshit and criminal behavior we’ve been subjected to for the past six and a half years BUT he’s also filled with hope for the planet. He’s a minstrel bringing messages of awareness and hope to the masses, and the people respond. I absolutely recommend seeing Spearhead’s live show, especially if you’re feeling so worn down you just can’t go on. Did I mention you’ll dance?!
Wildebeest and Zebu are back from camp. I picked them up Tuesday morning. Monday afternoon I received my one and only letter from camp. It was from Zebu. Dated Friday, June 29, the letter began: “Dear Mom, For me, the past two days sucked.” He went on to document how the powdered Gatorade container he volunteered to carry on their hike up a mountain opened in his pack, covered all his stuff, and coated his arms which made him “a feast for the mosquitoes.” He listed other travails which I read through my tears. I got there early on Tuesday morning, expecting a sad little camper eager to leave the mountains. HA. We were the last family to leave. My two guys kept laughing and talking with the counselors, doing card tricks and taking photos. It’s nice having them home again.
I haven’t written a whole lot in the past few days but I did manage to get over that bad spot and find my way back into the story. I’ve gone back to keeping the book secret as I write this second draft, and it feels better. William Faulkner is doing a good job guarding the circle.
I have a new addiction. I learned about Betty Hoop when there was an article in the paper about her Bolder Boulder run. She hooped the entire 6.2 miles without the hoop hitting the ground! Anyway, I just love my hoop because it’s made for adults (heavier) and stays up when I twirl. I always thought I couldn’t hoop but now I can go nonstop and am feeling all sorts of stomach muscles I haven’t used in years. Hooping mellows me out but also energizes me at the same time. Plus, it makes me smile! (If anyone is interested in getting one, the GAIAM hoop/DVD was on sale for $24.50 when I ordered by phone. I haven’t used the DVD yet, am having fun just twirling and staring into space).
Tomorrow morning we take off for a week in Yellowstone and Montana. It turns out
will be in the same Yellowstone lodge at the same time! We’re going to meet! I’m so excited! Can you tell?!
I’m taking my travel hoop on the trip. Hooping next to the geysers! (Right. As if Wildebeest and Zebu would allow that).
Wishing you all a wonderful week.
The story begins:
I was thirteen when my dad caught me with Tommy Webber in the back of Tommy’s Buick, parked next to the old Chart House down in Montara at eleven o’clock on a Tuesday night. Tommy was seventeen and the supposed friend of my brother, Darran.
I didn’t love him.
I’m not sure I even liked him.
We’ve all done things we regret but most of us are fortunate enough to keep our indiscretions private. Deanna Lambert isn’t so fortunate. When Deanna’s dad catches them in the backseat, Tommy doesn’t keep his mouth shut but broadcasts the story to the high school population. Deanna is labeled at school but even more painfully, at home where her dad hasn’t really spoken to her in the almost three years since catching her in the Buick.
With perfect pacing, Sara Zarr reveals bits and pieces of the pain Deanna feels during the summer after her sophomore year. Deanna explores her version of events – not Tommy’s, not her father’s, not the stupid boys’ at school – but her own version of why she got into that Buick with Tommy, and as she comes to a greater understanding of the circumstances, begins to see herself, and Tommy, in a different light.
From page 125: It was both sad and funny, you know, how two people’s memory of the same thing could be so different. And that was the whole problem, really, that this thing had happened between us, and to Tommy it was one thing and to me it was something else, and once my dad got involved it became something else again. Three people at the scene of the crime, each with a different story. Add onto that the whole jury known as Terra Nova High School and who knew anymore what had really happened?
This is a powerful story of forgiveness and redemption, and not just Deanna’s redemption. Every single character is real and has a story of her/his own. I was blown away by this book, literally gasping aloud when reading a particularly exquisite sentence. After I finished STORY OF A GIRL, I read it again (jotting down page numbers and sentence references because the writing is that good). Then I bought my own copy.
I don’t know what else to say except Deanna could be me or you or someone you know. Her story is unique but in Sara Zarr’s capable hands, Deanna’s pain and struggle are universal.
This morning
pointed out that I was leaving rather sad writing-related comments on journals. She wisely advised I stop beating myself up about my lack of progress and instead, give myself room to write whatever comes to mind. To relax and breathe. Or just be stuck. Her concern brought tears to my eyes.
A few minutes after reading her comment, I left for my weekly somatic experiencing appointment. When I got there, I told my therapist I was weepy this morning because I was so frustrated and stuck on a project. In talking about it further, I realized a huge part of my anxiety is the worry that I’d “talked” myself out of this book. The thing is, I learned the hard way (as in having to abandon a really great project) that I cannot talk about a book until I have at least a first draft written because each time I say something about the book, it’s like letting air out of a balloon. Pretty soon the book/balloon is flat and lifeless and I have no desire to play with it anymore. I do have a first draft of this book but it’s different than the others I’ve written. More plot oriented than character-driven. Since I’m not as comfortable with plot as characterization, I started talking with Zippy about plot issues. Well, he suggested stuff and we talked and talked about my book, and at the time I thought it was really cool to have that connection and collaboration. Now I’m not so sure.
In discussing all this loss-of-energy-on-this-project stuff with my therapist, I realized I needed to stop talking about this project. Then she recommended visualizing a circle around me and my project, one that keeps that creative energy close but also prevents anyone/anything from interfering in my process. So I closed my eyes and did that (somatic experiencing is all about looking within and tracking physical/emotional sensations. I know it sounds wacky but it’s been a lifesaver for me). She asked if there was anyone I wanted to stand guard on my circle, to help me keep out the interference. I chose William Faulkner. As I visualized my circle with ol’ William standing guard, I felt relief. Not one hundred percent relief, but some.
Then we talked more about the panic and doubts I’ve had about this project and I told her I felt like I was in a free fall. She asked if there was anyone I’d trust to grab onto me, to stop my fall. I immediately visualized a human chain of writer friends, all of you, reaching out to grab my hand. As I pictured all of us linked by our hands, I thought about how you all understand what I’m going through, how we all cheer each other on, and celebrate the good moments and mourn the bad. I thought about how this publishing trek is so tough and competitive but how everyone here is willing to help out the other writers.
I got teary again. The good kind of teary. In that moment, I felt safe and confident of my writing ability. The panic and doubts were gone. I wasn’t alone in my crazy shame spiral. You’ve all been there. You know what it’s like and you all do your best to drag fellow writers out of that icky place.
Since this morning’s appointment, I’ve had a couple more moments of loathing and doubt. But each time I visualized my connection with all my writer friends, and felt calm again. Later I sat at my desk, closed my eyes and basked in the quiet
wrote about in today’s post. And you know what? I wrote 700 words.
I appreciate each of you so very much. Thanks for all you give.
Yesterday Zippy and I drove Zebu and Wildebeest up into the mountains to the camp they’ll be at for ten days.
I expected to feel lighter, unburdened. Excited.
And I guess I do. But I’m also a little lonesome and anxious without the constant soundtrack of their laughter and bickering.
Motherhood is full of so many surprises.
Yesterday was Zebu’s 11th birthday.
He spent the day at Water World with his friend and Zippy Ramone.
(The way I saw it, if I could handle 26 hours of labor Zippy could handle six hours of heat, wet shorts, crowds, lines, and sunburn).
Zebu’s friend gave him a birthday gift.
A ticket to join friend and friend’s father here
for a Bob Dylan concert.
I’m the Dylan fanatic in the household
and I didn’t get to see him in concert until I was 15.
Zebu probably couldn’t name three Dylan songs.
But he’s very excited
and I’m happy for him.
A Red Rocks concert is something he’ll never forget.
When the Dylan tickets went on sale, Zippy and I debated buying two.
However, I’m feeling a bit disconnected from old Bob these days
in large part due to this.
We passed.
But we suddenly had a craving to see a show at Red Rocks Amphitheatre.
It’s an incredible setting.
Magical.
We really wanted and needed one concert experience there this season.
We checked the roster
and bought tickets for Michael Franti and Spearhead
(and Mavis Staples!!)
I’m probably done seeing Bob Dylan in concert.
I have a slew of memories from all those concerts.
I’ll never see him at Red Rocks
but that’s okay.
It was time for something/someone new.
Zebu can’t wait for his concert
and neither can I.
is going to give away an autographed copy of
‘s QUAKING to one lucky winner! I really want to win it for myself but am willing to share the details with the rest of you because it seems like the decent thing to do. 🙂
Go here to enter:
http://annemariepace.livejournal.com/102570.html
I told myself I wouldn’t start on the second draft of my middle-grade WIP until I sorted out the plot issues. So that’s what I’ve been doing. Pulling up my list of THINGS I KNOW and adding to it. A little bit here, a little bit there.
Well, I’m sick of it.
I don’t want to sketch out plot issues anymore.
I don’t feel like I’m moving forward on this project.
I just want to write the @$*#-ing book.
Among other THINGS I DO NOT KNOW, I still haven’t figured out the story of one character’s mother. Is she alive? Dead? Missing in action? Wandering the streets suffering amnesia?
Do I have to know this before I start the second draft?
Last night I finished reading TIPS ON HAVING A GAY (EX) BOYFRIEND by
. Throughout the book, I thought of S. who was my best friend and then in seventh grade, briefly my boyfriend. We broke up a few days later when we realized “going together” had flipped some sort of switch so that we no longer talked and had fun. We remained best friends throughout high school.
In the ten years after graduation, S. and I were in and out of touch. He once sent me a letter written on toilet paper, another scrawled on the back of an old history quiz. At one point I tracked him down and we had a marathon phone conversation. He told me he was gay. I said something like “Really?” He said something like “You must’ve known.”
Did I?
Like Carrie’s character, Belle, maybe I did and maybe I didn’t.
All I knew was S. was loyal and funny, charismatic, sarcastic. Smart. He was my friend and that was all that mattered.
Dylan’s sexuality, however, is much more an issue for Belle. She and Dylan are in love, they’re physically intimate, and plan on getting married someday.
As I read Carrie’s book and took the journey with Belle in the week after she learns Dylan’s truth, I suffered alongside her as she faces one new painful reality after another. I wondered how Belle would survive. How Dylan would survive. How anyone survives high school which is an excruciating experience for most everyone, no matter who they are.
We’ve all had Mimis and Eddies in our lives. People driven by fear and ignorance, anger and frustration. Carrie’s words put me back in the high school hallways filled with those whispers and rumors, intimidation, ostracism, and peer pressure. S. and I grew up in a small community, much smaller than Carrie’s Eastbrook, and TIPS ON HAVING A GAY (EX) BOYFRIEND helped me understand even more than I already did how very difficult it was for S. in that setting, and why (maybe) it was too scary for him to tell me then about his sexuality.
Thank you, Carrie Jones, for writing this story. I lost S. fourteen years ago to AIDS just four months after he performed my wedding ceremony, but your words have given me another window into his life via Dylan and Belle’s story.
Dylan is Belle’s friend, always was and always will be. And that’s all that matters.
I’m trying hard to stick to my THINGS I KNOW list as I figure out story/plot issues before starting my second draft.
Yesterday I added a bunch of details to the list, including one that raised the stakes.
Yesterday I felt pretty good about the process.
Today?
Today I’m reading through pages of notes I wrote during the first draft.
I’m back to those feelings of panic and overwhelm.
Which ideas are usable?
What should I ignore?
I read those notes and lose all focus as my brain scampers off on some A.D.D.-inspired field trip. Maybe this should happen. Maybe that. How about such and such?
Someone needs to give my brain a good talking to.
I just watched a great blue heron wading in the run-off pond near my house. That’s what I want to be in my next life. (Um, a heron, not a run-off pond).
The Bolder Boulder photographers just sent the link for me to check out my race day photos. Yikes. The photo of me running in the stadium toward the finish line shows one very tired woman. Zippy had five photos taken of him and I’m in three of them, running behind him like some oxygen-deprived stalker.
The official race results are now available and I discovered my time was nine seconds faster than I thought. Woo Hoo! But even more exciting, out of the 448 44-year-old women in the race, I had the 26th fastest time. (Technically I’m 27th but one of the women is listed as “Steve” which Zippy insists is a mistake. I pointed out there was a female character named Ralph on “Green Acres” but he insists that fact is not germane to the discussion). Anyway, I was pleasantly surprised by my race position and it took the sting out of getting a much slower time than I’d hoped for.
I’m trying to sort out plot issues for my middle-grade WIP but started feeling overwhelmed by all the possibilities. I was writing ideas, many of which were “maybe X does this because such-and-such…”, and I started to feel panicked by not having anything to hold onto. So I started a THINGS I KNOW list. I’m writing one-liners about story details I know for sure, and it’s helping me figure out what else I know. Now I don’t feel like I’m drowning!
Wildebeest had his last day of 7th grade on Wednesday and Zebu finishes 5th grade today. We’re all quite happy putting this school year behind us. We plan to celebrate tonight with some dinner and bowling.
This morning I went to the nearby tech school and bought a bunch of perennials from the student greenhouse which means I need to get outside and figure out where to put them in my various flower beds. I bought two forget-me-not plants because they remind me of Alaska. Now if only I could get a moose to come hang out in my yard………
Wishing you all a wonderful weekend.
Well, I ran the race this morning.
And it was tough.
Good news: I didn’t walk.
Bad news: I wanted to quit in the first mile.
It’s the first time Zippy Ramone and I’ve run together (we usually run in separate waves because it aggravates me no end that he’s faster than me). But today he made a commitment to me and my race, and stuck with me to keep me going. He’s a wonderful man.
I ran the race in 52:21, a mere 2 1/2 minutes off my goal but that’s okay. Because as I mentioned, I REALLY just wanted to sit down and have a good cry but I fought off that urge and kept plugging along.
I need you all to know how much your kind comments and good vibes meant to me. When I was having those internal conversations about the merits of quitting the race, I remembered your support and it helped keep me going. I didn’t want to let you OR me down.
One of the Bolder Boulder perks is a post-race massage given by massage school students. In the past, I’ve received rather perfunctory attention that lasted a fraction of the massages Zippy gets post-race. I always wondered if I smelled even more than the average runner.
Today, that all changed. I got a 20 minute massage from a man named Lowell. He stretched and massaged every one of my tired muscles. I was crying tears of gratitude by the time he finished.
Zippy complained his massage therapist finished working on him plus another runner in the time it took to get mine. HA!
When we drove up our street, I saw a long streamer of toilet paper and wondered why someone chose today to TP our yard. But it was our neighbor who’d strung toilet paper across our driveway. I broke the finish line ribbon with the nose of my Prius!
I’m off for a long soak in a tub of Epsom salts. Thank you again so very much for helping me make it through the race!
Because weekends seem to be quiet on LJ and because this weekend will probably be quieter than most, I’m posting now.
On Memorial Day, Zippy Ramone and I will be running the BolderBoulder 10K. As some of you know, my health crashed in August 2004 just three months after I’d run a very strong BolderBoulder. I haven’t run it since.
It’s been a long road to recovery but I’m going to run the 6.2 miles this Monday.
I’m nervous. Running this race feels like my official announcement to the world that I’m better. Whole. Tracy, again.
I want to do well.
I’m asking for good thoughts sent my way. Our race wave takes off at 7:11 a.m. (Mountain Time) on Monday morning. I hope to finish at about 8:00.
I’d very, very much appreciate your thoughts and support. And if anyone knows any magic voodoo to banish exercise-induced asthma, please send that along, too!
Wishing everyone a wonderful Memorial Day weekend!
I'm so sad right now. I just got off the phone with my representatives,
two Democrats and one Republican.
Might as well be two Republicans and one Democrat.
The Democratic leadership is poised to give Bush $95 billion more war funding.
No timelines for troop withdrawal.
Blank check.
I reminded my "representatives" about the concept of democracy:
the majority of Iraqis want the U.S. out of Iraq.
The majority of people in the U.S. want the U.S. out of Iraq.
Democracy only works if you listen to the people.
They're not listening. They're afraid.
I told my supposedly Democratic senator I'd actively work against
his re-election if he voted to continue the bloodshed.
I wept as I spoke to my Democratic representative's staffer,
thanking the representative for his courageous vote
in favor of the McGovern legislation that would have begun
withdrawal in October 2007, begging him to
vote against continued funding.
I hope everyone makes phone calls today.
Iraq is a humanitarian disaster.
Capitol Switchboard is 1-800-614-2726 or 202-224-3121.
NO BLANK CHECK for an occupation
Further no-strings-attached funding means Iraq becomes the
Democrats’ war.
The only funding necessary is to safely withdraw our troops AND
provide humanitarian/reconstruction aid to the Iraqi people.
Again, the Capitol Switchboard is 1-800-614-2726 or 202-224-3121
Please call today.
I just spent two hours at the Toyota dealership because of a CHECK ENGINE light in my Prius. For those unfamiliar, the Prius is a hybrid, therefore, it has lots of computer stuff and battery stuff (like my mechanical lingo?!) going on. I was told there were fifty possible explanations for that light.
I signed an agreement to pay a minimum of $110 to diagnose (and possibly fix) the problem. I prepared myself for bad news.
Diagnosis: LOOSE GAS CAP
That’s right. No matter what type of car you drive, you must tighten the gas cap or else a vacuum or a leak (or something) develops which will cause that damned light to go on. This problem is NOT specific to hybrids!
Sigh.
Good news: I got lots of revision work done (I took over one of those little rooms where the salespeople put the screws to the poor souls negotiating a price for their new vehicle) so I could read my pages aloud and make necessary changes.
Gooder news: They “only” charged me $55.
Goodest news: There’s cold beer in the fridge.
I got this from
. The following first lines are from books on my nightstand and in the bookcase next to my desk in the office. Here’s hoping you do better guessing the sources than I did with Melodye’s list. (Sigh).
1) In the fall of 1995, after resigning from my last academic post, I decided to indulge myself and fulfill a dream.
2) When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind: Paul Newman and a ride home.
3) You grow up with a kid but you never really notice him.
4) First Lieutenant Jimmy Cross carried letters from a girl named Martha, a junior at Mount Sebastian College in New Jersey.
5) To the red country and part of the gray country of Oklahoma, the last rains came gently, and they did not cut the scarred earth.
6) “I thought you said you read The Book,” said Sam.
7) Mum says, “Don’t come creeping into our room at night.”
8) A green hunting cap squeezed the top of the fleshy balloon of a head.
9) All you fish, listen up.
10) Popularity is a drug.
11) Jewel and I come up from the field, following the path in single file.
12) I told you last night that I might be gone sometime, and you said, Where, and I said, To be with the Good Lord, and you said, Why, and I said, Because I’m old, and you said, I don’t think you’re old.
13) In one of my earliest memories, my mother and I are on the front porch of our rented Carter Avenue house watching two delivery men carry our brand-new television set up the steps.
1) READING LOLITA IN TEHRAN by Azar Nafisi
2) THE OUTSIDERS by S.E. Hinton
3) LOSER by Jerry Spinelli
4) THE THINGS THEY CARRIED by Tim O’Brien
5) THE GRAPES OF WRATH by John Steinbeck
6) THE NOT-SO-JOLLY ROGER by John Scieszka
7) DON’T LET’S GO TO THE DOGS TONIGHT by Alexandra Fuller
8) A CONFEDERACY OF DUNCES by John Kennedy Toole
9) HARRY SUE by Sue Stauffacher
10) SO NOT THE DRAMA by Paula Chase
11) AS I LAY DYING by William Faulkner
12) GILEAD by Marilynne Robinson
13) SHE’S COME UNDONE by Wally Lamb
Readers suspend disbelief and writers suspend disbelief because writing and reading are acts of faith along the path to knowledge, not just one particular knowledge but any knowledge that is part of the essential truths lurking to be shared by the reader and the writer and all those people in that story, that are coming not to just one conclusion but many conclusions, that follow not one path but many paths, because the writing and the story are not just about one thing but many things, and in this essential multifarious way writing is an embrace of all the complexity of not knowing and wanting to know and getting to know and all the contradictions that reside therein, and that has been our task, on these paths, all of us – writer, reader, character – to embrace those contradictions.
I’ve copied this from DailyKos.com in hopes some of you could contribute funds to help save a much-needed women’s shelter. Thank you – Tracy
Yesterday, I posted an article about Amnesty International’s heartbreaking report on violence against Native American and Native Alaskan women. As part of that article, I had a link to the Pretty Bird Woman House, a women’s shelter on the Standing Rock Sioux Reservation in South Dakota.
The story of how the house was founded was painfully sad and the tragedy was compounded by the news that Pretty Bird Woman House is on the brink of closing for lack of funds. Thankfully, the DailyKos community responded. Kos contributor nbier contacted the shelter and made arrangements to collect funds for them. Even as he was talking to the shelter worker, he learned that she was literally on her last paycheck. It’s that close.
I’d like to ask you to go to the Save Pretty Bird Woman House chip in page and show these folks that someone was touched by their story, and that this community wants to reach out to their community.
I’d like to extend my thanks to nbier for making the effort to contact the shelter and collect the information. Hopefully, we can get them some funds before the lights go off. Then maybe we can convince them that it would be worthwhile to put up a web page to pass along news of the shelter’s progress.
I’m supposed to be doing revisions.
Guess what I’m really doing?
Bidding on ebay!
In one hour and 38 minutes I’ll know whether I’m the proud owner of a vintage dragonfly pendant.
One hour 37 minutes……
These bloomed yesterday and I’m so excited because (1) I’ve never had daffodils before and (2) they’re
the bulbs I got from Laurie Halse Anderson (explanation here) and (3) they make me feel connected to LHA and all
the other writers I communed with that weekend.
It may sound corny but these lovely flowers symbolize the commitment each of us has made to creating real and true stories for young readers. And that makes me feel good.
As per the sound advice offered by my friends, I’m seeking out beauty in the world.
My neighbors’ crabapple tree hangs over my patio so this is the gorgeous pink
canopy above me as I work on my revisions. I only wish this journal provided aroma and sound
capabilities. The air is sweet with blossom perfume and the bees are a-buzzing.
Thank you for the comments and emails regarding the earlier post related to my health
and world view. Your kind words and support mean so much to me.
In August of 2004, my health crashed. Diagnosis was first Lyme disease then chronic fatigue. I went from an incredibly strong person who ran, lifted weights, hiked, swam, etc. to a woman with no energy who spent the day in pajamas, napping three or four times each day. Friends drove my children to and from school. My husband did EVERYTHING around the house. I had difficulty concentrating, could not multi-task, and overall was mentally fatigued.
I eventually regained some strength but experienced a near-constant buzzing/humming sensation throughout my body, and pain in my hands and legs. I still could not think clearly and was easily overwhelmed. I became depressed.
In the summer of 2006, I happened upon an article about post traumatic stress disorder and chronic fatigue. The article mentioned a book called WAKING THE TIGER by Peter Levine. I read the book and realized I was suffering post traumatic stress! But how could that be? I hadn’t been assaulted, hadn’t experienced a natural disaster or lived in a war zone. Well, I learned trauma can accumulate in our systems. The time I’d been rear-ended, the various dental procedures, the C-section, all those experiences left residual energy in my system (I think of it as by-products of the adrenaline my body put out during those fight/flight moments), and my body reached the tipping point. Hence, the buzzing/humming sensation.
In October I began weekly somatic experiencing therapy in which I learned to discharge that unwanted energy from my system. It’s an amazing process and I’m thrilled to say I’ve regained much of my strength and vitality. I’m not 100 percent yet but I’m running again, I can multi-task, and I’m not so easily overwhelmed. Also, the process helped me understand the ways I disassociated in order to survive.
So why am I writing about this now? Yesterday’s news out of Virginia Tech brought back many of those old “symptoms.” My legs buzzed, my hands ached, I couldn’t think clearly, and I cried. And cried.
And then I thought about these two news briefs from yesterday:
BLACKSBURG – A gunman massacred 32 people at Virginia Tech … The bloodbath ended with the gunman committing suicide, bringing the death toll to 33.
BAGHDAD – In the northern city of Mosul, a university dean, a professor, a policeman’s son and 13 soldiers died in attacks … Nationwide, at least 51 people were killed or found dead.
And I cried even more.
Because I realized I’m still living the post traumatic stress profile in regards to Iraq. Even though every morning I maintain this sign, I’ve disassociated from that tragedy. The civilian death toll is so high I can’t even visualize those numbers (I realize the “official” number is much lower than the actual death toll). I can’t imagine what it’s like waking each morning with the knowledge there’s a very high probability someone you know will lose someone they know that day.
The Virginia Tech tragedy plays out each and every day in Iraq. Not the same circumstances but the same cycle of horrific violence and heartbroken families. Yet I don’t cry about Iraq on a daily basis. I won’t allow my mind to dwell on the terrifying reality of night raids, rapes, executions, explosions, starvation, and disease. I’ve forced those thoughts from my mind in order to survive.
And that scares me. Because when we become numb to the lives of other beings (human and otherwise) on this planet, atrocities occur and our collective health is damaged.
I don’t want to “disassociate” the fact that we all love our children. That we all want a safe, happy, and healthy future for those children. And that every parent grieves the same way.
Today I grieve for everyone on the planet.
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Tracy Abell 
