Slowing Down

When I begin to write a new piece, I find myself rushing to get my ideas down, to get the story in place, as if only getting the words on paper will stop the flurry of images in my head. Writing stories, as opposed to analytical writing, starts with these narrative images playing through my mind, flickering like an old movie. Capturing them and putting them into words on a page requires that I STOP my mind for a minute, choose one image carefully, then slowly, slowly play that narrative through, documenting the details, going back and adding more when the moment is replayed again in my head. Piece by piece like this, I end up with a story, a novel even.

It isn’t easy for me. It requires that I stay in my body for an unknown amount of time, letting my own body experience the setting and action of the story as it unfolds. I cannot stand back distantly and describe a scene or action. I have to inhabit the mind of one of my characters and experience what is happening, second by second. The darkness of the stories I am prone to write makes this very painful. After an hour of writing, ending with 2 or 3 pages of text, I am exhausted, physically and emotionally.

For someone with PTSD, being in my own body is difficult at the best of times, but being in my body and living someone’s fear or pain, their happiness or pleasure, is even more difficult. I want to race through whatever scene I am writing, get it over with so I can once again exit the world of feelings. Again, I have to slow myself down and ask myself, What am I (the character) feeling right now? What sensation in my body? What do I see? And then I tell the story to myself, to my keyboard, eventually, after much revision, to other people.

And so it is with life. Every day, to battle the numbness and dissociation of PTSD, I have to slow down and experience the moments I am in. I hear people flippantly say, “Be in the moment” and I think, Easy for you to say.  Not so easy for me to do. I go through life, flying or floating, rarely touching ground. I view my body and a thing of aches and pains, an incumbrance, a tool to get things done. I live in my head because living in my body seems dangerous and painful. But what a waste of life that is. So I force myself to pause and listen. Pause and look. Pause and feel. A kink in my neck. Sunshine snoring on the sofa. The sunlight reflecting off the metal of my neighbor’s air conditioner and into my eyes. I close my eyes and breathe deeply and ask myself, “What do you feel?” Content but sad. I am always a little sad, it seems. More relaxed than I’ve been in over 18 months. Almost peaceful. And this is a victory for today.

Christmas Musings

Dark nights, silver lights.

I baked cookies all day today with my 24 year old daughter. We made gingerbread dough yesterday and cut, baked, and frosted the cookies today. As usual, there are far too many but this year my both sons will be home so we will likely eat them all. They are not very pretty, but they are delicious, thick and smooth, sweet and spicy. We added little red hot candies to some of them for an extra kick.

I’ve made cookies for my children every Christmas for the past 30 years. It is hard to believe I have been doing it so long. I am not a cook, but I can bake, and everything I bake is not very pretty, but delicious. It is sort of my motto for life these days as I get older. Sometimes my life is not very pretty on the outside, but it is quite delicious.

On November 30, I lost my job of 17 years. That’s a long and unfair story for another day. But it means that at the age of 55, I am going to have to move from Chico, a town I have called home for almost 30 years. Not pretty. Still, I have a growing excitement at the possibilities ahead of me. Moving to Portland, Oregon, to live in a city, is both a frightening and a wonderful idea. I have a list of pros and cons and the pros far out weigh the cons. For one thing, I will never have to live through another Chico summer where the temperature hangs around 100 degrees for weeks at a time.  For another, from Portland I can explore the Pacific Northwest and even Vancouver, BC, places I have wanted to see for decades. I will be closer to the ocean, something my soul yearns for. The downtown branch of the Multnomah County Library is reason enough for me to want to live there, but there are also other lovely buildings. There is art and music and street fairs. The list goes on and on.
What there isn’t are my children. I am not sure how I will be working that out yet. And this is where the Christmas musings come in. While the Nativity stories are simply that, stories rich in symbolism, that symbolism has great meaning to me, especially now, right before Christmas. What does it mean to think of the Power of God being born in a lowly stable? Not very pretty on the outside, but wonderful on the inside, right? I am delighted by glass ornaments sparkling in the darkness, by smells of evergreen and baking, by ribbons and packages. Beauty surrounds me in my home where I am sitting surrounded by Christmas lights, with one of my dogs snoring nearby. I love shiny things, but what I really yearn for is the peace of a deep, dark night in the middle of Palestine 2,000 years ago and the strong but gentle presence of God. If I sit there, in that feeling, than somehow I trust that while I will miss my children, it will all be worked out for the best. They will visit. I will visit. And that is what is amazing about the Incarnation of the Power of God. God with us, Immanuel. Trusting that God is with me, a part of me, means that not-so-pretty things can be delicious.