Escaping the Gravity Well, Part II

“And are you retired now?”

I get this question every few months, usually spoken from a kind face (but in a condescending tone, ready to ask and then move on), always from someone younger than myself. At first, it really irritated me. All right, it STILL really irritates me. What, do I look like someone who has nothing more to offer the world? And what would I do for the next forty years, anyway? 

The fact is, I have a more than full-time job that I just can’t seem to quit. It’s called, “Empress of the World Wanna Be.” I have been trying to save the world my whole life. Which, I’ll admit, has been a pretty long life. And you know what? The world isn’t saved yet! As a matter of fact, most people don’t even notice that I’ve been working my head off to save the world since I was twelve. That’s a long time to be worried about things that are too big for me, like nuclear proliferation and the ozone layer and global warming and the general movement away from compassion and community and toward fear and gotcha-ism and zero-sum thinking and the media echo chamber. That’s a long time to feel a heavy weight of grief about the state of our people and our planet.

 I’ve heard repeatedly that one of the ways to process grief and trauma is to connect with other people. To take action. I didn’t seem to be having any luck with finding effective ways to do that, so the answer seemed be to just give up. Give. Up. Take a rest! Fold in on myself and sink into some distracting pursuits, like writing science fiction or maybe learning drums. Then my phone did one of those creepy things it does when it reads my mind and sticks an ad into my YouTube feed. This one was an announcement of a new program at Portland State University. “Change the world. Get a Master’s degree in Emergency Management and Community Resilience,” it said. 

Whaaat?

Two days later, I had read everything I could get my hands on about the program and spoken to the program director at length. It seemed that this program really would teach me what I need to know to leverage my efforts – and in concert with other people, not all on my lonesome - to help solve seemingly intractable problems. I had no idea where it would lead me.  But if you want to get to know dolphins, you’ll have to swim where they swim. Jump into the ocean and see if you float. 

To my surprise, I floated. As a matter of fact, during my third term, one of my professors asked me to be part of a multi-agency committee to produce Heat Week, an event meant to bring city and county officials and community-based organizations together to talk about ways to prepare for extreme heat events in the Portland area. I ended up drafting a media strategy concept (I had never done this before, but hey, I had taken a media class during winter term) and helping to conceptualize and produce a climate aware grief panel (I’m not a therapist, but I’ve sure had a lot of therapy, and I certainly feel a lot of grief about the planet).

And everything turned out fine. My worries that “If the other committee members realize I don’t know what I’m doing, they won’t want me on the committee anymore” turned out to be unfounded. They were just happy that I showed up and did my part. 

I report all this to let you know that if you feel overwhelmed and afraid of the future and think that you can’t make a difference, you are almost certainly wrong about that last part. I’m pretty sure a lot of us feel overwhelmed and afraid of what the future will bring. But I will tell you that meeting these people and contributing to this group effort has made me feel more reassured, contented, and calmer. Less alone. I didn’t have to be a rock star or even a runner up for Empress of the World. All I had to do was show up and try.

I can’t wait to jump into the ocean again and swim with the dolphins some more.

Wonderful Moment, (Almost) Unbearable Moment

 Well, so I thought I would just start with where I left off, with my announcement of being in recovery from alcoholism and then plod chronologically through the last seven years. But since I live another day every day, and there are new fucking learning opportunities every day - don't you hate it when that happens - there is no way I would ever catch up. So I'm just going to throw a big bunch of stuff in the air, like throwing pasta at the wall to see if it sticks, because Sue Howard said that's how you tell if it's done, although my Italian friend Andrea says that means it's overdone.

Here's something. When I got sober, my wonderful doctor at Hazelden told me that starting drinking at age twelve had affected my developing brain. I was understandably disheartened at this news, until he told me I was going to be all right. Brains can heal and re-wire. It's called "neuroplasticity," and boy howdy, am I glad this turned out to be true - although it did cause a few leetle changes, such as a complete reboot of my personality. The keys to the transformation, creating new dopamine receptors and neural pathways, were meditation, time, and a lot of sleep. The healing brain needs lots of sleep. And a LOT of meditation. Heart practices, sound meditation, following the breath. We're talking twenty, forty, sixty minutes a day or more, for years.

I started with a Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction (MBSR) class, then started going to a Buddhist-oriented recovery program four times a week, then to the Heart of Wisdom Zen temple, and eventually started participating in day-long meditation retreats - then a weekend - then a full week. When you literally meditate all day, either formally sitting in the zendo, or during walking practice, or work practice, or mindful eating, every moment becomes the present moment, to be given your full attention. No reading, talking, writing, phones or TV. Even the clocks and mirrors are covered. Suddenly, twenty minutes of counting breaths became just a mindfulness snack.

And I started to change. I learned that thoughts are just thoughts. That you can't argue with reality. Well, you can, but you'll suffer. Reality always wins. That feelings won't kill me. My personality changed profoundly, to the point where my kids were thrilled but my (now ex-) husband, used to a reactive overly-dramatic heavy drinker, wanted out. My inner landscape changed so much that introspection became something of a spectator sport - what unfamiliar thing will I do or think next? 

I'll leave you today with a poem I wrote that evokes what one meditation retreat meant to me. Three vocabulary words: "Han" is the pattern of sounds caused by striking a wooden board by a mallet, that calls the community to meditation. "Zendo" is the meditation hall. "Zazen" means formal sitting practice.

RETREAT: TRIO

#1 Walking Practice

All the shoes by the door

All the hands palm to palm

All the soles pressed to the floor

Heels, toes, feet as balm

Thirty pairs of eyes downcast

One heart.

#2 Work Practice

Crack

Blade strikes cutting board

Han.

Tone

Silver bowl sings to spoon

Bell.

Inhale

Peppers, oranges. Nostrils, awake!

Exhale.

#3 Zazen

Drop the story, me.

Drop the me, story.

Weeping in the zendo.

Breathe softly. Blow the breath away.

Does suffering have a sound?

Is it visible by candlelight?

Drop the stone woman

Drop her from a great height

When she shatters, gather her up

Wrap her in the weft and warp of thirty breaths

A Sense of Place

"Place isn't a setting. Place is an elder in the family. We are not describing landscapes; we are writing biographies." Luis Alberto Urrea

I've been thinking about place a lot lately. I'm getting a degree in emergency management and community resilience, which means I know a lot more about climate change threats (wildfires, toxic smoke, floods, weather weirding) and the Big One than I want to know. There was a time in 2020 when it was dangerous to breathe in the house (COVID) and outside of the house (smoke), I was putting together supplies to prepare for the Cascadia Subduction Zone event, and I could hear explosions from the riots in downtown Portland from my house, four miles away.

I wrote in this space a few years ago about how sometimes I just want to unfurl my magical wings and fly away. I want a different planet.

And because I want a different planet, and I can't have one, I attended a Climate Aware Grief workshop last weekend, hoping for some support and insight. One of the panelists told us to close our eyes and envision a "beloved place of ease." If we could be anywhere, anywhere at all, where would we want to be? And then to open our eyes and take a few minutes to write about it.

This is what I wrote.

"To my surprise, I am sitting in my beloved place of ease. It isn't the beach or Southern Oregon or Italy. It's this office nook, in this kitchen. About this place, I have no complicated feelings of loss or regret or apprehension. 

I lean my elbows on the big butcher block desk. I see my files and books and laptop and tools and ways to communicate, connect, and meditate. The pear tree and my son Robin's little house and garden are visible through the window. To my right are the stairs that lead to reading, rest, sleep, and a view of the western horizon (stars, moon, and sunset).

I smell coffee. I see the Deruta cookie jar and a pile of clementines. I hear my housemate John bumping around downstairs, under my feet. I hear the cat munching his breakfast. I smell incense and see my favorite piece of art in the house, a silkscreen of a silhouetted waterway at dusk, above my desk.

I feel grounded in my entire life here - family, spiritual practice, nature, love, cooking, service and action, creative expression.

This is my beloved place. I don't need to go to a remembered past or envision a future, or go anywhere. I am here now."

So maybe I don't need to fly away. Maybe I don't need a different planet. I can lean into what I have here, now, and continue my work to reduce harm while I'm here. And be grateful.

Re-Entry

Dear friends,

It's been years since I've posted. So many changes. An unexpected divorce. Creating a new home out of the old one. Going back to work as a teacher, leaving the teaching profession, entering graduate school, beginning the work of mitigating harm caused by global warming. The dislocations that we have all experienced: the threats to democracy, the pandemic, civil unrest, the exposure of huge inequities and suffering that many of us didn't want to see. Here in the Pacific Northwest, toxic air, wildfire smoke, flooding - what we call in the Emergency Management field, "weather weirding." Snuggling into familial, spiritual, academic, and activist communities. Restoring my health, mental and physical.

And six years of sobriety, which have made everything else in my life possible.

I have a lot to share with you all.  All the emotions, among them: frustration, anger, fear, and grief; humor, love, gratitude and optimism. A lot of opinions. Learning and curiosity. 

I'm fond of quoting Jed Bartlet in West Wing, and here goes,

"What's next?"