"Hope is as reasonable as despair"**

On Wednesday, my colleague spontaneously gave homework to our bereavement group. She asked each member to grab a pen upon waking in the morning and write down things they are grateful. In fact, she asked that we all write 10 grateful things every morning for a week.  My first reaction was “cool, what a great idea.” Then I thought, TEN? That’s a lot!!  

In this new series of group sessions, we’ve decided to turn to the subject of resilience a lot sooner. We find that if we wait until the last two sessions, our group members seem more resistant to closing the group, begging for more.  While we encourage telling their stories many times and completely endorse crying and expressions of despair as a necessary part of grieving, we also see our role as guiding our clients towards living again.  Grief processing is easier when it includes a positive view along with the sadness.  For example, flashbacks of the final moments and the shock of the death itself can be alleviated through remembering the good times, all the years of love.  Just as one can’t stay stuck in abject sorrow, keening and wailing without end, it is imperative to let it go for a while. Put the grief on the shelf for an hour or so and take a walk in the woods.  Don’t suppress your feelings but balance them with some small activity of daily living. Breathe.  Relax.  Laugh.  Be grateful.

When I woke up this morning it was with a rather ungrateful thought. I sat with it for a while, noticed it, then took out a journal.  I chose one from several years ago, with many blank pages.  The first pages were scribbled with a few random daily descriptions and one of my favorite poems by ee cummings: i thank you god for most this amazing day.  I smiled, picked up a green pen (for gratitude) and completed my 10 Grateful Statements.

What are you grateful for?  It doesn’t have to be a huge thing; my first statement was that I am grateful for morning birdsong, even in Manhattan.  I am grateful for each of my children of course, and I am grateful for my new career and the people I work with.  I am grateful for every insight I am privileged to witness from a person who is mourning and rediscovering the meaning of their life. 

Try it - tomorrow when you wake up, write down some Grateful Statements.  It doesn’t matter how many…

***from Healing after Loss, Daily Meditations by Martha Whitemore Hickman.

9/11/11

This is the path they took, following the widening
River, snakelike brown.
It was their navigator, those men who left their souls behind
shoving, stabbing their way into cockpits;
This churning River on its way to the unfull sea
a brackish flow of shit, toxins, discarded drugs and dregs.
The single minded men followed the River,
with twisted histories in their heads.
(The crooked cannot be made straight.)

I have often stood by the River
On a long wooden pier jutting just below the Bridge
Or high in the Hudson Bluffs where lookouts searched
for incoming warships. I protested
by this River, singing of pain, chains and change.
I believed the words I was singing
that everything was beautiful
everything was connected but somehow
we have lost the thread.

(To every thing there is a season)
These words repeat, over, over,
I heard them long ago, sung by the River, with head thrown back,
banjo thrummed and we nodded, yes.
Today I hear these words again, near
the River that pointed straight to the Towers

(and a time) to what purpose, really?
One translation claims that all is meaningless
but this is used to justify the time for war.
Those men who revved and sped
near the end of the River must have thought so too.

Ten years later (there is no good but to rejoice)
We hold hands and each other, by the River.
We enter this house of mourning
where (wisdom is better than the weapons of war)


Eccl. 1.7; 1,15; 3.1; 3.8; 3.12; 7.4; 9.18

A Hurricane Dance Party

The news is playing endless loops of bright red and green spirals, the animated edges of Hurricane Irene which is heading our way. The dark clouds are Irene's tentacles reaching out to cover us, about to open up. We sit in suspension, before the deluge. People have been in excited panic for days; stores sold out of D batteries and large containers of water in a matter of minutes after opening, and someone told me gleefully that one store sold $24,000 worth of generators in an hour on Friday morning.

Even as I attempted to liken the hyped up terror to those 6 pages of possible side effects (including death) that come along with prescription drugs, I too have been very agitated. Perhaps it is the energy of nervous people around or maybe it is the anxiety of my daughter, trying to finish her last week as a nanny while packing for a four month trip to Italy. She has insisted on taking only one suitcase which required several elimination sessions, color coordination choices and teetering around in various shoes, with a quizzical expression. "Should I take the neutral heels or the hot pink ones?" she wondered. I reminded her that Florence is cobbled and heels might not be the best choice at all. She snapped at me because apparently I know nothing about dressing for night life, which of course is true.

The packing dilemmas are all moot now. New York City has completely shut down; for the first time ever, all modes of transportation have been halted. The airports are closed. Even Broadway is closed. Over 370,000 people have been evacuated. After hours on hold, we finally got through to the travel agency and the earliest she can leave is on Friday.

One thing is clear: Irene is bigger than all of us, bigger even than Europe and we have no control over what she will do. She may weaken and everyone will feel a bit foolish. Or the predictions could hold; lower Manhattan with its honeycombed tunnels and subway tubes could be underwater. We could lose power here in the country, but we are prepared for that.

So why am I so agitated? It always comes back to uncertainty. Not knowing touches an edge of extreme fear in my psyche and in my body; before I am aware of it, I am tense and churlish. I overreact to the slightest tone. You would think I would get this at some point – the lesson of sudden death should have taught me that I have no control anyway. All my talk about staying in the moment ought to have honed some skill. Yet I feel like an unhinged possible projectile, waiting to be caught up by a hurricane wind and thrown against a tree.

Oh well. I can't control Irene, I can't control the airlines or the newscasters. I can calm down though; I could bake something nice. We could put on some loud music and have a Hurricane Party until the lights go out, then continue by candlelight. Sounds like a plan….one which I can control.

Let it go

This morning I woke up, fearful. This is a rather common occurrence; I wake up, not quite rested enough and my head fills up with worries. My mind spins and I feel afraid. What if this happens and then that will happen and it will be really bad and what can I do to prevent it, oh no, oh no OH NO!!

A little later, my partner said to me that he had never met anyone who was so invested in cutting through fear. He said he's seen me do it over and over; I am afraid and I cut through it with laser like efficiency. And I know that fear does not diminish courage – in fact, courage is (as Winston Churchill said) proceeding in spite of fear. Perhaps waves of grief have been replaced by rivulets of fear as my life is in flux. As I wait for the shift to take shape, the ground beneath me heaves and shakes. I desperately cast about for something to cling to when it would be better to bend my knees a little, spread out my arms and find a way to balance myself on the groundless ground.

It's a habit, he said. I guess he is right; I am repeating myself over and over. If only I could trust more – my history proves that things always work out, sometimes in surprising, unforeseen ways. But I am so impatient for the next phase to begin; I am poised on tippy-toes and waiting to jump in. Then he said, "The problem is hope. Hope and fear always walk hand in hand. Without hope, you don't have to fear anything."

This is a tough one. As a positive thinking individual, I tend to believe that having hope and intention is a good thing. But is intention the same as hope? Hoping and wishing become longing and yearning which lead to worry and disappointment when the hope is dashed or even just delayed. Intention, on the other hand, is focused and active but I always forget the second part of intention: State it clearly and then….Let it go. Lay the foundation, clarify, clear the deck, set the stage – whatever metaphor works but then….get out of the way. It comes back to trusting that, when the conditions are right, the right things will happen.

So, hope and fear do not have to be my best friends. It certainly would be more helpful not to be involved in wishful thinking and the accompanying angst. I have set my intentions very clearly. I have made the plan, the structure is in place. I have all the tools I need to shift my world. I just have to trust that.

Forget about the Rapture - try Karuna instead

A small group of people, fueled by a pastor whose church has been raking in millions on his claims, have declared May 21, 2011 the End of the World. Some people have sold all their belongings and piled into cars, vans and RVs, driving around the country to convince the rest of us to Believe Before It Is Too Late. They are standing on street corners, stopping people as they go about their own business. The signs are everywhere, and I am not talking about floods, fires and famine. There are signs throughout the New York City Subway system, people are carrying placards in Times Square. The New York Times reports that a nice family from New Jersey has dragged their three reluctant, skeptical teenagers to the City to spread the word. The kids wonder if they will still have to make their beds.

Doomsday rumblings are nothing new. The Right (or possibly Wrong) Reverend who predicts the End this time draws his calculations supposedly from Biblical sources and says that while the true believers will be lifted up sometime on Saturday, the rest of us will roast until October 21. It will be oblivion by then. He said the same thing in 1994. End Day predictions have been made with certainty and the accompanying pamphlets, placards and proselytizers in 1844, 1914, 1918, 1924 by the same group, 1942, 1981 and again in 1988,'89.'92,'94,'95…..Apparently, Sir Isaac Newton even calculated the date: 2060.

Some claim the ancient Mayans have also predicted the End (or could it be the New Beginning?) on December 21, 2012. Personally, I think the Mayans got tired of carving, thinking that 500 years into the future was enough to predict. There is a large movement of intelligent people who believe that Mayans were predicting a major shift in consciousness. If we are all about to experience a worldwide consciousness shift for the better, if we could truly develop peaceful, respectful dialog across the dinner table, across political aisles and across borders, then I say, bring it on. I am not exactly seeing signs of an increase in civil discourse right now; political wannabes still spout vitriol and lies, governments still send in the guns, crazed fanatics are routinely blowing themselves into tiny bits, along with as many people as possible for some kind of "cause." This morning it happened inside a hospital.

Rapture literally means "to catch up" or "to snatch." To be rapt means to be engrossed or absorbed. To be enraptured means to be transported with emotion or filled with joy. Which brings me to my question:

Where is the joy? How do we trust that we will wake up tomorrow and it will be a good day? What can we do to change our attitude to approach any day as if it is a good one? How do we stop our rapt attachment to negative thoughts, worries and fear? I don't for a minute believe that selling all my earthly belongings and standing on a hill with my arms up waiting to be wafted into heaven is the answer.

Karuna is the answer. Compassion, first applied to my unruly mind which can't seem to stop its habit of drawing false conclusions and believing the worst is about to happen. Karuna, pouring like honey on all my self-created obstacles. Compassion radiating out towards the people I love, once karuna has soothed my inner beast. Karuna will bring my arms down if they reach away from what is real, to gently wrap them around the people I love, soothing them as well. Joy can be generated by spreading karuna out to the whole world.

As I write this, there have been no earthquakes, no beam-ups. The Doomsayers are still standing in the subway stations holding their pamphlets. I've got cinnamon rolls in the oven and nothing says karuna more than something freshly baked. Take a deep breath. As you exhale slowly, breathe compassion out towards all.

Intuition

Last week I did not follow my intuition again. I was traveling from the top of Manhattan to the bottom, heading for a water taxi across the Hudson to a restaurant in Liberty State Park to meet my daughter for lunch. I took the A train from the last stop – or first, depending on how you look at it – down to the World Trade Center. Surfacing, I oriented to the west and trekked across town, through the winding streets towards the river. I passed the PATH train station and my inner voice said, "you should take this train."

Of course, I did not listen. I had my plan and I was sticking to it, even though I was already late and probably missed the 11:30 boat. I look across the water and see the restaurant, just north of the Statue of Liberty. I arrive at the ferry terminal; no boats. Realizing that I actually do not know where the taxi dock is, I run down to a nearby marina, circling through the roller bladers, tourists snapping photos, children eating snacks. A man emerges from a schooner and says, "I don't think the taxi runs on the weekend."

My daughter calls. I am becoming frantic. She has limited time and now I have to dash back across town to that train. Off I go, asking various people which train to take, where to get off; I jump out at the first Jersey stop and ascend on the world's longest escalator up to a nearly deserted square. Now I can see the back of the Statue, and Battery Park across the water. I ask again and find that I have to take another train, called the Light Rail. I am at Liberty, but do not know where the restaurant is and she doesn't know where the train station is. The trip has taken two and a half hours and I am still not quite there. I do the most natural thing; I burst into tears. Her fiancé says they will pick me up. I calm myself and finally we sit down to lunch and a nice, short visit.

It occurs to me that this journey is actually a metaphor for my life right now. I am stuck in my plan, running around in frantic circles, feeling like I am not quite getting there. My intuition tells me that I must take the PATH and I ignore the message. Yet, when I backtrack, get on the path to the unknown, ascend into new territory, everything works out.

I keep circumventing the obvious. The river can't be pushed or even crossed; in fact, I had to go deep underneath it in order to emerge into the sunlight. My own worry and fear kept me from getting there sooner; I did not investigate the alternatives. I was not prepared to shift from my original plan but change was required. It was only when I lightened up, trusted my instincts and asked for help that I finally arrived.

Channeling

Last week, at the corner café, a woman in a perky straw hat and a draped red dress came up next to me to order her café au lait. "Nice dress," I said, smiling. "I like your shirt," she said back. I was wearing a leopard print blouse, since I was planning a visit to my cousin, who loves animal prints. "I don't usually wear this kind of thing," I shrugged. "Oh," said the woman, "you should wear that often, and more!"

"In fact," she went on, "you should channel your inner Janis Joplin. People will love you!! Go get some vests; you could wear a little fur here, there." She touched me lightly on the shoulder. "I hope you don't mind," she went on. "I am a designer and a little psychic. Really, you could go a little wild. We all should. "

How people will love me if I start to party (or at least dress) as if it is 1969 is quite puzzling, but I have been thinking about this all week. Would my inner Janis like lavender today? Dare I add a belt or a crocheted jacket over my dress? I am not sure if I can "channel" fur vests; I didn't wear them when I was a teenager and doubt if I will start now. I am not even sure if I have an inner Joplin; I was always more of Joni Mitchell fan. Then again, I was never a Marcie in a coat of flowers, nor did I dress in leather and lace. My hippy days were filled with peasant blouses and long skirts, bell-bottom jeans and vintage cashmere sweaters from my mother's closet. The thought of going completely retro so "people will love me" is both amusing and a reminder of how far I have traveled from the 16 year old, passionate folkie I used to be.

City life is filled with odd interactions like this, especially in New York. A glancing smile elicits a nugget from someone's life, a random philosophy or unsolicited advice from a stranger. A terminally ill psychology professor stands in the middle of a room full of people and states that, since nothing exists except this precious moment, he is actually not dying. Maybe tomorrow, who knows? The man next to me asks him if is he talking about positive thinking, and when the professor says there is no difference between him or me or illness or life or death, the man, a Jewish cantor, folds his arms across his chest and closes his eyes. I think the speaker is referring to Being, as in completely present, awake with each person and every interaction. He says his cancer is the biggest gift he's ever received in his life.

It is raining, and a flock of birds wheels by, swooping over the rooftop of the next building. A green parakeet with a bright red head hops on a rounded tile edge, cheeping loudly. It looks up at the other birds, then flies off in to the west, towards the river.