Accepting Loss

Thursday, September 11, 2014

How do you come to an acceptance of something lost to you forever?  I do not mean this to be a rhetorical question. 

The question of how a person can come to a healthy acceptance of loss has been on my mind essentially every day since I plunged back into the world of conscious personal growth work some fifteen months ago.  Loss is an inevitable feature of our lives.  It may seem exceedingly morbid to deliberately hold such an awareness in your conscious mind but it is indeed true that everything you have in your life will one day no longer be ‘yours’.  In other words, fame, wealth, professional success, love and health are all perishable goods.  At the end of our lives it seems to me the question most relevant to ask ourselves will be this: “What have we done with the gifts we enjoyed in our lives while we had them?”

I couldn’t escape the truth of my own mortality last year when my entire life seemed to implode before my very eyes.  Over a year later I am finally beginning to decisively overcome the swirling chaos of that time and , equally important, feel in my very bones that I am.  Over a year later I feel like I am finally really and truly adjusting to the changes that have occurred in the last year.  And I’m finally beginning to really feel fairly comfortable with what it feels like to no longer be unconsciously dissociating as I did so much when I was a kid (and a younger adult).  And yet there remains the grief.

Wading through my grief is a fundamental part and parcel of my work each week when I visit with my therapist.  I don’t suspect there are too many people who, like myself, have experienced profound awakenings which have been made possible (in part) by the application of a form of treatment that was previously a complete unknown to them.  The journey of awakening can be a tremendously lonely experience.  But it doesn’t have to be a lonely experience.  It’s important to me that I remind myself of this because unremitting loneliness was too often my ironic companion when I was a child.  Time and time again I have come back to the reality that feeling lonely was too often a burden of my earliest years of life.  Instability, mental illness and domestic violence are not the types of companions that a little boy should have.  Little boys need other little boys to be friends!

I am especially aware of the omnipresence of my grief this week as I near another birthday.  I marvel at how much I have accomplished in the last (mere) twelve months.  And sometimes I also sigh when I contemplate how much more work may still be before me.  But then, on the good days, I remind myself of the beauty and good things of the present moment.  I try as much as I can to bring my awareness back to the present moment and focus consciously on what is good and beautiful in my life.  Being radically present to the life I am living NOW is something I have needed to learn better how to do.  I think it is something many people living ensconced in Western culture would benefit from doing more often.

I suppose it’s also fitting I reference the deep (and common) experience of grief today as it is the anniversary of the events of September 11, 2001.  Throughout this day I plan to avoid mass media as much as possible.  While it is often important to grieve in communal ways I find it difficult to listen to many of the portrayals of that day as repeated by the mainstream media here in the United States.  It has long been my opinion that our nation genuinely squandered an amazing opportunity to develop a more just, equitable foreign policy in the days, weeks, months and years after what happened on a sunny September morning now thirteen years in the past.  While the loss of life in New York City and Washington, DC was truly grotesque and an affront to human dignity the horrible foreign policy choice of one George W. Bush unleashed a tide of destruction and misery that still dwarfs what happened on that one September day.  Thirteen years later our current President is still dealing with the unsavory consequences of the poorly conceived invasion of Iraq.  Whether you support our current President or despise him, and regardless of how you felt about Bush, I think most Americans can collectively agree that what has unfolded in the Middle East in general and in Iraq in particular exemplifies the very meaning of tragedy.

For one person thirteen years is a long time to suffer the consequences of a single poorly conceived choice…regardless of whether it was a choice of your own or the choice of another individual.  My grief sometimes morphs back into something more reminiscent of anger when I find myself pondering too long how choices my father made decades ago were still affecting me, in an adverse way, as recently as the last few years of my own life.

Grief has a heavy quality about it.  Grief is a human experience ultimately experienced by all who will live out ‘the mortal coil’.  In astrology the planet Saturn rules over the realm of grief.  In alchemy grief is akin to the (very) heavy metal lead.  When we are consumed with grief we often will feel positively weighed down with it.  To free yourself from grief, both fresh grief as well as ancient grief, requires conscious attention.  But it also requires space.  And so I will end my writing today as I began it…with a question.  It is a question I ask myself often.  Am I making space in my life for my own grief?

A Desperate Race Against Time

Wednesday, September 10, 2014

Yesterday evening I enjoyed the opportunity to converse with the friend of a friend via Skype.  After I finally resolved a slight technology challenge I was able to settle into a conversation…that ultimately lasted about an hour.

At one point near the end of our conversation I referenced an aspect of my journey of healing that I still find challenging to live with on a daily basis.  On occasion I feel that I am placing myself under an immense amount of pressure to ‘make up for lost time’.  As I have come to deeply appreciate the truth of the reality that I really and truly felt some of my most basic needs were going unmet for much of my childhood I sometimes have felt myself consumed with a bit of a reactivity that, if not consciously acknowledged and somewhat ‘tamed’, could prove harmful to me. 

I want to relish life and the abundance of possibilities that are still open to me.  And I also find myself feeling very much like an adolescent.  I notice the beauty of men on a daily basis.  Going to the Eagle bar in Minneapolis is often a special treat for my eyes and other senses.  I find myself consistently marveling at the beauty of the natural world around me as well.  Today, while in my office at the Abbott Northwestern Hospital Foundation, I found myself noticing the intricate and yet simple beauty of a sunflower sitting on my desk.  It’s amazing how much complexity is inherent in some of the most simple forms that beauty will manifest itself through.

To live too much in the past or the future is to live very little at all.  When I visit with my therapist each week I spend time addressing how the past still often affects me now in the present.  I still have my moments in which I find myself feeling a bit reactive.  Other times I find myself feeling anxious and yet also feeling completely mystified as to the source of the anxiety…as if it will always be so obvious what is ‘causing’ it.  My angst sometimes feels a bit like the angst that an adolescent might feel as puberty opens a brand new world of experience.  I am obviously long past chronological puberty but it’s not unusual for people to experience something of a second flowering at some point in their adult lives.  And I think this can be downright common for people who experienced significant abuse, oppression or hardship at some point in their lives.  As the veil of trauma has finally lifted from my eyes I am seeing the world again…for the first time.

The Autumnal Equinox is a short two weeks away.  And yet the change of seasons cannot be denied now.  A cold rain was forecast for today for the last several days.  It’s too early for a chill north wind to strip the trees of their leaves but the time is fast approaching when the trees will turn colors and charm those of us who are charmed by the whirl of the seasons.

This journey of healing has left me genuinely fascinated with my own eyesight, with the faculty of vision, with the texture of light and with a world I previously only dimly saw.  What an adventure!

September, 1987

Tuesday, September 9, 2014

As I made my way to the first meeting of my German language course last night I got caught in the snarl of displaced traffic that resulted from service problems with the Green Line train.  I ultimately had to take a very circuitous route that resulted in me arriving to my first class nearly thirty minutes late.

During my long trip I found myself with ample time to ruminate just a bit too much.  I found myself thinking back to September of the year 1987.  That September marked the beginning of my entry into that precious, transformative (and often highly angst ridden) time known as high school.  It also marked the first time I took a German language course.  I was young for my grade.  Being born in September can be a bit of a curse that way.  A person born this time of the year will ultimately be very young or very (chronologically) mature for his grade.  I began high school before I had reached my fourteenth birthday.

I recall the weeks leading up to my entry into high school were a time of high anxiety for me.  I had a younger brother who was an infant at the time.  I felt unsure of myself.  I had my growth spurt late compared to other boys.  I thus began my freshman year looking very much like a kid.  Being short of stature and young was not an easy way to start high school.

My transition into the realm of high school was further complicated by the fact that I was sick at the very beginning of the school year.  I thus began the school year feeling even less prepared for that new phase of my life.   It’s still strange how well I can recall that time of my life now.  I can still vividly recall my father speaking to me in my bedroom during the few days I was ill.  I remember him holding my little brother in his arms and talking to me about ‘saving’ his soul.  I wanted to roll my eyes as he spoke.  At the age of thirteen I was already exceedingly weary of how his conduct had caused me untoward harm. 

The grief I feel regarding the very sub-optimal relationship I long had with my father is still with me.  It’s improving as time passes.  I have learned to accept the inevitable highs and lows of my journey to a life of freedom from the pain of the past.  It simply takes time.

When my birthday comes this Sunday I want to celebrate the life I have been given to live.  I want to celebrate my renewed health and the new direction I am moving in my life.  I do not want to harbor resentment and feel burdened by the past.  I wish I could remember my father’s life and recall more moments of pleasure and contentment than I ultimately do.  It’s so sad that I feel completely estranged from my father.  I doubt that will ever change.  The time has come for me to live my own life and never more look to him…for anything.

Emerging From A Shadow

Monday, September 8, 2014

At this time of year marked by the lengthening of shadows and the fading of summer’s beauty I feel reminded about shadows and darkness not just because of what is unfolding in the world outside but also because of what is unfolding in my interior life.  I feel as if I am finally beginning to emerge from the shadowy world of trauma distorted thinking and feeling.  I am emerging from the shadow of my own father.

I had a friend once upon a time whom I thought would be one of those loyal friends who would always be a part of my life in some form.  I suppose he simply couldn’t endure being around me when I was going through the immense difficulties of last year.  I haven’t heard from him in many months now.  I am thinking of him now because I recall him once expressing empathy for my father.  I suppose he thought I was being a bit harsh with my father despite the fact that he knew a fair bit about my early life history.  And maybe I was.  But this former-friend didn’t know the full story of my experience growing up.  But then again how could he?  He wasn’t living inside my skin so he couldn’t know the full story.  I felt disappointed when he vanished from my life.

I try to be a compassionate man as much as I can be.  Given what I endured growing up I believe I have turned out fairly well.  And yet some who have read from my blog frequently throughout the time I have been diligently writing may have come to a conclusion similar to that arrived at by my former-friend.  Perhaps others would feel equally convinced that I have been unfairly demonizing my father in the way I have described him in this venue.  Just as I try to be a compassionate person I also try my best to not pass judgment on people and situations I have little knowledge or understanding of.  People can be incredibly complex creatures…especially when they have lived ‘storied’ lives.  There are often shades of gray and subtle nuance to many situations.

Despite the reality of nuance and complex human lives I feel I made a healthy choice for myself by deciding to inform my father I do not want anything from him in honor of my birthday or Christmas this year.  Actually I would like something from my father but the something I desire seems to be a something I will never receive.  I would like him to take real responsibility for his numerous choices that adversely affected me when I was a kid.  I would like him to be much more open-hearted and open-minded than he has often been.  In short, I would like him to be a person different from the one he is.  I have come to believe that this is highly unlikely to ever happen.  And so over the last year, in fits and starts, I have been gradually coming to realize I need to let go.  And then I have been doing the difficult work of actually letting go.  And as I let go I feel as if I am emerging from an immense shadow.  I finally am becoming my own man.

It’s been a real journey to get here.

I was reminded of the deep hunger I have carried for a life filled with healthy, masculine energy yet again this past weekend.  I attended a creative writing course this past weekend.  And yet again, as happens painfully often, I found myself asking myself the question: ‘Where are all the men?’  Indeed, I have been asking this question for over a decade.  I have the impression that women in this American culture are now more apt to be seeking out opportunities for personal growth and transformation as compared to American men.  Somewhere in the last few decades a bit of a role reversal took place.  As a percentage of their occurrence in the general population women are now much more representative of their ‘at-large’ population in colleges across the country.  Women seem to be moving forward while something has gone wrong with men.  There are obviously many individual persons living out their lives in this nation whose daily experience defies this generalization.  There are still many, many powerful, wealthy and educated men and far too many women who are poor, uneducated, under and unemployed and marginalized.  But something is changing.  The winds of change have been blowing for a while now.

As for the winds of change in my own life I feel a bit disoriented even now.  Over a year has passed since I plunged back into therapy.  I have finally established some healthy, firm boundaries with my paternal family of origin.  It seems I may quite possibly never see many of them again.  And it seems this may transpire directly as a result of my insistence that my concerns and old wounds be finally addressed…or else.  I have essentially made it clear that I do not wish to be a part of a family that will not take my concerns, wounds and unresolved darkness seriously.  I do not want birthday cards and Christmas cards full of proclamations of love to reach me when the same people sending them will not truly listen to me about matters that had long burdened my heart and mind.  I want depth, substance and open hearts. 

That tide of grief inside me is a bit high today as a result of what I remind myself was indeed a healthy choice.  And yet healthy change isn’t always easy.  Sometimes a healthy choice looks exactly like what I have done, namely walking away from a family that will not truly and deeply listen.  Personal growth is sometimes a painful process.

Today I am doing my best to breathe and remind myself that this too shall pass.

Exploring Deep Creativity

Saturday, September 6, 2014


I attended something called the Witness Writing Workshop this morning.  It wasn't quite what I expected it to be.  It was thankfully a bit more than I was hoping for.

Prior to embarking on painting I happened to notice a poem amid some writings that were shared with all the participants.  The following is a piece by Gail Tremblay entitled Surviving:

I dream of dancing naked under stars,
the dew on grass dampening my ankles,
the moon, sensuous ancestor, calling
to my blood.  I dream the impossible
moment when tongues touch, try to forget
how much I've lost.  In these dark
moments, sensation wakes like an ancient
hunger than will never be satisfied.  Nothing 
insulates me from memory.  The fire that fills
me with electric pulse, that makes my meat
long for that strange animal heat it once
possessed, desires even now when this graceless
body moves in fits and starts.  It is difficult
to forget the pleasure of running, the quick 
pulse feeling my whole being so even skin
seemed too small, my breath rushing past ears
to meet wind in my hair.  Now there is no speed,
only the struggle of muscle working to cross
space, the deliberate choice to survive pain,
and the will to remember love is inescapable.


I found myself relishing the imagery rendered in Tremblay's words.  They cast a vivid, wonderful world in which all that we perceive with our senses positively radiates a rich aliveness.  The sensuous ancestor Moon is something that especially caught my attention; I have done a lot of photography in which the moon was my primary subject.

I find myself sometimes dreaming of moments that seem a bit impossible to manifest.  I too feel I try quite often to forget how much I have lost.  And often I feel that my own capacity for sensory perception has awakened "like an ancient hunger that will never be satisfied".  Indeed, I feel perpetually hungry.  Nothing seems to successfully insulate me from memory.  The memories of my earlier life, both pleasant and unpleasant, spring upon me at the most unexpected of moments.

Sometimes it seems as if I have remembered the pleasure of so many things.  I find myself enjoying countless simple pleasures.  I find wonder in some of the most mundane elements of daily life.  When the wind blows through my own hair or when I explore the contours of something like a pine cone I find myself marveling at the beauty of the world.  And then the question appears in my conscious awareness yet again: Where was I?

I have made a deliberate choice to survive pain.  And here I am today.  I survived immense pain but not without some psychological scarring.  The bitterness and anger must eventually go though.  They are on their way out now.  In due time they shall be replaced by a renewed heart.  This is the whisper within my heart.  This is my grandest intention.

I wish to remember the love that has blessed my life.  And I wish for more love in the future.

......


I wish to remember and focus upon the love in my life.  And yet I still struggle.  I had what seemed to be a tension headache as I made my way to the workshop this morning.  The discomfort has since subsided.  My headache seemed to blossom out of virtually nowhere shortly after my heart and mind were (yet again) consumed with memories of the behavior of members of my paternal family of origin that cause me pain and disgust.  Such unsettling memories most commonly appear in the morning shortly after I awaken from sleep.

I've been working diligently to address the residual impact of my early life history of trauma in therapy for over a year now.  And I have made immense progress.  And yet anger still rises up within me too often and too easily.  Only love can cast out these dark, heavy thoughts and feelings.

I happened to notice a posting by trauma recovery advocate Michelle Rosenthal on LinkedIn the other day.  The focus of the posting was exploring what vision we may hold for who we will be after we have fully healed from trauma.  Establishing and remaining faithful to such a vision can be a demanding  project.  But without a clear vision how can we set sail in the proper direction with the right resources at our disposal?  Clear vision is vital to the journey of healing!

My Love of Germany

Friday, September 5, 2014

Yesterday I wrote about a film I saw this past weekend entitled The Book Thief.  Watching movies set in Germany often stimulates my appreciation of my mother’s culture of origin.  They also tend to remind me that the world is simultaneously a very large and a very small place.

When I was younger I had a dream of finding an opportunity to live and work in Germany.  Upon being awarded a McCloy Environmental Policy fellowship from the American Council on Germany in 2012 this dream awoke within me.  In the weeks immediately after returning from my trip to Germany in May, 2013 I found myself once again fascinated with Germany.  I found myself reading about the history of the Berlin Wall.  In some sense I was seeing an internalized Berlin Wall; the wall was something of a symbol for how I felt separated from my Germanic identity.  Though I do not have dual citizenship I nonetheless have felt as comfortable in Germany as I have in the United States.  And more recently the scales have tipped in favor of Germany.  With political gridlock and the ridiculous emphasis on corporate welfare and the coddling of the uber-wealthy at the expense of the poor and middle class I have found myself feeling quite disenchanted with American society.

Next Monday I will begin an advanced German language course at the Germanic American Institute in St. Paul.  I tried out an intermediate course this week but quickly found myself feeling bored and unchallenged.  In life I generally would prefer to be challenged rather than bored.

As I prepare to immerse myself in the German language yet again I find myself naturally turning to the topic of our love of the places our ancestors come from.  Below is a piece taken from my journal dated June 6, 2009:

I was a student of the Indigenous Science concentration of study in the Master of Arts program in Creation Spirituality at Naropa University in Oakland, California during the period of 2003 to 2006.  This graduate school program proved to be one of the most transformative experiences of my entire life.  I expected that I would grow significantly during my time as a student.  But never did I expect I would emerge from those three years as profoundly changed as I ultimately was.

The most amazing experience of my life came to pass during my visit to the Netherlands in the autumn of 2004.  I traveled to the village of Ootmarsum where my great grandfather and his father had originally lived in the 1870’s.  Lying in the far east of the country, Ootmarsum was the primary location of my family’s history several generations ago.  During my first night sleeping in the village of Ootmarsum I had the most amazing dream I have ever had.  The following is an excerpt from the journal entry (I am italicizing it for emphasis) I made the following day, October 7, 2004:

So the dream (or dreams?) I had last night was incredible.  Not unlike previous dream states I have had, this one had two seemingly very unrelated pieces.  In one dream I had the image of a woman before me.  She had long black hair that was tucked into a heavy shawl that covered her shoulders.  The shawl had a rough appearing texture and extended down to her knees.  She had large, piercing black eyes and had one arm extended out to her side, as if she was directing my attention to look at something.  This was her left arm.  At her right side appeared dozens of black birds.  They were descending from the sky.  They seemed to be crows.  I thought of her as the crow woman.

In another dream piece I was in my bedroom in San Rafael.  It seemed there was a party going on there.  All my furniture was gone, so it seemed there was plenty of space to lounge in.  There were many guests, but the three I recall were all women.  One was a beautiful young woman, probably in her late twenties, who sat very discreetly, but very obviously, alone.  It seemed her beauty intimidated others.  But even though she held a smile throughout the time, I felt she felt upset no one would approach her.  There was a youngish girl, maybe twelve, who sat with probing eyes looking at me from the corner.  She had beautiful straw blonde hair.  Her gaze seemed filled with wisdom beyond her years.  And then there was an older woman sprawled upon the floor with wrinkled breasts.  I was engaged in guiding her through a breathwork session.  She vaguely reminded me of Soleil from my breathwork training.

The following month, upon returning to the States, I entered Crystal Way Bookstore on Market Street in San Francisco.  I began leafing through a book on Celtic spirituality.  And there in the center of the book appeared an illustration virtually identical to the woman who appeared in my dream.  I discovered she is none other than the Morrigan.

Over two years earlier I made a trip to visit my family in Germany.  During my travels in Europe I visited Berlin for the first time.  I visited historical sites and was much impressed with the beauty and scale of the new vibrant life of the city of Berlin.  While there I also had a profound experience.  Once again I felt the very land I was visiting shared its wisdom with me.  During the single weekend I was in Berlin I sketched an image.  I drew an image of a man with a spear, hair the texture of a spruce tree’s foliage and a stern countenance.  The word for the German people comes from spear.  The Germans were once called spear men.   I then wrote something I felt was actually revealed to me by the land itself.  I do not recognize what flowed from my pen onto the page as originating in my own mind.  I was quite awestruck to later learn that the image I drew had some remarkable similarities to the ancient Teutonic tribe.

I will share one other experience to illustrate my basic thesis.  In the spring of 1997 I lived upon the Rosebud Reservation of the Lakota Sioux Native American people in South Dakota.  This nearly four month long sojourn set me on the course to later enrolling in the Indigenous Mind program at Naropa University.  Never before and never since did I live so thoroughly surrounded by a people of very different origins and traditions.  I was a very young man at the time and lived in a Jesuit mission community.  The immense scale of the plains and small size of the communities made it very easy to find solitude for contemplation. 

One day, upon returning from a trip to Rapid City, I was overcome more than once by a grief whose depth blindsided me.  I felt I was feeling a grief beyond anything that could be my own personal grief.  I felt I was feeling the grief of an entire people.  I look back on that time now and feel I was actually feeling the grief of the departed Lakota people who considered the land I was driving through sacred and alive.  Perhaps I was feeling the collective grief of these people caused by the oppression and colonization of their tribe.

I share these three anecdotes to illustrate a belief I have come to hold.  Perhaps it is not the easiest belief to scientifically prove has a basis in objectively verifiable fact.  Yet validation by widely accepted methods of scientific inquiry does not make something true or false.  It only gives legitimacy for collective acceptance.  I believe the multitude of unique landscapes that constitute our planet retain the memories and experiences of the people who are native (and not native!) to the region.  Each bioregion is a product of a combination of a unique set of conditions that can be found nowhere else on earth.  It follows that people native to each region will be a unique expression of that place.

I believe human sexuality is in itself also highly influenced by the places we live in as we come to maturity. 

In a related way, I believe pathological development in the human being, sexual or otherwise, can in part result from a traumatic breach or separation from that unique environment that nurtures our development.  I feel a trauma of this nature may have happened to me, and the impact of it is perhaps still affecting me today.

Dr. Pamela Colorado, founder of the Indigenous Science course of study, set forth a series of tenets to define the nature of Indigenous Science.  The one most relevant to my statement here is the following: ‘All of nature is intelligent and alive and can be partnered with in a research process.’  Stated another way, there is a wisdom and a lifeforce present in the entire living world.  Everything has a story to tell.  There is a purpose in the existence of all the flora and fauna of this planet.

I have spent years in individualized psychotherapy looking to discover a healing and wholeness within myself that will endure.  Yet of all the work I have undertaken to reach this state of health, I continue to remain firmly convinced that the most healing act I ever took was to visit the land of my father’s ancestry in 2004.  Now I wish to do so again, but this time I seek to explore my mother’s ancestral heritage.  I wish to travel to Germany for the purpose of learning more about who I am.

……

I ultimately enjoyed an opportunity to travel to Germany in 2013.  And visiting my mother’s family for the first time in approximately a decade set me on a new path.  At first (the summer of 2013) there seemed to be an immense and all consuming darkness that pressed in on me from every direction.  But then, as time passed, the darkness ultimately began to recede.  Now, over a year after going into therapy once again I feel myself embarking upon a whole new phase of my life.  I still have many moments when my grief feels deeply oppressive. And yet as each day passes I feel myself continuing to grow stronger, clearer, sharper…and yet still more alive.

If Your Eyes Could Speak

Thursday, September 4, 2014

“If your eyes could speak what would they say” – Max, The Book Thief

During this past long weekend I took some time to watch a few movies.  The one I most remember a few days later is The Book Thief (Die Buecherdiebin).

As a man of Germanic heritage (my mother is a native citizen of Germany) I have had the privilege of visiting the country of my mother’s citizenry numerous times.  I most recently visited Germany in May, 2013.  It was my most recent visit that catapulted me onto the path I am on now.  Looking back it is clear that the grief of losing her when I was a small child was something I never dealt with in a healthy, conscious way.  But then again that was quite unlikely considering I was about five years old when my parents’ marriage permanently ended.  Upon my return from Germany last year my dream of one day living and working in Germany on a long-term basis reawakened inside me.  I began to plot a new course for myself last year.  I have written this blog as an expression of the unfolding journey of my new course.

Like many people of Germanic heritage I have relatives who were swept up in the tumultuous events of World War II.  My mother’s father served in the War on the side of Nazi Germany.  Many of the details of my grandfather’s life during the time of the war remain a mystery to me now.  And I know I am not alone in this experience.  World War II was such an immense trauma for the people of Europe.  The legacy of that time is still playing out in the lives of people one, two and even three generations removed from those who lived during the time of World War II.  I hope one day to learn more about my grandfather’s life.  It is one of many dreams I carry in my heart.

The Book Thief is a compelling drama (based on a book of the same name written by Markus Zusak) that unfolds during the time immediately before and during World War II.  The main character is a girl, Liesel, who is placed with foster parents due to the fact that her mother fled Germany (her mother was a Communist).  It quickly becomes apparent that Liesel is illiterate; she struggles to write her name on the chalkboard at school.  The arc of the story shows Liesel’s life as the Nazi party carries Germany, and inevitably Europe, into the catastrophic destruction of World War II.  Liesel ultimately benefits immensely as a result of her new life under the influence of her foster parents, a Jewish man named Max that the family helps to hide away to escape Nazi detection, her friend Rudi and the kindness of Ilsa, the wife of the local mayor.  For a more detailed description of the plot you can find it here on Wikipedia.

I found the story touching for a number of reasons.  I especially enjoyed the juxtaposition of Liesel’s love of reading against the broad sweep of events as Europe descends into war.  Liesel sought out the power and beauty of words as the Nazis held book burning rituals and rallies to unite the populace in support of Hitler.  True learning is a very empowering experience and its impact can be even more readily appreciated when the culture around you is simultaneously journeying on a path to self-destruction.

A particular phrase from the movie remains with me now. At one point Max says to Liesel: “If your eyes could speak what would they say?”  I have been thinking about Max’s words since last weekend.  His single, concise question captures something of my own sense of wonder as I have found myself appreciating my own eyesight in a way I never did previously.  Though I had laser correction surgery on my eyes over four years ago the outcome of that, though memorable, pales in comparison to what has unfolded as a result of the treatment I began last summer.  I have written extensively throughout my blog about the immense benefit I have found in psychotherapy which has been complemented by EMDR therapy.  I feel as if my eyes ‘drink in’ the world now in a way they never did before.  If my own eyes could speak they would have a lot to say!

I find myself still regularly marveling at the beauty of the world around me.  And I also often marvel at the beauty of the men I see each day.  Spending a part of my day five days a week on the University of Minnesota campus offers something of a feast for my eyes!  My breath has stopped in my lungs a few times when I have been walking on the campus.  And though it may sound like an afterthought I do notice the beauty of women who populate my daily life as well.

When a childlike wonder regarding the world around me fills my heart and mind and yet I am obviously most definitely not a child chronologically speaking I can’t help but believe that such wonder is an indicator that something very profound is happening inside me.  It’s something like a profound awakening that now consumes me.

If your own eyes could speak what would they say?

Another Afterburn Moment

Wednesday, September 3, 2014

I had what I suppose could be called a productive therapy session this evening.  My therapist chose to lead me through a process in which I interacted with younger versions of myself.  The particular ages of these younger versions of myself corresponded to periods of time in which I can vividly recall feeling a high level of anxiety, fear, sadness, dread or a similar affective state.  There were a number of younger selves I engaged with.  They were aged three, nine, fourteen, twenty-five and thirty.

I suppose the age of three stands out because that was the time when I suppose my little mind first began experiencing the distinct impression that my parents’ marriage was riven with conflict…and would not ultimately last.  Can a three year old come to such a sharp and nuanced conclusion regarding the quality of his parents’ relationship?  I suppose it is possible because I consistently identify that age as one among a number that was distressing for me.

The age of nine stands out in my mind precisely because it doesn’t really stand out in my mind…at all.  As I have recounted previously in my blog my father was nearly taken from me in the summer of 1982 only a few months before I ultimately turned nine years old.  Between my ninth and tenth birthdays lies a vast chasm of pristine blankness.  If I were to look through photos from that year of my life I might find myself recalling particular moments more distinctly.  But I can recall the overarching ‘thematic’ feeling that characterized that year of my life.  It was a quiet form of anticipatory dread.  I didn’t expect to live to my adulthood.  I’ll return to this topic later.

Fourteen was a difficult year because I was entering my adolescence.  And yet I wasn’t given the quality attention I needed as I began this important time of transformation.  My most basic survival needs were fulfilled on a consistent basis but I nonetheless felt emotionally adrift.  My father and stepmother were riveting much of their attention on my newly born half-brother.  And so I made the difficult journey into the life of a high school student feeling unsure of myself and insufficiently attended to at home.

At the age of twenty-five I embarked on a new adventure when I moved to San Francisco.  I recall I wanted to have the “Big Gay Adventure” by living in one of the gayest places on Earth.  It was an immense leap of faith that informed my decision to relocate to ‘Gay-Land’.

At the age of thirty I embarked on more formal education.  I came under the direction of a person who would become a dear friend and mentor.  The future course of my life decisively changed in that year.

Now another birthday is upon me.  And I am giving myself the challenge of listening to these varied earlier versions of me in a truly intensive way.  It feels a bit overwhelming when I contemplate what I am ultimately doing.

I spoke earlier about how I thought I would die before I reached adulthood.  The grief I still carry within me derives in part from a truncated childhood that too often felt a bit like living in a war zone.  When I left therapy this evening I had this strange feeling as I walked to the bus stop.  I felt as if I was falling even though the Earth was firmly beneath me.  I felt a bit disoriented during my short walk.  I wondered if I was having something of an out-of-body experience.  Or was I instead having a very ‘in my body’ experience?  It seemed as if that nine year old I once was had a loudspeaker and was drowning out the voices of my other younger versions of myself.  I could resoundingly hear him exclaiming how terrified he was to be growing up with a man who effectively came back from the dead…but did not change.  It was as if I grew up with zombies.  And hanging around zombies too long has a way of turning you into one as well.

It’s no wonder I have felt immense sadness in my life.  And it’s no wonder I have felt genuinely stuck in immense sadness on occasion.  Who emerges from a childhood such as the one I had without finding it challenging to not be permanently infected with an incurable strain of cynicism?

As the Metro Transit green line carries me on my last trip of the day I can’t help but feel a bit dizzy.  Therapy is designed to shake up your life and heal that which has too long burdened us.  I still am waking up to the fact of how long I felt burdened…and how good I had become at dissociating from my pain.

A Serious Vitamin Deficiency

Wednesday, September 3, 2014

As the power of the sun wanes and the season of summer passes away to make way for autumn I feel so much more secure knowing that I am beginning the coming cold half of the year without a serious vitamin deficiency.  There are certain challenges that I enjoy undertaking and others that I do not.  Entering a Minnesota winter with a vitamin deficiency is not a wise choice to knowingly make.  When I first moved to Minnesota nearly two years ago I arrived here not realizing I was deficient in vitamin D.  Looking back I likely was experiencing a low-grade depression for much of that winter.  A little over a year has now passed since my primary care physician wrote me a prescription for vitamin D.  I suspect it has made an enormous difference in my life.

Late last year I attended an outpatient treatment program at Abbott Northwestern Hospital.  It is perhaps an irony of ironies that I now work literally one floor above the floor where I attended that program last November.  While attending the program I recall the group therapist talking about vitamin F…namely the vitamin named Fun.  We humans cannot live indefinitely without this “vitamin” either.  I didn’t get enough “vitamin Fun” when I was a kid.  Now I am doing my best to address the consequences of this deficiency years later. 

These last twelve months have been some of the most grueling I have experienced in my adult life.  And yet I am a much better person for having undergone the transformation that I allowed to unfold in my life.  It took a lot of courage and determination to let go of an outmoded identity.  My recovery process now has such momentum that I firmly believe it would feel genuinely unnatural if I were to stop the various healthy habits I practice.  Getting enough Vitamin Fun has been a central part of my recovery process.  And it will continue to be important to me in my future as well.  It was a bit sad when I came to the sobering realization that my life had often been marked by a serious deficiency of Vitamin Fun.

Those skeptical of the modern construction of ‘childhood’ as a truly distinct time period within human development (replete with its own unique developmental needs and milestones) are perhaps not as prominent as they once were.  The fields of mental health in particular and human wellness in general have made extraordinary advances in the last several decades.  I have been fortunate (and at least a little wise) to educate myself to the point that I probably have a level of knowledge commensurate with a seasoned amateur in regards to the realm of mental health.  I have not memorized the DSM-V nor do I have any desire to do so.  I’m not that much of a glutton for punishment.

A certain phrase that remains vivid in my memory is one I have seen plastered on the sides of Metro buses here in the Twin Cities: “Play grows imagination”.  It thus must be conversely true that those whose lives are relatively devoid of play (especially early on in their most formative years) are more likely to live lives marked be a less than fully realized capacity for imagination.  I have come to the conclusion that we here in the West spend an inordinate amount of time attempting to ingest, synthesize and make sense of information.  We live in a supposed Information Age.  And yet I have long wondered if the larger supply of information now available to us is making us more informed, kinder, more thoughtful, more apt to make wise decisions and so on.  I personally find the proliferation of technology to be a bit ridiculous.  People have ‘smart’ phones now.  But what good are smart phones if people walk into telephone poles while looking at their phones?

Anyhow, back to the theme of fun and play.  I need to make more time for play in my life.  Feeding my so called ‘inner child’ will, in my opinion, help me to create enduring wellness.  And after the grueling journey of the last twelve months I do believe I deserve such joy.

I believe it is our birthright to experience joy.  

What brings joy to you?

Permanent Improvement

Tuesday, September 2, 2014

I recently have appreciated the fact that one possible indicator of carrying ‘complex PTSD’ no longer holds true for me.

I wrote about complex PTSD earlier this summer.  I was introduced to this ‘variant’ of PTSD after seeking out a second opinion to discuss the diagnosis I received last year as well as my prognosis.  I have referenced the work of Judith Herman of Harvard University here in this blog.  Earlier this summer I mentioned six markers that may be present in someone with ‘complex PTSD’.  One of the potential markers may be reflected in a person’s self perception.  A person with complex PTSD may have a variety of feelings including helplessness, shame, guilt and a sense of being completely different from other human beings (my emphasis).

I had some persistent feelings of being completely different from others when I was a teenager attending high school.  By the time I was an adolescent the burden of trauma that had unfolded in my earliest years of life had already distinctly distorted my self-perception.  I didn’t feel as if I were evil, bad or fundamentally wrong.  But I did feel quite alienated.  And it didn’t help that I didn’t feel that I was given sufficient attention at home.  I grew up prematurely.  Now, years later, I am addressing the residue of this premature introduction to adulthood.  I am now deeply appreciating how much of my boyhood was truncated by what I experienced.  I acted like an adult in my childhood.  Now I wish to rediscover the boy I was who didn’t feel safe in his own home most of the time he was living at home.

I think it’s only natural, to a degree, that we all want to feel that we are special and thus stand out from a crowd of people.  Standing out is one way we can ultimately improve our odds of being selected for something we yearn for.  Standing out is how we might improve our chance of finding someone lovely to partner up with.  It’s when we begin to firmly believe we stand out in a negative way that we may conclude something inside our psyches has gone awry.

The combination of therapy, shamanic journey work, blogging, befriending of others, reading and the experience of the most mundane aspects of daily living has succeeded in gradually eliminating the distorted self-perception I once carried around.  There were moments in which I wondered if I would ever manage to feel as if I truly belonged to the human race.  Now I finally do.  I do not find myself getting trapped in distorted thinking as much as I once did.  There are moments when it still happens but I find myself more able to pull back and not get lost in dark thinking.

……

As I returned to the Twin Cities yesterday I found myself reflecting on how the changing of the seasons is upon us once again.  The light changes in September; the days shorten and the strength of the sunlight wanes day after day.  I am much stronger as compared to this time last year.  I am grateful for how much progress I have made.

Beginning this evening I will be taking a Tuesday night German class at the Germanic American Institute in St. Paul.  I look forward to having the opportunity to practice my second language.

The Value of Recreation

Monday, September 1, 2014

This past weekend was such a blessing.  Never underestimate the power of recreation and relaxation to rejuvenate your body, mind and spirit.  I had the pleasure of spending the long weekend at the lakeside house of a friend who has a second home near Fergus Falls, Minnesota. 

It seems a bit strange that summer is already coming to an end.  To live in Minnesota is to develop a deep appreciation for the season of Summer.  The power of the north wind reigns for such a large portion of the year.  After last winter I have a newfound appreciation for the beauty of greenery and warmth that allows you to luxuriate outside.

I had a vivid dream on Saturday night.  I woke up in the middle of the night.  Rather than write down what I could recall I tried to find a different place to sleep.  I’ve had some discomfort with my left shoulder and side lately.  I’m going to need to do some additional physical therapy to address the problem.  I think a more integrated approach to my persistent shoulder problem would be wise.  I also feel it would be wise to pay more conscious attention to my dreams.  If I could remember them more easily I might make more forward progress in my journey of restoring my health.  My education under the direction of Dr. Pamela Colorado as a student of Naropa University thoroughly convinced me of the immense value of paying attention to my dreams.