when…

Like many whose lives have been marked by abuse and trauma, I’ve been drawn to news about the situation at Penn State – like a moth to flame. In the last several days, I’ve been very selective – reading articles primarily by authors I know and trust. I’ve been heartened, especially, to take in the points of view of Brene’ Brown, Mitch Albom and Martha Atkins. Initially, I wasn’t sure I wanted to dive into the discussion. This morning, though, I knew it was time to put together my words from the perspective of someone who has “been there, done that” and is not so much surviving as thriving these days. It’s not the first time I’ve written about my history, and it won’t be the last, as our country begins to wake up to what has been here – and everywhere, for that matter – for so long.

I don’t know when it started, really.

When did my soft, loose limbed and compact baby body, growing at a miraculous rate into that of a young girl, first begin to close down and contract?

When did it first learn to shut itself off from the explorations and invasions of others? Of grown men (and women) seeking to rid themselves of their own pain, piled up inside their bodies until they could no longer contain all the psychic wounds inflicted on them, the scarring that riddled their selves?

When did I learn to leave this brave shell of a body behind and just observe the days of my life as if from a projection room, screening dailies of all that happened to me?

When did my pelvis tighten solidly against intruders, capturing my tailbone in a way that would lock in that primal fear in my not yet verbal form?

When did the muscles of my legs learn to contract and knit their fibers in a way that would torque my knees so strongly that they would require surgery and steal me away from childhood games, from my dreams?

When did my chest become a depository for the frustration and anger of others, ribs securely woven so that my breathing was compromised to the point of chronic pneumonia?

When did I become convinced it was all my fault, that I wasn’t good enough, that this would only happen to bad girls?

When did my physical being decide that the only way to deal with the violations was to hold my face so tensely that the crying out could only be felt, but not seen or heard?

When did the pattern of physical pain come to override those cries, to mask the angst of a broken heart with pangs of a nervous system gone awry?

When did I learn to freeze, to shut down, to escape the frequent and repeated violent assaults by holding every fiber of my being so securely that it was seen as a solid show of strength?

And when did I learn to weep inwardly, so often and in such volume that I would nearly drown from the inside out?

Now, as I retrace all of this and walk, often awkwardly, backwards, in an attempt to unravel the past and free my body and spirit – nearly a half century later, grateful for all I have learned – how do I let it all go?

I have great sympathy and compassion for all those involved in the Penn State matter. We are all in pain, “victims”, “perpetrators” and bystanders alike. If this situation (and the coverage that continues) serves to shed light on a subject that has been in the dark for way too long, so be it. May we all wake up and truly see what we do to each other, and what we could do for both ourselves and our fellow human beings. I am grateful that we have a chance to correct our course and create space for healing, for us all.

I remember them…

Do not assume that he
who seeks to comfort you now,
lives untroubled among
the simple and quiet words
that sometimes do you good.
His life may also have
much sadness and difficulty,
that remains far beyond yours.
Were it otherwise,
he would never have been able
to find these words.

It’s Memorial Day today, and I woke up in knots from remembering. I can’t quite recall all of my dreams, but maybe some of them had to do with battles, with soldiers, with being out in the woods, feeling vulnerable and attacked and in the company of those who had lost their souls – or at least temporarily misplaced them.

My memories, though, are not of time spent serving our country, of protecting our borders, or of representing the United States on foreign soil. They are of a very dark night over thirty years ago in a space not far from the place I called home.

My psyche apparently decided I needed to revisit the campus of a military academy where I was abandoned by friends and became the victim of the deep unrest in the hearts of several young men. It was a party in the seventies, so there was plenty of mind altering chemical aid and all of us were, perhaps, guilty of self medicating our own troubled souls that night. And I was certainly in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or maybe not.

I don’t need, anymore, to talk about what happened in those dark, damp woods that night.
Those boys are now men with daughters who are, themselves, young women and I cannot imagine how they, as fathers, fumble and falter with their part in what happened. I have forgiven all of us for the actions and reactions we had so long ago. I hope they can forgive themselves.

I am really struggling, though, with what I need to say today. It breaks my heart, the photographs of young widows dressed in black holding flags on their laps with one hand, their heads bowed and their other arm strongly holding their child so close to them that you wonder if they will ever let go. I can barely take in the looks on the faces of the children as they try to comprehend a world without Daddy (or Mommy) in it. And, because we have embraced equality, there are the haunted men, wondering how they will go on without the women who captured their hearts and changed their lives.

My heart hurts as my bruised body did all those years ago, when I see young men and women who have not yet begun to really live, hiking a duffel bag more than half their size, newly printed with their name, over their strong young shoulders at the airport. Some of the faces are eager, some resigned, but all of them have veiled eyes, knowing that they will see what would shatter many of us into shards that could not possibly heal back into our original form. Thanks to technology, they have a far better informed sense of what lies ahead of them than any other generation of military recruits has ever had.

My political beliefs do not matter when I see the individuals who serve our country, whether in uniform or by standing close to those who wear fatigues every day. I can wrestle internally all I want with my thoughts about the way I wish the world could be, but every morning, there are thousands and thousands of bodies that must ache as they rise, and yet they do. They get up, put one foot in front of the other, and they serve. For us, for all of us.

I wish they didn’t need to. I wish the soldiers we mourn and remember today had lived long, full lives full of hope and glory. I wish that Arlington had a huge park to celebrate centuries of peace, rather than a cemetery full of white stones, each reflecting a cloud that hangs in the blue, blue sky above. Maybe someday, but not now.

I wish the cadets I partied with years and years ago had not been so afraid of what lay before them. I wish that they had not carried that fear in their hearts and acted it out with their bodies. I wish I could speak to them now and explain what I learned from the hateful acts against me. I wish I could share the peace in my heart with them.

And so, today, I remember. I remember those who died in service to our country, those who wake up each day with a desire to protect our people and our land, those whose hearts hold peace while they carry weapons with which to carry out their mission. I remember all of the ones, like me, who help the uniformed ones in other ways, who serve by walking different paths. I remember all those who made freedom their work, in one way or another. I remember those who love them still.

I wish them well. I hope you’ll join me, not just today, but every day.

Standing together…

When you are safe at home, you wish you were having an adventure: when you’re having an adventure, you wish you were safe at home.

My Wireless World friends often inspire me, and today is, apparently, a big day for that sort of thing. Corinne wrote about Joplin, Missouri yesterday, and Lindsey put both her own words and Kelly Corrigan’s out there today in a way that spoke to my heart, too. And I want to chime in, join them, see if I can’t help bring these ideas back to you. This may ramble a little, but I’ll get to the point eventually…

I spent last weekend with 60 or 70 incredible people – all of us in one phase or another of coach training with Martha Beck. I haven’t really talked about my coaching here, largely because I still have a little trouble with that word. It conjures up, for me, my old track coach, Dean C., with a big ol’ beaten up clipboard, a really awful puke green cap and that obnoxious whistle. And nothing could be further from the truth! Coaching, for me, is just walking the path with someone, helping them to clear their windows and excavate their essential selves, encouraging them to find a way to feel welcome in the world. No clipboard, no whistles, no laps until dark.

I feel at home with this tribe in a way that is pretty rare for me. Until a couple years ago, I could count on one hand – or a hand and a half – the number of folks who I felt I could be myself with, no holds barred. Once I really started to walk in my own shoes and stepped onto my true path in this world, though, I have been gifted with some pretty incredible company. Many of those magical beings, however, are in the Wireless World, proving that we are all connected in ways beyond our day to day interactions. This was different – we were all there, together, and the energy was beyond words. Miss Martha is, of course, a huge and wondrous force of nature, but this was one big room full of light, of hope, of people living their lives for good. It felt like coming home and for someone who does not have a family of origin to draw from, that is the biggest, best, most phenomenal gift.

So, coming from that delightful scenario, I read about the devastation in Joplin, Missouri. And about a long anticipated reunion with the fleet that floats Lindsey’s boat. I put that all together, thought about how it might feel to be homeless, to feel completely untethered, to feel lost – and this is what I came up with.

In the spirit of the Help For Joplin Auction, I am going to donate a package of three coaching sessions ( a total of 3.5 hours, to be used in any configuration) with me, via phone, Skype or in person. If you would like to enter my first ever contest, please either comment below or send me an email at christa@carryitforward.com , with a brief statement of the reason you would like to be coached and the amount you are willing to donate for my services. All proceeds will go to the Salvation Army, tied into the #Help4Joplin auction. The winner will be determined by some combination of amount donated, intent and a random drawing, if necessary.

There. It always helps to do something! I hope you will visit the auction, bid on my offering here, or send out love to those caught up in an adventure they never signed up for. Let’s stand with them in any way we can.