POST 33: "Life Will Go On" |
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MY LORD GOD, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think that I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road though I may know nothing about it. Therefore will I trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone. – Thomas Merton, from “Thoughts in Solitude”
“There is a light in this world, a healing spirit more powerful than any darkness we may encounter. We sometimes lose sight of this force when there is suffering, too much pain. Then suddenly, the spirit will emerge through the lives of ordinary people who hear a call and answer in extraordinary ways.” Mother Teresa
This next turn of our lives is the most difficult to write about. This is because we are still riding the wave, uncertain where it will take us.
After a few wipe-outs, what I do know is this: after living in Manhattan for over twenty years we made a difficult decision to move to Long Island. This decision was driven by the need to find good, safe high schools for Andrew and Hannah. My job at Jan Hus Presbyterian Church was coming to an end. In our search, a full-time senior minister opening in a community with an outstanding school district became available, and Forrest was offered the position. With the prospect of a move after two decades in Manhattan, you would think we would all be elated at the new prospects.
However, I soon became sick. Very sick. I had been clinically depressed during my divorce. This depression was different and very scary.
Hello, depression, my old friend.
It was Dark Night of the Soul, Part II, but this time in a way I never experienced before. I felt like I was walking through molasses up to my neck. Getting to and coming back from work were herculean tasks. Every day I didn’t know how I would get home because I was physically drained. I was also agitated. It felt like Mexican jumping beans had been implanted in my butt. It was agony to remain still. I tried stretching. I tried yoga. I tried dancing like someone who had a little too much chardonnay. I did the-night-of-the-living-dead walk. Nothing worked. My poor brain synapses seemed like they had blown the entire fuse box, and while waiting for the lights to come back on I just sat there. Well, I tried to sit there. I jiggled and wiggled. I couldn’t read and this was a true agony because reading was my most treasured pastime.
Books and I go way back. They have always been my BFF. Instead of being the “crazy cat lady” I am the “crazy book lady.” I cruise Amazon Kindle and Barnes & Noble and ABE the way some ladies hit Macy’s, Nordstrom and Lord & Taylor. Some women have to have ten pairs of shoes in colors that you need a magnifying glass to tell the difference in shade; I crave the collected works of Anne Lamott or Madeleine L’Engle. I should attend Books Anonymous meetings, because I am a book whore. I find a book, devour it, and throw it aside for the next one. So being unable to read became a hell for me. It was a demon’s delight come true to see me suffer so. To be so sick that I could not curl up on the couch with a good read. Simple, right? I will never take simple for granted again.
This Dark Night of the Soul, Part II, cast a shadow over the entire time we needed to prepare to move to Long Island. Depression sucked all the joy and energy out of a time when we most needed it. This was supposed to be an exciting time, a time of new beginnings. I felt guilty for being sick because I lacked energy to prepare well for the transition to Long Island. We needed to pack and to plan. We needed to discuss the move with the kids. Hannah was extremely upset and angry to leave Manhattan and her circle of friends, which added to the turmoil. My congregation at Jan Hus just accepted me and loved me where I was at. Colleagues helped me write and prepare liturgies. Forrest helped me get out of bed and out of the apartment. So much of this work fell on his shoulders. There were times that friends just put me in a taxi, paid the driver and said, “Take her home.”
Still, sadness seeped into every cell. I felt worthless and stamped with failure. I never had serious thoughts of harming myself, only my creative writing. There were days I wish I could just cease to exist and stop being a burden on others. The only thing, and I mean the only thing, that forced me to cling to that thin,silver cord was the faces of my children and husband. I saw my brother commit suicide. I could never do that to them. So. I would force myself on, in the darkness. with the help amassing around me.
During this time I developed a hunger for angels. I had always collected angel figurines. This time I made a scrapbook with angels. Not the sweet chubby cherub-faced angels. I found angels in heavy metal armor. Big, kick-ass angels, angels you would-dread-to-meet-in-an-alleyway angels. Lock-and-load angels with the latest combat gear. Angels that the Hell’s Angels would avoid. I would find pictures of these angels on the internet, print them out and paste them in my journal. I prayed to these angels to blast this depression, to riddle this illness with bullets and gouge it out of my soul once and for all.
As I stared at my Rambo angels, haunting Manilow melodies, unbidden, would emerge to give voice to my darkness. Where do I go from here? The pain is calling. Go ahead and cry. It's all right. Let sorrow have it's day. Life will go on. A ray of hope in this mirage of darkness.
So I would sit with my Jungian analyst – sometimes with my butt up against the wall as if it were a chair – and draw angels and talk about them. They were part of my new hit team. They were my take-down-depression-by-any-means-necessary team. Once more I could not pray in the normal sense of praying. So trusting Mother T., I prayed in a new way.
I prayed, via drawing. Scrap booking. Collecting “Armageddon Angel” kind-of-angels. I figured God got the message. However, this depression I feared was a harbinger of many difficulties that my family was about to face. It turned out that my intuition was not far amiss. We would need these angels to stay with us for a while.
And they did.
Notes:
Location 498 of 547 Mother Teresa: Quotes & Facts by Blago KirovFirst edition 2014, transl. by Krasi Vasileva
Give the gift of music to the next generation through donations to:
The Manilow Music Project
8295 South La Cienega Boulevard
Inglewood, CA 90301
info@manilowmusicproject.org
Click here to go to the next post or click here to return to the previous post.
“There is a light in this world, a healing spirit more powerful than any darkness we may encounter. We sometimes lose sight of this force when there is suffering, too much pain. Then suddenly, the spirit will emerge through the lives of ordinary people who hear a call and answer in extraordinary ways.” Mother Teresa
This next turn of our lives is the most difficult to write about. This is because we are still riding the wave, uncertain where it will take us.
After a few wipe-outs, what I do know is this: after living in Manhattan for over twenty years we made a difficult decision to move to Long Island. This decision was driven by the need to find good, safe high schools for Andrew and Hannah. My job at Jan Hus Presbyterian Church was coming to an end. In our search, a full-time senior minister opening in a community with an outstanding school district became available, and Forrest was offered the position. With the prospect of a move after two decades in Manhattan, you would think we would all be elated at the new prospects.
However, I soon became sick. Very sick. I had been clinically depressed during my divorce. This depression was different and very scary.
Hello, depression, my old friend.
It was Dark Night of the Soul, Part II, but this time in a way I never experienced before. I felt like I was walking through molasses up to my neck. Getting to and coming back from work were herculean tasks. Every day I didn’t know how I would get home because I was physically drained. I was also agitated. It felt like Mexican jumping beans had been implanted in my butt. It was agony to remain still. I tried stretching. I tried yoga. I tried dancing like someone who had a little too much chardonnay. I did the-night-of-the-living-dead walk. Nothing worked. My poor brain synapses seemed like they had blown the entire fuse box, and while waiting for the lights to come back on I just sat there. Well, I tried to sit there. I jiggled and wiggled. I couldn’t read and this was a true agony because reading was my most treasured pastime.
Books and I go way back. They have always been my BFF. Instead of being the “crazy cat lady” I am the “crazy book lady.” I cruise Amazon Kindle and Barnes & Noble and ABE the way some ladies hit Macy’s, Nordstrom and Lord & Taylor. Some women have to have ten pairs of shoes in colors that you need a magnifying glass to tell the difference in shade; I crave the collected works of Anne Lamott or Madeleine L’Engle. I should attend Books Anonymous meetings, because I am a book whore. I find a book, devour it, and throw it aside for the next one. So being unable to read became a hell for me. It was a demon’s delight come true to see me suffer so. To be so sick that I could not curl up on the couch with a good read. Simple, right? I will never take simple for granted again.
This Dark Night of the Soul, Part II, cast a shadow over the entire time we needed to prepare to move to Long Island. Depression sucked all the joy and energy out of a time when we most needed it. This was supposed to be an exciting time, a time of new beginnings. I felt guilty for being sick because I lacked energy to prepare well for the transition to Long Island. We needed to pack and to plan. We needed to discuss the move with the kids. Hannah was extremely upset and angry to leave Manhattan and her circle of friends, which added to the turmoil. My congregation at Jan Hus just accepted me and loved me where I was at. Colleagues helped me write and prepare liturgies. Forrest helped me get out of bed and out of the apartment. So much of this work fell on his shoulders. There were times that friends just put me in a taxi, paid the driver and said, “Take her home.”
Still, sadness seeped into every cell. I felt worthless and stamped with failure. I never had serious thoughts of harming myself, only my creative writing. There were days I wish I could just cease to exist and stop being a burden on others. The only thing, and I mean the only thing, that forced me to cling to that thin,silver cord was the faces of my children and husband. I saw my brother commit suicide. I could never do that to them. So. I would force myself on, in the darkness. with the help amassing around me.
During this time I developed a hunger for angels. I had always collected angel figurines. This time I made a scrapbook with angels. Not the sweet chubby cherub-faced angels. I found angels in heavy metal armor. Big, kick-ass angels, angels you would-dread-to-meet-in-an-alleyway angels. Lock-and-load angels with the latest combat gear. Angels that the Hell’s Angels would avoid. I would find pictures of these angels on the internet, print them out and paste them in my journal. I prayed to these angels to blast this depression, to riddle this illness with bullets and gouge it out of my soul once and for all.
As I stared at my Rambo angels, haunting Manilow melodies, unbidden, would emerge to give voice to my darkness. Where do I go from here? The pain is calling. Go ahead and cry. It's all right. Let sorrow have it's day. Life will go on. A ray of hope in this mirage of darkness.
So I would sit with my Jungian analyst – sometimes with my butt up against the wall as if it were a chair – and draw angels and talk about them. They were part of my new hit team. They were my take-down-depression-by-any-means-necessary team. Once more I could not pray in the normal sense of praying. So trusting Mother T., I prayed in a new way.
I prayed, via drawing. Scrap booking. Collecting “Armageddon Angel” kind-of-angels. I figured God got the message. However, this depression I feared was a harbinger of many difficulties that my family was about to face. It turned out that my intuition was not far amiss. We would need these angels to stay with us for a while.
And they did.
Notes:
Location 498 of 547 Mother Teresa: Quotes & Facts by Blago KirovFirst edition 2014, transl. by Krasi Vasileva
Give the gift of music to the next generation through donations to:
The Manilow Music Project
8295 South La Cienega Boulevard
Inglewood, CA 90301
info@manilowmusicproject.org
Click here to go to the next post or click here to return to the previous post.