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Archive for January, 2015

For the Week of January 25, 2015: The Metaphors of Daily Life

Posted in art and writing, expressive writing, healing arts, life writing, writing as a way of healing, writing for wellness, writing to heal on January 24, 2015 | Leave a Comment »

Metaphors have a way of holding the most truth in the least space.
― Orson Scott Card, Alvin Journeyman
Tomas did not realize at the time that metaphors are dangerous. Metaphors are not to be trifled with. A single metaphor can give birth to love.
― Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being
There are few things as toxic as a bad metaphor.  You can’t think without metaphors. 
  –Mary Catherine Bateson

Back in October, I wrote a post about metaphors—those intended or inadvertent comparisons we use in our daily lives.  At the time, I was exploring the metaphors we use to describe the “kingdom of the sick,” and how they exert a subtle or not so subtle influence on our daily lives.  How we think of or see a thing often influences the actions we take concerning it.

I was reminded that post on metaphors or comparisons again this Sunday morning, (late Saturday afternoon or early evening for those of you in North America) the day before I return home from Okinawa.   I was reading through my students’ responses to the first week of assigned readings for “Transformative Writing” an online course I teach for UCLA extension Writers’ Program.  We’re using Louise DeSalvo’s excellent book, Writing as a Way of Healing, as the text for the first half of the course.  Her first two chapters coupled with an article by psychologist James Pennebaker got students thinking more about how writing—no matter the form—can have health benefits, whether emotional or physical.   But it was in the use of metaphors two of the students responded with their reflections that got me thinking about how we use comparisons to describe something.

One student described negative emotions like “bad dinner guests.”  I wrote back, suggesting that the feelings we have out of woundedness or a life threatening illness are not so easily dismissed as an unpleasant dinner guest.  His response got me thinking how we sometimes use metaphors or comparisons without stopping to consider what they actually imply.   While poetry abounds with metaphor, the poet’s choice is a considered one, for through them, the poem’s meaning is conveyed.  If you were to trying to describe hurt, grief or fear—emotions that arise out of trauma and serious life situations, would you think of them as “bad dinner guests” or something more onerous or lasting?  What is the metaphor you’d use, and why?

The beauty of a metaphor is that it calls up an image and conveys meaning in a single word or two.  Even DeSalvo’s book is a comparison:  writing as a way of healing.  The second student wrote how DeSalvo’s chapters made her realize why writing is so important for her.  “Writing is breathing,” she said.  I understood immediately—for those of us who write, it is natural and necessary as breath.  I’ve often described my daily habit of writing as “a meditation” or “prayer.”   How would you describe any of your “life-giving” activities using a metaphor or comparison?

This week, think about the metaphors you use in the rhythm of daily living.  Are there ones you find yourself repeating?  Others that, as you stop to think about them,  they don’t quite convey what you intended?  How would you describe—using a metaphor or comparison—negative or painful emotions?  Or, if writing is important to you, then how would you convey that with a metaphor, e.g. writing is _________.   Think about the meaning behind the common comparisons you use.   Explore how you use metaphors.

I’ll be writing next week from my home office in California, my heart filled with gratitude for the time I’ve been able to spend in Okinawa with my daughter and my delightful, never-a-dull-moment two grandchildren, experiencing their lives, the culture in which they’re residing, and experiencing so many truly wonderful moments with their friends.  As for finding the metaphor or comparison that sums it all up, well, my heart is so full, the words don’t quite do justice to describe my experience just yet!  Yes, I think there are also times in life when no words quite capture what we experience or feel.

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For the Week of January 18, 2015: The Promise in Our Dreams

Posted in expressive writing, life writing, writing as a way of healing, writing for wellness, writing prompts for cancer survivors, writing to heal on January 17, 2015 | Leave a Comment »

Where do dreams come from? Do they
sneak in through torn screens at night
to light on the arm like mosquitoes?
Are they passed from mouth to ear
like gossip or dirty jokes? Do they
sprout from underground on damp
mornings like toadstools that form
fairy rings on dew tipped grasses?
No, they slink out of books, they lurk
in the stacks of libraries. Out of pages
turned they rise like the scent of peonies
and infect the brain with their promise…
(From: “Where Dreams Come From” by Marge Piercy, The Hunger Moon: New and Selected Poems, 1980-2010.)

(Note:  This week’s post is taken from an earlier post in October, 2013, when I was also visiting my daughter and her family in Okinawa.  I am again thousands of miles from my home and office and from the quiet I enjoy each morning.  Instead, I am awakened each morning by Nathan (almost six) and Emily (three & a half) for a morning cuddle and a story before breakfast–then the day begins, a whirlwind day of activity, and again, at bedtime a ritual of nighttime stories to be read each evening.   Even as I write this note, my grandson is pacing the hallway, checking my progress every minute or two, waiting impatiently to reclaim his grandmother for another day of fun.  Thus, tI offer this modified post from my last visit–still as relevant now as it was then.)

I’ve been in Okinawa for the month, helping my daughter as she recovers from surgery, the better part of my day and evening spent in the company her children, Nathan, age four and Emily, two. The day winds down each evening at seven p.m., as I guide them upstairs for our nightly routine of face washing, teeth brushing, and each of their choices for a nighttime story. Nathan chose Mousetronaut, written by former astronaut, Mark Kelly, the tale of a small mouse who wants nothing more than to travel to outer space. The children snuggled close to me as I began reading.

“Gramma,” Nathan stopped me after the first couple of pages. “I want to be an astronaut.”

“You do? Well, if you try hard enough, maybe you will be an astronaut someday.

“Yes, but wait,” he said, turning the pages until he reached the page with the picture of the space team, all wearing their orange NASA uniforms. “See Gramma?” He pointed at the tallest astronaut. “Like this. I want to be the COMMANDER.”

I left the room smiling, remembering some childish dreams of my own, some that never materialized; others that did, but not without some unexpected whacks on the side of the head—like the moment I heard the doctor say “cancer” or the day I passed out on the pavement and was diagnosed with heart failure.  I realized that if I truly wanted to turn those long-held dreams into reality, I had better take action. I

In the years since I’ve been leading groups for cancer patients and others, I’ve been inspired—and humbled—by many individuals who’ve faced hardship or odds that might have easily deterred them from their dreams.

There was Ann, diagnosed with a rare, terminal cancer, who kept beating the odds and lived nearly six years longer than anyone expected. That period turned into one of the most creative of her life. She blossomed into an extraordinary poet, studying with masters like Ellen Bass, Jane Hirshfield, Dorianne Laux, and Tony Hoagland, among . A number of her poems were published in literary journals before her death—artistry borne out of hardship and crisis. She touched many of us with her grace and her spirit, manifested in her poems.

Two years ago, L., a recently retired physician, was a student in a creative nonfiction class I taught for UCLA extension Writers’ Program. She was writing a memoir—and what a story she had! When L. was newly married and just beginning a medical career, she was in a horrific accident, resulting in the loss both legs and an arm. While many of us may have felt our dreams dissolve in that moment, she was undaunted and determined to live a full life, continuing with her medical career, having a child, and, with her husband, continuing to travel and experience new adventures. A year after the course had ended, L. me a photograph of an expedition taken with her husband—it pictured her wheelchair at the top of Machu Picchu. Nothing, it seemed, could keep her from realizing her dreams.

I am in awe of L. and people like her, inspired by their determination and resilience to overcome enormous odds to turn dreams into reality. They help me put my life in perspective. Life hands us all tough times, unexpected losses or difficult challenges, ones that threaten to extinguish our hopes or dreams. “Don’t you know that you’re my hero,” Bette Midler sang.  Ann, L. and so many others are my heroes.  I keep L.’s photograph of her wheelchair atop Machu Picchu tacked to my bulletin board because it inspires me to try a little harder.

I tucked Nathan and his sister into bed again last night, as I’ve done since I arrived here. He clutched a small plastic replica of the Okinawa superhero, Mabuyer. “I have the power, Gramma,” he said, holding up the figure.

“Yes, buddy, I think you do,” I smiled.

I said goodnight, kissed his forehead, then left the room thinking that we should all be so lucky to “have the power.”  Maybe then we’d never lose the determination to make our own dreams come true, no matter what obstacles we face in life.

Write about your dreams. When has life gotten in the way of them? What’s changed? What do you hope and dream for now?

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For the Week of January 11, 2015: Crossing into the Kingdom of the Ill

Posted in expressive writing, healing arts, writing as a way of healing, writing for wellness, writing prompts for cancer survivors, writing to heal on January 10, 2015 | Leave a Comment »

We cross many different borders throughout our lives, some of them metaphorical, some of them geographical, some of them emotional.  I spent much of Friday at the doctor’s office, undergoing bone scans and x-rays to rule out a stress fracture—something that would have meant  postponing my trip to Okinawa, where my youngest daughter and her family live.  The night before the doctor’s appointment, sleep evaded me.  I was anxious and worried, not only about cancelling my long-awaited trip, but how my life would change if my hip was fractured, even only slightly.

Thankfully, there was no stress fracture, and although I still feel some pain in my leg as I walk, I’ll be boarding the airplane as planned, crossing the international date line and the Pacific en route to Tokyo, then flying another thousand or so miles south to reach the Japanese prefecture of Okinawa, where my daughter and her family have been living since 2011.  It’s my third trip there, so unlike my first three years ago, I am familiar with the disembarkation process in Tokyo, going through Japanese customs, claiming my bag before re-checking it on to Naha and then finding the gate for my flight–all during my brief layover in Tokyo.  Having done this twice before eases the anxiety I’ve experienced the first time I travel to a particular foreign country.

I am reminded, though, that there are other border crossings that may not go as smoothly as an international airplane trip–they are the ones that involve major life transitions or serious illness.  The shift from one’s familiar life to an unfamiliar one may be unexpected, abrupt and thrust upon us with little warning–like hearing the words, “you have cancer” for the first time.

Illness is the night-side of life, a more onerous citizenship. Everyone who is born holds dual citizenship, in the kingdom of the well and in the kingdom of the sick. Although we all prefer to use only the good passport, sooner or later each of us is obliged, at least for a spell, to identify ourselves as citizens of that other place. (Susan Sontag, in The New York Times, Jan. 26, 1978)

In the Kingdom of the Ill, no one asks for your passport or smiles, “Enjoy your stay.”  You’re cast into unfamiliar and rugged terrain.  The roadmap you’ve been given is a maze of choices you must make, ones that branch into multiple—and equally confusing—pathways.  Worse, there’s the strange-sounding terminology to decipher — colloquialisms and multi-syllabic utterances from your physician’s lips that leave you feeling dizzy and confused.  You’re forced to leave what you took for granted behind, and cross into a new reality that you feel ill prepared for.

There’s a moment, not necessarily when you hear your diagnosis, maybe weeks later, when you cross that border and know in your heart and soul that this is really serious… The hardest thing is to leave yourself, the innocent, healthy you that never had to face her own mortality, at the border.  That old relationship with your body, careless but friendly, taken for granted, suddenly ends.  Your body becomes enemy territory …The sudden crossing over into illness or disability, becoming a patient, can feel like you’re landing on another planet, or entering another country… (Barbara Abercrombie, Writing Out the Storm, 2002).

This is the foreign territory of your body’s betrayal, where nothing seems quite real, and fear is your constant companion.  It’s lonely–You feel lost.  You’re traveling without an interpreter in a confusing and difficult place.  Try as you might, there’s no escape, no going back, no refund for your ticket.  You must learn how to cope and navigate your way through it all, and you must learn it quickly.  Your life may depend on it.

But along the way, a glimmer of hope—and you discover it as you find other travelers, men and women like you, who are also struggling to make sense of this foreboding landscape..  You find comfort and support in the community of other survivors.  You feel less alone and together, experience comfort in the sharing of fears and hopes, making those things seem more manageable.  You join hands and together, begin finding your way through this dark and fearful kingdom.

Somewhere out there in that darkness are hundreds of thousands … like myself …new citizens of this other country… In one moment of discovery, these lives have been transformed, just as mine has been, as surely as if they had been  plucked from their native land and forced to survive in a hostile new landscape, fraught with dangers, real and imagined. (Musa Mayer, Examining Myself:  One Woman’s Story of Breast Cancer Treatment and Recovery, 1994.).      

Write about crossing the border into the unknown territory of life threatening illness.  What was it like at first?  What old assumptions did you have to leave behind?  How did your relationship with your body changed?  What was most helpful to you as you that landscape Sontag called “the kingdom of the sick?”

 

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For the Week of January 4, 2015: Letting Go and Seeing Life Anew

Posted in expressive writing, healing arts, life writing, writing as a way of healing, writing for wellness, writing prompts for cancer survivors, writing to heal on January 4, 2015 | 6 Comments »

My husband and I celebrated New Year’s Day packing away the Christmas decorations, boxing up the remnants of toddler paraphernalia which our grandchildren have now outgrown, extra blankets and household items to donate, things we have held on to despite relocations and intentional simplification of our lives.  Later that evening, we sat together with a white board, dry erase markers and embarked on a process we once called “New Year’s Resolutions,” but, as we have allowed the word, “retirement,” to ease into our vocabulary, it has become a necessary conversation of planning–what we let go, what we keep, what we change.  By the time we put the whiteboard away,  filled with incomplete sentences (mine), diagrams (his), we didn’t have a plan,  but we had an illustration of movement, of the hard work giving voice to our hopes and dreams, concerns and fears as we face forward into the inevitability of aging and the changes implied for our lives.

In part, it’s a process of  letting go, acknowledging choices and changes we must make as we grow older, or experience losses, changes in health or circumstance.  I think of the men and women in my writing groups, how a cancer diagnosis forces them to confront mortality no matter their age, their lives altered without warning.  Letting go of what was before cancer isn’t an option.  It’s part of the hard reality of a life changed by debilitating or terminal illness.

But isn’t that also what we all must do, sooner or later, in life?  Clinging to a past that no longer applies to our present only seeds depression or regret.    Letting go of those worn out parts of our past is a necessary process, like post-holiday cleaning, choosing what to discard, what to retain and what to carry forward as we continue to shape and revise our lives.  It’s a process of revision–deciding what to keep, what to discard as we shape and re-shape our lives—and our life stories–at every stage.   It’s alot like the work of writing.  Writing is about rewriting, a process that allows you to see your work in a fresh light.  Naomi Shihab Nye described revision as “a beautiful word of hope… a new vision of something.”

A new vision of something…something like life.  Revision, borrowed from the French and derived from Latin, essentially means “to look, or see, again.” Check your dictionary and you’ll find synonyms like reexamine, reassess, rethink, alter, modify and change.  It’s what we do naturally whenever we try to make sense out of something that forces us to alter the course of our lives.

We are the authors of our lives and our life stories. Things happen to us; we make choices or take actions that influence events and outcomes. But the story closest to us–our own—can be the most difficult to understand.   In his book, You Must Revise Your Life, William Stafford wrote, My life in writing…comes to me as parts, like two rivers that blend.  One part is easy to tell:  the times, the places, events, and people.  The other part is mysterious; it is my thoughts, the flow of my inner life, the reveries and impulses that never get known—[it] wanders along at its own pace…

That undercurrent, the internal thoughts and feelings my husband and I have as we consider the next stage of our lives called “retirement” is the more difficult make explicit, and yet, that deep river beneath the surface is what we must voice to navigate our next life chapter together.

We must learn to do what artists do, let the material of our life talk back to us and see it anew.  Stafford tells us that revising one’s life involves embracing whatever happens—in things and in language.   “The language changes,” he says, and “you change, the light changes…Dawn comes, and it comes for all, but not on demand.”

Letting go.  It’s not easy.  Change can be unsettling.  Learning to embrace whatever happens?  That takes intention and courage.  I’m struggling a little today as the full impact of our New Year’s discussion begins to sink into my mind and body.  Like the writers I admire, I’m trying to work with the material of our lives and conversation—letting it talk back to me.  Seeing things anew, and yet, reminding myself that insight and the “right” choices will come as they come, gradually and not on demand.

So to you, Friend, I confide my secret:

to be a discoverer you hold close whatever

you find, and after a while you decide

what it is. Then, secure in where you have been,

you turn to the open sea and let go.

(From:  “Security,” by William Stafford, in:  Passwords, ©1991)

Let the material of your life talk back to you.  What has changed?  What will you let go; what will you retain as you move into a new year or another chapter of your life?

 

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