Broken-down Poetry

Day 5: Self-care

I’ve learned that in the process of grieving, it’s important to listen to your own needs. (My psychology school calls this self-care.) I’ve been really aware of what I need right now, and I’m listening to everything my heart and gut tell me. This is rare for me, I’m realizing.

I got happy hour with my friend Kristen tonight. She is someone who I’ve always wanted to be more friends with, someone I see not just at parties. When she invited me out the other day, I found myself really excited, and I knew that it would be good for me to see her. (It was; she is so empathetic–a therapist in training!–and is so full of hope.)

Other friends and relatives I’ve avoided on purpose; I’m resistant to talking to them for some reason, and I’m honoring that in me.

I have five read, but unresponded-to emails in my inbox. (Thank you, all of you, who wrote those.) The thought of responding right now feels too exhausting, not what I need.

I made comfort food for dinner last night. I let myself weep. I took an extra-long break during class today to talk to Randy and sob till I felt better.

In the trauma work we did in Theology II last term (with everyone’s favorite, Shelly Rambo), I learned how clinicians and well-meaning friends like to think they know what’s best for the grieving. But this isn’t true. There are certain “best practices” for being with a grieving person–like avoiding platitudes and advice, letting them cry and kick and scream–but ultimately the person needs to figure out what’s best for them. The clinician’s job is to roll with the punches. (My words, not Rambo’s.)

I’m thankful to those who have given me space to grieve the way I want to. I am also thankful for the variety of ways people have interacted with me. I have good friends who send me texts all day–texts about classes, people they interact with, Netflix must-sees. I have other friends who check in on my every morning; others who check on me every night. Some I’ve heard from only days one and three. Some I’ve heard from only days two and four.

I am thankful for the emails, the sad smiles in the library, the oblivious cheerfulness. I am thankful for those who say, “You don’t need to tell me anything.”

I am thankful for Steven who bought me vermicelli and Emily who sends me feminist critiques of Lewis.

I feel cared for, and I feel compelled, then, into more self-care. This is good; this is how you care for a broken heart. I told Kristen tonight that I know I’m doing as best as I possibly could be in this situation. I have room to laugh and cry in the same sentence–that’s good and OK.

*

I still have much to grieve; I still have so much anger and confusion in my heart. I still don’t know how to live with Nathan well for the next to weeks. I don’t know what life post-grad will be like for me.

But as Julian of Norwich says, “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.”

Amen.

June 14, 2014  Leave a comment

Day 4

Today I hate everything.

I am so angry, so fed up, so hurt, and pissed, and every other synonym.

Good thing there are friends, Netflix, and moody music:

I can’t stand to think about a heart so big it hurts like hell.
Oh my God, I gave my best but for three more years to end like this.
Well, do you want to fall apart?
I can’t stop if you can’t start.
Do you want to fall apart?
I could if you can try to fix what I’ve undone.
‘Cause I hate what I’ve become.

You know me, oh you think you do, you just don’t seem to see.
I’ve been waiting all this time to be something that I can’t define.
So let’s cause a scene.
Clap our hands and stomp our feet.
Or something, yeah something.
I’ve just gotta get myself over me.
(The Format)

June 12, 2014  Leave a comment

Day 3: “Enjoy the Bunny Grahams”

… [A] friend taught me a practice called saying ones. It is that simple. When the anxiety comes, start to say the word one over and over: One. One. One. One. This Lent, I say my ones slowly. It is a simple, soothing sound, and it does not escape me that one is a spiritual word, that one is what God is, that one is unity and wholeness; that my ones are not just a palliative litany, but some kind of truthfulness and a statement of hope, too. I have been saying ones for several years now, but I am just starting to realize they are prayers. (Lauren Winner)

*

I had a dentist appointment today, for a filling; I said my ones.

*

Today I woke up angry and hurt. I muttered how dare you under my breath, at the man who still shares my bathroom, my living room and kitchen. I was angry because I wanted him to stay, to say good morning, and kiss me on the hairline before leaving for band practice. Instead: silence. I was too tired to say my ones.

At the bus stop, I got the school prayer email, the one in which I submitted my own sad request. (Sad because I know what I want more than prayer right now is to not have to text or call another soul with the news. Prayer comes second to information-spreading; I’m not proud of this.)

What I received on the 10 minute ride to school was a flood of texts. So many Oh my god, Lauren’s. Katie V. is taking me to Portland next week. Randy R. offered movie night at his place. And when I said, OK, yes, eventually. He told me he will keep inviting me. (I’m so afraid people will stop inviting me, stop checking in with me. I’m scared, and it’s only day three.)

My own Rhoda Morganstern, Rachel P., has been checking in. Ike B. has too. And many, many others. Bless you.

When I entered class, I made eye contact with my instructor, Chelle, and started crying. She hugged me, then went back to her office for a box of tissues. Then Phil D., my friend and the assistant instructor for the class, came up and offered me Bunny Grahams. BUNNIES! I was too angry and sick-feeling to eat this morning, but for some reason bunny grahams seemed so tasty, so happy, and kind to my belly.

I left class with that box. “They’ve been my comfort snack,” he tells me.

At lunch I find roommates; my dear friend Anna and her husband have a room opening up in West Seattle. (The situation is nearly perfect–it’s in a different neighborhood, but on the bus route to the school and my other friends.) Suddenly everything seems OK.

*

I am not always sure what I think of the Church. I have never been convinced that to be a Christian means to be a part of a Christian community, confessing and taking communion every Sunday.

But when my world fell apart, my pastor and my community were there for me. I am prayed for. I am given food and drink. I am given goofy texts on the bus ride home, so I won’t cry (Bethany B.). I am sent emails with subject lines of “heavy” (Ruth N.). My friend Sarah is on call for every crisis.

I told my church community once (again–a church called Wits’ End, of course!) that I don’t like church, but I want to. And if I’m going to want to like a church, it would be Wits’ End. And I do like it; I know I am seen, heard, desired there. Right now, that’s what I need.

June 12, 2014  Leave a comment

Day 2

There are days when I tell myself I tired everything I could (therapy, though probably not enough of it; stick-to-it-iveness; etc.), and there are days when I think I could have tried more, tried harder, or tried something different, though I’m not sure exactly what. There are days when I see mistakes early in the threads of the marriage and I think, If I had just paused then, and gone back and picked up the dropped stitch, then the sweater would have come out fine, and there are days I think that even if I had ripped out and reknitted row after row, the sweater would never have been other than misshapen, unwearable. (from Still by Lauren Winner, p.5)

*

If you haven’t read, or if you don’t know, yesterday my boyfriend Nathan and I broke up. (He, please note, broke up with me, which is why there’s all the emotions, and so on.)

Details–I won’t get into. It’s a miracle I can write this without falling apart. Thank you to the Moscow Mule Bethany made for me, I suppose.

*

Today I cried when I tried to get work done. I cried when I realized I have to have a roommate, one who isn’t my lover. I cried when I saw his coffee mug (still full from two days ago) on his desk. I cried when I thought about undressing my first apartment, our first apartment.

I am thankful for the numb moments, those “formal feelings” when I can just get work done–read, write, tell stories. “The feet, Mechanical, go round.” (Emily Dickinson) I’m thankful when I can laugh; and I have laughed.

But later tonight I will leave Bethany, and her baby belly, and her pup and have to sleep in a lonely bed again and remember that one memory that pushes me into another fit of sobs. (Dammit, the smell of his pillow. His slippers flung in the closet.)

O God.

*

I wrote this poem two years ago, and it’s been on my mind again. Nights are hard because I’m afraid of the mornings. (I speak not only of this breakup, but all similarly hard times.) I sometimes pray that verse in Corithinians, that “joy comes with the morning.” A lot of time I know that’s complete bullshit, because in the morning I wake up to reality. And I’m sad and pissed, and can only roll over to watch The Mary Tyler Moore Show or else I’ll fall to pieces (or never get out of bed). I suppose this is my grieving process.

The Morning After, a sonnet

Those mornings you wake up emotionally hung over,
the taste your slurred suggestion:
Let’s just be friends
still bitter on your tongue. As if he should have taken you seriously
thru a text message: U’s & SRY’s abbreviated.
Your thoughts, not so abbreviated, but as twisted as you,
waking up in your bed, wishing it were his,
with your clothes not quite on correctly, arm holes
reaching back to your backbone, jean buttons not aligned
with your belly button. Your hair plastered
to your face, damp, wiry, pungent.
Your hands shaking, curled, already
waiting for a bottle of something
sour to reach your fingers, your mouth.

June 11, 2014  Leave a comment

Day 1: I turn to the poets

This morning (Monday), Nathan broke up with me. I suspected this would happen: if you read my last post you might have sensed something too. Everything is changing.

Last time this happened, nearly three years ago now, I decided to blog through my experiences. I now understand that was my grieving process. I think it’s good to try this again–to blog until it gets less painful, if it ever can.

Lord, have mercy.

I spent my whole day crying, on the phone with my mom, on the phone with my best friend Nick, at dinner with Sarah, at coffee with Bethany, reading the email from Ruth, my pastor’s wife. Now I feel so dry of crying, so numb, and so ambivalent.

Tears have been my food, day and night. (Ps. 42)

All I know to do is to turn to the poets.

This is the Hour of Lead — / Remember, if outlived / as Freezing persons recollect the Snow — / First — Chill — then Stupor — then the letting go —

I turn to Lauren Winner’s beautiful account of the months and year after her divorce and after her mother died; her quoting Updike.

He wonders if he’s hung. If he is, he is hung in the middle of nowhere, and the thought hollows him. (Rabbit, Run)

*

I have much to say, much felt. But I’m tired. Right now I am thankful to have survived day one. I still have my wits about me.

June 10, 2014  Leave a comment

A New Lauren

Oh, hi, after a two-year hiatus.

I am 3 weeks away from graduation, with a heavy, heart and a lot of fear. But–no time for that. I’ll speak of that later.

Today was the Spring Banquet at the school, where I was asked by Paul (the dean of students) if I would pray for the returning students. I have prayed maybe, oh, three times out loud and in public for people since graduating IWU. But I wanted to do this.

ME: I’m going to BAWL.

PAUL: Cry, scream, laugh–do whatever feels right.

I bawled.

I cried for a lot of different reasons, but one was obvious: I don’t want to leave the damn school. What a freaking weird-ass school I’ve studied at for the past two years. Who I am now is not who I was the last time I wrote on this blog–which is probably why I’m writing. I had it in my head back in 2007, back in high school, that this blog would follow me into adulthood. It has, and I hope it continues to.

Gosh–much to say. I want to say how I’ve come back around to George MacDonald (the originator of “broken-down poetry”). Of course my last class at TSS would be on C.S. Lewis and another heavy in the MacDonald talk. Young Lauren would be flipping out.

I am curious how this blog will end up. I imagine it will be a wee bit lighter on the God-talk (though maybe more theological). I’ll probably curse more than ever, maybe without even noticing. And, perhaps unexpectedly, I’ll probably be more emotional than ever. As if I could be. But I could be. Wink.

Much has changed; I’m sure this blog will too.

Until then, here’s my prayer from this evening:

O God,
Thank you.
I pray for those who get to return next year to this building and to this community.
I pray they never forget how strange this school is!

Bless their summers, their internships, their reading, writing, planning, and dreaming.
Bless their questions, their desires, their confusion, and their hope.

May they be brave, and foolish.
May they be kind, and subversive.

God, through the work they do at this school, may they love you and others more.

I pray the words of a poet for them:
“Thank you, Lord, coming for
to carry me here—where I’ll gnash
it out, Lord, where I’ll calm
and work, Lord.”

God, continue to do good work here.

Amen.

 

June 8, 2014  Leave a comment

Very good

Already grad school has taught me two things:

1. I am inherently GOOD. God said called us, his creation, “very good” and he has yet to change his mind. All of us hold a piece of the Divine. (This is no pantheism, writes Annie Dillard, for what draws the whole creation together in unity with itself and with God is Christ.)

2. My believing this (and I have a while now) does not make me a heretic.

September 7, 2012  Leave a comment

It’s the first day of spring

And my life is starting over again
The trees grow, the river flows
And its water will wash away my sins
For I do believe that everyone has one chance
To fuck up their lives
But like a cut down tree, I will rise again
And I’ll be bigger and stronger than ever before

For I’m still here hoping that one day you may come back

(Noah and the Whale)

September 6, 2012  Leave a comment

New things.

Hey, everybody. It’s been, oh, a month or two since I’ve talked about what I’ve been up to since being in Seattle.

1. Classes start Wednesday. I’m stoked. I’ve been waiting SO LONG — I’m surprised the day has come! Friday was Orientation, which was painfully long. I met a lot of cool people though — and have before then, too — so it turned out to be just fine. We were all exhausted together, as friends.

Tomorrow is (Re)Orientation for a few hours  in the morning. I’m going to hopefully use the day as a familiarize-myself-with-the-school time. You know, set up my printing account, peruse the bookstore, et cetera.

How have I been preparing for classes? I bought more BIC mechanical pencils, tape to stick my Berserkr bicycle spoke to my laptop, and I thought long and hard about how to take notes. Laptop? Spiral notebook? Composition notebook? No conclusions have been made.

2. I go to a pretty cool church. It’s called Wits’ End. I’m always at my wits’ end by the time I get there every week. It does good things to my soul. Also, my pastor Phil is a really great artist.

It’s weird being a part of a church again, since I haven’t really been in so long. I stopped going to Northeast sometime last summer (I think), but by then it was intermittent at best. I never felt a part of the churches I went to in Marion. So this is good. Plus, unlike a lot of churches I went to in Indiana, Wits’ End makes me want to be a believer. I don’t sit there, praying for the service to end so I can talk to friends or each brunch.

3. Damien Jurado lives down the street from me. Yeah, I know. I know I know I know I know. I’ve been freaking out all weekend.

Anyway, for those of you not familiar with Damien’s music — you need to be. Lydia gave me some of his music in Iraq, and I used to fall asleep listening to it.

Listen.

September 3, 2012  1 Comment