Last night the dogs were restless, waking me throughout the night with dog tag jingle jazz, percussed with hocks hitting the wooden floors as they scratched. Not very restful, and I gave up about 7:30 and got up, thinking I'd have some breakfast, see how I felt, maybe just come back to bed in a few.
Breakfast eaten and dogs fed, I sat down to catch up on what my friends were doing on Facebook. There's always something that makes me laugh, and I needed a better start to the day than I was getting from my own tired spirit.
One of my friends consistently posts the best music, often with stunning videos. She's a visual artist, and I love how she finds unusual video with different subjects.
Today's choice* was exceptionally beautiful, shot in B&W, with some clever speed effects in the movement of the dancers. I was enjoying the art and flow, until at 3:10 there came an image I've spent most of the last 18 years avoiding.
A graphic scene of a gunshot wound to the head.
I was stunned to say the least, and very glad for B&W film at that moment. Though when I watched the video the second time, I could see I might have had an inkling that there would be the possibility of something like this. I mean, after all, it does start with a young man deliberately falling backwards off the roof of a camping trailer onto the roof of a car, the possible imitation of a suicide.
What my friend didn't know is that it's only a few days until the anniversary of my father's death by self inflicted gun shot wound. (And even if she had, I would not expect her to avoid putting this or any other video up for others to enjoy. I'd only hope she'd give me a wee warning.) So this reminder of the destruction of him and the house of cards that was my family was particularly disturbing for me. I've come to refer to this time of year as "flashback season", even though I was spared finding my father. But there are things about that time that I'll never be able to wipe out of my mind, but also cannot bring myself to share with my family or friends.
One of my favorite poets says that everyone has their story that no one can know. Everyone suffers. I try to remember that when the person in front of me is being unkind to the clerk, or not paying attention, or looks like the last time they smiled it was so painful they vowed never to smile again. Remembering that they may be suffering a loss, whether it be of a loved one, their health, their job, their peace of mind, helps me practice compassion for them. Maybe share a smile with them, if I can spare one that day. A kind and encouraging word.
But the part of my story that you can know is that today, for the first time, I did not let that image effect the rest of my day. I was able to let go , to start the healing wave again. Our wounds are often too immense to recover immediately; like the sea, healing rocks in ragged rhythms. Cresting in high and low tides, every seventh wave threatening to take us under in its powerful grasp, working with the abrasive sand to chip away our sorrow, barnacle by barnacle.
Let me also share the outstanding experience of the day before. One of my friends was journeying to Florida, and I asked her a favor over a month ago when she announced her plans. "While you're there, would you write my name in the sand, so Mama Ocean can kiss me?" She's a busy lady, so I figured it wouldn't happen.
But it did. She'd been back a couple of days when she posted the pictures of her writing my name in lovely script on the beach. Staying with it until the waves came in and smoothed my name out of the sand, bearing part of my spirit back out to sea with them, where peace, hope, and joy float.
I am so blessed.
Breakfast eaten and dogs fed, I sat down to catch up on what my friends were doing on Facebook. There's always something that makes me laugh, and I needed a better start to the day than I was getting from my own tired spirit.
One of my friends consistently posts the best music, often with stunning videos. She's a visual artist, and I love how she finds unusual video with different subjects.
Today's choice* was exceptionally beautiful, shot in B&W, with some clever speed effects in the movement of the dancers. I was enjoying the art and flow, until at 3:10 there came an image I've spent most of the last 18 years avoiding.
A graphic scene of a gunshot wound to the head.
I was stunned to say the least, and very glad for B&W film at that moment. Though when I watched the video the second time, I could see I might have had an inkling that there would be the possibility of something like this. I mean, after all, it does start with a young man deliberately falling backwards off the roof of a camping trailer onto the roof of a car, the possible imitation of a suicide.
What my friend didn't know is that it's only a few days until the anniversary of my father's death by self inflicted gun shot wound. (And even if she had, I would not expect her to avoid putting this or any other video up for others to enjoy. I'd only hope she'd give me a wee warning.) So this reminder of the destruction of him and the house of cards that was my family was particularly disturbing for me. I've come to refer to this time of year as "flashback season", even though I was spared finding my father. But there are things about that time that I'll never be able to wipe out of my mind, but also cannot bring myself to share with my family or friends.
One of my favorite poets says that everyone has their story that no one can know. Everyone suffers. I try to remember that when the person in front of me is being unkind to the clerk, or not paying attention, or looks like the last time they smiled it was so painful they vowed never to smile again. Remembering that they may be suffering a loss, whether it be of a loved one, their health, their job, their peace of mind, helps me practice compassion for them. Maybe share a smile with them, if I can spare one that day. A kind and encouraging word.
But the part of my story that you can know is that today, for the first time, I did not let that image effect the rest of my day. I was able to let go , to start the healing wave again. Our wounds are often too immense to recover immediately; like the sea, healing rocks in ragged rhythms. Cresting in high and low tides, every seventh wave threatening to take us under in its powerful grasp, working with the abrasive sand to chip away our sorrow, barnacle by barnacle.
Let me also share the outstanding experience of the day before. One of my friends was journeying to Florida, and I asked her a favor over a month ago when she announced her plans. "While you're there, would you write my name in the sand, so Mama Ocean can kiss me?" She's a busy lady, so I figured it wouldn't happen.
But it did. She'd been back a couple of days when she posted the pictures of her writing my name in lovely script on the beach. Staying with it until the waves came in and smoothed my name out of the sand, bearing part of my spirit back out to sea with them, where peace, hope, and joy float.
I am so blessed.
*you can find the video here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BrZTNhW44-o
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BrZTNhW44-o
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