Lost in grief

Last summer I worked in a refugee camp in the remote mountains of Thailand. The goal of the research project I was running was to understand mental health and coping strategies of the refugee population and ultimately to deliver a tidy report to those paying my salary. 

In the process of wandering around and discussing mental health with the population there, I was brought to a small bamboo shack deep in the isolated jungly part of the camps. There was a woman sitting on her platform made of bamboo. There were no walls and only a roof made from thatching large leaves together. This was her home. She was wearing a beautiful handmade skirt in bold black, red and white that she had made with her own two hands. She didn't speak but sat and rocked, not even looking up when we joined her. I was told by my translators that she had lost all of her family during the terror inflicted on those in Burma. She had experienced so much pain that she was a frozen person. She could no longer move or even just be, she could only rock. 

If she had yarn, she would weave colors together to make a pattern. She lamented in barely audible burmese that the weaving was her only comfort in life but she had no yarn. I imagined the extreme predictabiliry and control involved in taking each string and putting it in its place. Making sense in an otherwise senseless world. I sat there aware that this was what extreme emotional pain looked like. Embodied. I arranged to have yarn sent to her. I did this because intelectually I knew it was the right thing to do. I however could not deeply empathise. At the time I had never experienced emotional pain that was anything more than a surface wound. 

For the past four months, I have become my own version of this rocking woman. I am aware that divorce and the pain of watching the man that I spent my whole life with starting a new life with someone else compares little to loosing your whole family. But for me this is the pinacle of my own personal emotional threshold. 

I am not lost to the jungle, not totally consumed by it and my own grief like this woman. I still go about my day. 

But last week while buying shampoo in the super market I suddenly felt seering pain in my chest and broke down with tears flowing freely. My ten year old son comforted me and said "let's just get home mom." 

The loss of my family as a whole complete unit, the loss of someone that knows me and loves me anyway, who accepts me after everything. This loss does impobilise me for long moments in my day. It stops me in my tracks. It inflicts real physical pain. It takes away my ability to breath. 

Four months have passed since I floated down that jungle river in Borneo crying uncontolbly as I sat company with fresh loss my broken family still in tow. Since then the tears and pain has been unquantifiable. Deeper and greater than I thought possible. After years of no emotion and no tears this grief feels like an infected pimple that burst letting out all of the built up puss of the past. In this way the pain hurts, but also has no choice but to come out. 

Grief is something that you can either let pass thru you or consume you. The burmese woman I met had long ago been consumed. Like a stone statue that had been overgrown she was lost to this grief.

I now have to find a way to let the grief go. Let it pass theu me. I have to find a way to not be lost in this grief stricken jungle. I have to walk out of the forest and look at the sunshine. 

Liminal Space

Liminal Space is a concept often used in Anthropology to describe the grey areas of life. The space between two things, where one ends and before the other begins. This term was originally  introduced by a well-known representative of French positive anthropology Arnold van Gennep. He describes it as a threshold, boundary, passage between two different places. 
 This is the space I find my self in now, in this passage between. At the end of an 18 year marriage, searching for life's edges to gently trace with my hands until some solid form emerges. Looking for footholds to snag a new path, a new way forward. The world has become this grey space, this in-between space, this liminal space. It is appealing to make things black and white, grey is hard. loving someone or not loving someone. Wanting someone or not wanting them. keeping something sacred or smashing the whole thing to the ground to break. In between this is never clear. This in-between space is which I am lost.

Last night I went to a party, the first for me in some while. People were dancing and drinking and smoking. I expected that I may see my partner/lover/baby's daddy/best friend of 18 years there with his new girlfriend/lover/fling standing in a dark smoky crowd, seen only from a distance. I chose to go anyway. I decided to dive into that darkness and let it all sink in. This is all still fresh, I am still wounded by the knowledge that what was, is now not. I almost wanted to see them there, to feel the pain burn, to let it sear the grey space into something more black and defined. I didn't see them. Instead, I danced with strangers, watched people much younger, go through courting rituals of drinking and flirting that seem more foreign than the rituals of animal sacrifice all around me here in this foreign land. I watched and observed and wondered if there would be an after to what feels now like only a before.

There is the before I realized that he was sharing a bed with a woman that I can only see or know  in facebook posts, learning only that she both teaches yoga and smokes. A dichotomy that in the abstract I find both respectful in its duality and pitiful in its contradiction.

There was before I ran off to Paris to cope with my new choice to throw out the person I shared all of my adult life with.  Walking bundled in heavy coats and boots borrowed and scavenged to protect my thin tropical skin. Walking arm in arm in the company and solace of the only person I new who could accept my grief as she had her own. We walked thru grief filled graveyards and wandered the halls of the Louvre witnessing the paintings that kept company with mona lisa. We ignored it all and only wept and walked.

There is before I threw him out of our house and told him that he needed to find a life for himself beyond sitting and drinking and not doing, so I could grow to love and respect him. He wept daily and pleaded for a return to our version of normal, vowing that an absence of a life purpose his only crime could be redeemed. But I punished him with dis-missle to an abandoned building in mid town that once carried a vision of reconstruction that was ours to make together. There he slept alone amid rubble in the dark, trying to piece together a life.

There was the before I spent months contemplating if love could be shared among many, if I could love her and him, if love was big enough for us all. Before the night that she sweetly invited me to sleep all three of us together in their marital bed sideways in a row like children as if nothing could happen that would cause any future damage. Him cleanly showered, eyes sparkling, her soft and sweet and sincere. I wanted to see what it was like to love the two people who had become my family, Love them both at the same time, both together, all abandon to the wind. I wanted this. I declined and instead let her wrap me in his raincoat and drive home on my motorbike in the rain. I did this not for lack of want but because I imagined the grief and anguish I would cause the man sleeping at home in my bed, our bed of 18 years.

There was the before I spent months contemplating if what I had was enough, if there could be more, if love was something beyond shared space, if it had anything in common with sparks and fireworks or if like an old red wine it was content to sit. That man sitting on my couch, sharing space with me, was he happy? Did diving into the sea of chemicals that are created when two new souls who have never met play with pheromones be worthy of some trial in life's long list of experiences? Is there any real harm in letting someone play with my pheromones from across the room? These were questions that ate at my day, and slowly unraveled me and what remained of my relationship. Was anyone responsible for this unraveling? Should I place blame? 

These questions that now seem akin to wondering if trying that first sip of whisky as a teenager might be a good idea or have some larger context in all the experiences in life. In the morning when the dark lifts you realize the whisky just made you drunk and you now have a headache. There is nothing important or meaningful to have come of it.

Before all of this there was just us, together. Together in everything. Together feeling trapped in what must be, enjoying the bland taste of comfort. Not appreciating the simple gift of a warm body that would accept you and hold you and take you every night as the cold set in. Not acknowledging that there is nothing more beautiful or important than ears over coffee that know you and and understood that your words were just theirs to hold and keep and not judge or diminish with opinions. These simple gifts became unappreciated with time and tarnished by the daily wear of life.

I am not yet to after. I am stuck. I am in this liminal space. lost in each of the things that came before. wondering if any of them can be erased. As there is no after,  I left the stable structure of before and I am still not yet to the transformed. I only take solace in the fact that this means the story is not over.

Normal doesn't exist

Growing up my family was far from "normal". We had a pet peacock that lived in the house until it was so big its' attempts to share my dinner by flying through the air were so disruptive we asked that it move outside. I accepted as a child that my parents were not like everyone else. They had oddities that were only normal in the mainstream of the 1970's granola movement. I put brewer's yeast on my popcorn and was forced to rinse out plastic bags to avoid over consumption. As an adult I came to enjoy the eccentricity of my family and embrace my own. The very fact that any behavior is considered abnormal in our society by definition highlights that most people think there is a normal. Anyone who has ever taken introduction to anthropology in college would be introduced to the concept of cultural relativism in the first few days of class. This concept is basic terms means, there is no normal. This may seem simple but most of the world fights hard to hang on to their own definition of normal. Whether it is arguing against gay marriage or enforcing dress codes at work or in school, everywhere you look normal is trying to be upheld by the masses. The great thing about travel is that it breaks down your own sense of normal when you arrive somewhere where normal for everyone else is alien to you. As an adult I feel much more at home in places where my strangeness s is openly acknowledged and attributed to my status as a foreigner.
The challenge and the slippery slope in this concept is holding on to anything that is right or wrong. Once you spend long enough in another culture your definitions shift and soon things that felt totally ridiculous seem acceptable. In America if I go to the post office I stand in line. If I pushed my way to the front of the line I would be thrown out or at least verbally acausted. Here I must push my way to the front if I have any hope of getting served and I shall not feel upset nor put upon if someone else beats me at this game. This is just one example of how travel changes you. The neat reality that was fed to you from birth becomes broken and suddenly your definition of how things should be (a family, a job, a life) start to change. I can't stop this crumbling of my reality, as I inside am changing. I am now totally ok eating dinner with my fingers (despite this being frowned upon in my native land) and I wouldn't dream wearing shoes in the dentists office. Culture affects us, normal changes, normal never existed to begin with.

Antidote to modern day slavery.... meet your maker

I recently watched the movie "the help" that nicely chronicled post slavery in the south as it morphed into paid underclass labor. This movie was an excellent depiction of this era but also offered a form of nostalgia that seemed to indicate we are past that. There is a sense that now in this new era of a black American president, we as a nation and a world no longer have to deal with such realities. This strikes me as a fallacy that deserves shining sunlight on. I live in a "developing nation" although it is frequently disguised to visitors as a tropical paradise. What this means in real terms is a country that was previously going about its business of life and its simple forms of happiness. Time with family, growing enough food to feed them and practicing worship of whatever god they imagined for themselves were all that was needed here. On the other side of the world people who spent their time collecting things (cars, houses, wall to wall carpeting) discovered that these people could be told they needed more than this simple happiness and in doing so could be nicely convinced to labor for what was known by early socialist as the eating class (those of us in the western world). Now if all this seems like a strange story to you, than you may not realize that you in fact are on a global scale part of the class of people who has the luxury of slaves. Slaves you say? yes, I am not mincing words. Modern day slavery mostly is not the sort that chains people with metal and forces them to work with out pay. Modern day slavery usually means invisible handcuffs that will starving people to a life that does not belong to them. If you think the people making your i-phone in that factory in china want that life than you should consider trading with them.
As I sit and type this I have the pleasure of looking out of fields of green that flow all the way down to the sea. A rice farmer is working the land in front of me. It is his land. he works hard for that rice. He does so on his time and still sees his family grow. This is hard work but it is dignified work and it is his work. He is fit, spends his days outside and always greets you with a smile. Put that man in a factory and he may see more actual dollars every month but he will surely loose much of the freedom he has now. Much of the worlds farmland is no longer run by farmers like him who own their land and work it with pride but are forced to work someone else land for a very small amount of money. I do not wish to make you or me feel guilty for our i-phones or to feel the need to become a farmer, but as we sip our tea, eat our rice or check our email on it is worth acknowledging the system of slavery we are participating in. Is there a way out? I think so. Meet the maker. This may not help your technology fix but it does work for most things. Shake hands with the person who makes your goods. If you can do this you are supporting a life worth living. This person is their own boss, they work hard at what they do and you can reward this quality and their ability to live a life they choose. this is freedom. This is what should be fought for. War is not needed, only you can do this every day in everything you do. Every dollar is a vote. don't vote for slavery. Here is one example of some people who are making it happen. http://modernartisanal.com/about/  Do you know some others? Tell me about them in the comments.

I Can't and other lies...

Today, I went to pick up a batik print I was having commissioned and had patiently awaited for weeks. The artist, a lovely Indonesian woman in her mid 30's smiled a tentative apologetic smile when I walked in the door and told me she couldn't do the work. It was too difficult. I saw her efforts and recognized their near perfection. I encouraged her that she had really done a fantastic job, but she felt it could not be done. I was asking for a small geometric shape to be drawn (actually traced on fabric). This shape paled in comparison to the enormous perfectly formed Lilly that she hand drew every day. She could only every draw a Lilly she informed me. I was disappointed but relieved she was willing to say "I can't" instead of just ignoring the situation. In most Asian cultures attempting things outside ones comfort zone is frowned upon. People don't want to do what they can't already do and most won't tell you, they just avoid contact or tell a tale of death in the family. Most  people have skills carefully mastered in childhood. This may be a cultural element of Asian life but is also very human. The feeling of "can't" when attempting new things or things that are outside your comfort zone are part of life. What we do with those feelings are what make us each unique.
When I picked up my nine year old son from school he melted into tears telling me he couldn't do long division. He explained that there was no fixing it, he was just terrible at it. He described this deficiency as if it was a birth defect. I know as his mother and someone who once felt the same way about math that it will pass. He will practice until it feels doable and then it will no longer be important. What I am equally sure of is that there will be some other impossible task to replace it. I am telling this story and repeating the images in my head as a reminder for myself. At the age of nearly forty I am working out of my comfort zone, I have what feel like no mastered skills and I am fighting to feel good at anything I do. I still daily find tasks or whole realities that I want to conquer (or don't) and feel they are impossible for me. Things that I see others do with ease are un-crack-able walls of difficulty that torment me to climb them or insist I walk away crying. I am choosing to climb. As I do, I hold my child in my mind and remember his struggles crawling. His frustrated fists pushing forward as he drug is body in combat crawl mode across the floor. After that there were weeks where he wanted me to hold his hands as he tried walking across the park and wouldn't let go because he might fall. He now walks, jumps and is working hard on long division. Having someone to hold your hand while you learn to walk is a blessing, but having the courage to let go, to fall down, and to keep getting up is vital if you want to draw more than a Lilly. I want more than a Lilly. I will forgive myself when I fall. I will keep getting up.

Wherever you go, there you are.

When you strip everything else away, what is left? I ran away to a tropical island. I left naked of my possessions, I ditched it all and said farewell to the world in which all good adults should live. I came to never never land. I left the security of the reality that keeps us going day after day and blindly embraced the unknown. Now is the after part, the part where paradise and happily ever after merge in what is usually known as the end of the book.
A tropical island has a way of stripping away the trappings of a life. I wake up every morning to balmy warmth, the sound of roosters and time and empty space that begs filling, adorning or at the very least contemplating. The minute ritualistic distractions of city life that keep even the most miserable among us busy with the daily habits of sipping white chocolate mocha's, paying the cable bill, and ushering kids to karate are gone in one fell swoop.
After 15 years in a marriage and having narrowly escaped the drudgery of modern life I am left with the this empty space. I am left to ponder the pattern of yes and no answers I am responsible for having shaped my life. I am left to uncover layer by layer the elephants left languidly sleeping in the room who despite their size where easily obscured by nearly a decade of modern adult life. Now we are just us here, the palm trees sway, the geckos chirp and in this peace the reality and truth settle like a cold cloud around my shoulders. I can now honor and weep with my afraid to be alone twenty year old self who spent most of her adult life obscuring sad realities with the business of life. Once you have run away from home, you cannot do so again you have to face yourself in the mirror and understand what is good and what needs fixing. This is where I stand now. Alone in front of the mirror contemplating what to fix, what to break and what to make gentle peace with.