Tag: survival

a woman reclaimed

Amy Clark1 Comment

(first day of national poetry month–felt like a day to write a poem–well, a draft of one anyway)

To contain, to protect the fragile radiance

of her dimming light, she crafted a mosaic—

a million and three tiny torn distractingly vibrant 

pieces of paper patiently pasted until

the armor, a perfect pretense, was complete…

seemingly secure and projecting only the rays

she knew would be safe in the sharing.

But paper is a flawed medium when storms threaten 

and even paste can’t hold

amid a deluge.

A million and three tiny torn pieces 

flutter as a loosening begins.

What was a gentle breeze, quickens

foretelling an approaching hurricane—

relentless and unforgiving, this force of nature 

will deliver only one thing with certainty…

Change.

Again.

A razing to force rebuilding.

A flooding to baptize rebirth.

Again.

And she is—

—Exhausted.

There have been too many revisions

lately; mandated by a harsh editor.

So, she attempts to will the paste to hold

…she attempts to funnel her strength

(all of it)

into this maintenance project.

Clenching fists and squeezing eyes 

tightly shut, she prays

as Gwendolyn taught her to:

“Be firm till I return from hell.”

And in that prayer,

she remembers…

…days when her light was abundant,

when it shone freely without fear

of shortage or outage, knowing

its vulnerability was a strength to be admired

rather than a target at which to take aim.

She recalls…

…the days before she was told to

temper herself

mute her hues

to accept that, well, to succeed,

this is the way.

But, this can’t be the way and 

She has known it, and today

she accepts it as true

and her prayers transform because

Lucille has also instructed:

“Today we are possible…everything waits for us”

And with that, a tiny piece of paper

Unlatches itself and sails off on the breeze.

Her eyes open,

fists release,

confident in her own strength,

her righteousness restored,

more pieces detach,

fly away

and as they do

she is fully herself,

a woman reclaimed

out of hiding

who knows that in fact, 

this is truly the way.

Her radiance roars,

her joy revived.

Her strength is beautiful 

And requires no disguise.

She is a force and the others,

well, they can suggest, but the choice

is hers alone.

And now, she knows it.

(in gratitude to Gwendolyn Brooks “my dreams, my works must wait till after hell”, Lucille Clifton “birth-day” and to the writers of “The Mandalorian”)

Eighteen Years

Amy Clark1 Comment

“All of these lines across my face
Tell you the story of who I am
So many stories of where I’ve been
And how I got to where I am
But these stories don’t mean anything
When you’ve got no one to tell them to…”

“The Story”, Lyricist-Phillip John Hanseroth

 Vocalist-Brandi Carlisle

I love stories. I see them everywhere—how they shape the world, how they build or dismantle understanding and relationship, how they are always at work crafting the person I was into the person I am becoming—never allowing complacency in the “I am” because stories are alive, they are moving and never still. I give witness to their power but don’t give my power over to them. I recognize that as often as I might feel lost in circumstances that seem to have become my only narrative, that it is my responsibility to pause, to breathe, to understand, to take back the pen, and to write my way forward. 

So, telling a story should come easily. And yet, this one, that I’ve told so many times, is resisting a new telling. In an effort to begin, I wrote the line “Eighteen years is a long time” last week and I cannot seem to get past it. I cry every time I step up to elaborate and the words I know I want to share get lost somewhere in the back of my brain. Because in that diminutive and deceptively obvious sentence are embedded not only grief laden memories of a day and the immediate days that followed, but also the vast emptiness of all that has been missed in those 18 years and all that will continue to be in the years to come.

Maybe I need a different way in? Maybe just the truth—not prettied with lush language. Maybe I can start there.

On December 16, 2004, my husband and I discovered during a less than routine ultra-sound that, at 17 weeks, our first son, Nathan, was no longer alive and I would have to be admitted to the hospital that same night to deliver into the world a child who would not only never know that world, but who would also never know his really mom and dad (and later his brothers). And the weight of his loss was heavy and immediate. I wrote his story for the first time some years ago here.

The story of that day is not the story I want to tell today…18 years later. I don’t think rehashing the intensity of that grief is what Nathan would want for his mom, so instead, my work here will be to climb out of my grief and to reclaim ownership of it and in doing so also claim my freedom from an obvious story of a lifetime of sadness. This climb presents a challenge though as this is a particularly steep one—especially today—but the effort has allowed me to realize that what was once a point of vulnerability is now this area of strength. That Nathan’s tiny life has and will continue to inspire the rest of mine. But to detail that impact even briefly, I have to share the parts of the story that are harder to see—I have to reflect on how my beautiful boy and his early departure have sown seeds of goodness in me that would not be rooted so deeply without him.

“Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you

Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,

And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,

Must ask permission to know it and be known.”

“Lost”, by David Wagoner

The days and months that followed Nathan’s loss coincided with what could only be named a season of babies. It was just that time in life. I dug deep and decorated my face with smiles while attending showers and sitting in hospital waiting rooms all the while my heart was sort of a Sisyphean tragedy of shattering, pasting together, and re-shattering with every passing day. 

And then one day, I was leaving a friend’s house after delivering a fruit tray so she enjoy a healthy treat while taking care of her newborn. I got in my car anticipating a tearful drive home and what happened instead shifted my entire trajectory. 

I looked out of the window and saw the sky.

As though waiting to be noticed, the sky stood still, brilliant and blue with only a few wispy clouds and without even thinking about it the words “thank goodness for beautiful things, that sky is beautiful” came out of my mouth (out loud…alone in the car…clearly, I needed to hear them and not just think them). In that moment, I knew that my life would be so much more than this impossible grief…that there were still beautiful things in this world if I could find a way to pay attention to them…that my beautiful boy’s memory would be wasted if I spent every day immersed in the depths of this grief. 

But I also knew stepping away from grief would not be a trek down an easy path. And it hasn’t been. Here I am 18 years later still writing about it—because it is hard—even when you’ve never really met the person you are missing, grief is just hard…and lasting. What remains from that day though is a practice, a gratitude practice, that has pulled me through some of my hardest days and guided me through some of the darkest wildernesses. A practice that removes me from inside of myself and grounds me in the world—reminding me there is more in this life than a moment can hold. A daily practice that I sometimes have to force because some days are just harder (and for all kinds of reasons), but still a practice that reminds me that like Lucille Clifton wrote, “today we are possible…everything waits for us…what will become/waits in us like an ache.”

And so, what has become of Nathan’s memory? 


I see him in the faces of my own living children. I see him in the faces of every single child I teach, of every child I encounter. And in doing that, I am able to speak, to parent, to teach, to lead with greater empathy. I see myself in those around me and wonder “What aren’t they revealing in their smile? What might I be missing?” And my patience grows (I mean, maybe not when I’m driving…but still) and my vulnerability emboldens because maybe I can share something that will help…or maybe I can just listen and be present. I encounter difficult things and know that they might be terrible, but I can, in fact, survive…if I just look for the sky.

So, yes, 18 years is a long time. And yes, I would prefer it if my Nathan were still here, in his senior year, getting ready for graduation and the rest of his life. But my life and that of my family is the rest of his life, and it won’t be wasted. For that, I am willing to work hard. For that, I am grateful.

pausing

Amy Clark1 Comment

“Today I’m flying low and I’m
not saying a word
I’m letting all the voodoos of ambition sleep.

(…)

Stillness. One of the doors
into the temple.”

Mary Oliver, “Today”,  A Thousand Mornings

Today’s rain has been a bit of an unexpected gift. It is the kind of  rain that speaks in moderate and peaceful tones while also breathing a whisper of the storms arriving soon. Branches move gently as raindrops greet their leaves, making them momentarily heavy, then light again as the weight rolls away, absorbed by the ground below. The birds have retreated from play, calling truce in their bid to outsmart the dog in the daily territorial skirmish of the backyard. And the skies above, a blanket of solid gray, offer a bit of shelter from the sun’s brilliance, as if to say, wait, you don’t have to be busy; trust that you can pause, be still, and breathe (with intention)…as if to say, here is your reason to take care of yourself, watch–the world will still spin without your effort…as if the weather, or  something greater, knows we all need this permission sometimes.

Pausing grants presence that repetitive, exhaustive persistence cannot (a thing I may have just now truly appreciated). Today, I didn’t have to remind myself to seek gratitude, it just sort of puddled up around me because my surroundings weren’t a blur on the sidelines of my self imposed daily race. My surroundings and I, well, we were moving at the same pace. The grace granted in this slow down allowed me to see and be grateful for my present in real time, rather than only the future I am typically working to achieve or the past that has brought me to this place. And I realized how often I forget to see the moment I am in rather than the next one which keeps me from a fully cognizant gratitude stance. And I think too often allows me to focus on the frustrations of my health which flood my present as they impede my progress toward tomorrow and don’t look like the me of former years. When I am centered there, when those frustrations are my only present moment, then there isn’t much (or so it seems) to be grateful for today. I’ve become really good at embellishing and believing that lie. Except today, even with a pretty cruel vestibular migraine that has been ebbing and flowing for over a week–a thief of a holiday I have been so enthusiastically awaiting, I could see beyond the easy bait of the singular story of that present to a richer more complex and joyful one. I could see a story more reflective of my whole truth, rather than just my illness or my grief over it. I could see (again) that I am more than those things–every single day…my story is composed of so much more than that. And it was because I was actually living in my present, looking straight on, rather than behind or ahead, that I was able to do so.

Today’s rain is temporary, transient (ending as I finish this blog). The pause is but a moment. Tomorrow I will splash through the remaining puddles as I speed toward the end of one to-do list and to the start of the next. It is just that time of year. But in the midst of that movement, may the splash of the puddles be a bit of a reminder, a baptism offering new sight of a more complete technicolor today. A vision of the present that sees the hues of shade and shadow, but also takes in the brighter threads of joy and goodness I can so easily overlook. An accepting vision of the present not skewed by what used to be, what should be, what will be. A moment to hold what is as it is because in a breath, a flicker, that moment will also change. And to miss the truth of today would hold greater sadness than all the regret I can muster in what I imagine to be missing already.

Today, I am grateful for being granted a moment to revise my stance on stillness–it is not just something for me to remind others to seek, but it is mandatory for me to create for myself too.

I am good with today in that way.

(a good poem for a day like this…“birth-day” by Lucille Clifton)

A year lost

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“…Wherever you are is called Here,/And you must treat it as a powerful stranger”

“Lost” by David Wagoner

It’s been a year. 

Today. Today makes one year.

And while I celebrate surviving that year, I have to name it Lost. Taken or Stolen might also work but that victimizes my situation and I am not here for that–that allowance would keep me stagnant in anger and helplessness. I cannot be about that anymore.

Lost. Lost speaks truth on so many levels. Most obvious of those, ground floor entry so to speak, the impact of my battle with Long Covid sapped my energy and muddled my brain’s acuity leaving me with only faded and blurred watercolor memories of the last year. So many things happened–events, trips, the life of my family–and while I was physically present I was also encapsulated in a bit of a Long Covid forcefield shielding my mind from the details, the weight, the value and thus the fullness of anything.

Lost. Second floor. Abandoned by my sensibility. For most of the year, my emotions neutralized themselves. I felt no surges of excitement, sadness, anger, anxiety, joy…which sounds sort of great in some ways, right? No anxiety for the person who has always struggle with anxiety is pretty fantastic, yeah? And I guess in some ways it was a nice departure. My body was dealing with an erratically racing heart as well as so much inflammation and overwhelm that it could not also manage inflamed emotions. Rationally, I get that. But honestly, I just felt radically empty most of the time which is why I assume the year doesn’t exist in vivid memory. Without emotions to tie to events, to anchor them inside of me, they just sort of float off into the distance leaving a vague shadow behind.

Lost. Third floor. And this cannot be overstated and is far from the cliche it sounds like: I lost myself. What does that mean?

Well, it is hard to quantify and qualify in a way that relates the compounding weight of the truth of this statement. Most obviously, in losing my ability to be fully present, to feel vibrancy of any shade of emotion, to think without roadblocks emerging between each and every thought, to participate in conversation without confusion, to remember even the simplest but most important details (this list goes on a while, I’ll stop here), it was impossible not only to be myself but to remember what it felt like to be myself. I want to emphasize that. I wasn’t just less than myself due to illness–I have been there before. I suffer with other chronic “stuff”. But I was lost inside of myself–I could not remember what it felt like to be the person I was before that positive test. Not on any given day did I feel fully me. And not on any given day could I harness the hope of finding that person because my energy had to be focused on simply getting through the day in the shape I existed. Exhausted already, I further laid waste to my energy supply in creating a mask that would hide the truth from those around me.

The things by which I identify myself–cooking, reading, writing, exercise, smiling, ridiculous optimism–had to be either relearned,  modified, or set aside. 

Cooking, my favorite way to show my love to others, transitioned into a chore. On my worst days, just the thought of standing in the kitchen and thinking through steps in a recipe, left me frozen in how to proceed. I could not desert cooking completely, but my skill and joy in it certainly deserted me.

As a reader, I found myself having to adopt new reading practices in order to maintain. Gone: my pencil in hand adept at skillful annotation and noting depth and nuance in a text. Adopted: a letting go of disappointment in myself for just reading the story without deeper investigation because I knew that reading in any form was good for my brain’s recovery.

As a writer, well, if it wasn’t mandated for work, it probably didn’t happen. I could not face my loss for words, my confusion mid sentence, my inability to see a piece through. A singular email at work could take me an hour to construct; I had no energy for personal writing. I lost my confidence in staring at a blank screen with a  brain that felt equally blank and hid behind my illness rather than writing my way through it. 

In a fleeting attempt to maintain some semblance of my former reality in the face of so much loss, I tried to reinsert my pre-Covid, relatively intense, exercise regimen (even if watered down a bit). I quickly learned that I could no longer exercise during the work week if I wanted to be able to function in the world. I had to live inside of what my doctor called “the energy envelope” which meant instead of HIIT training and weightlifting, I was walking…and not during the work week. My physical strength began to mirror my eroding mental strength bewildering me further in who it was my body would allow me to be.

The rest of the list here–smiling…optimism–existed mostly because I reached deep inside to exude a picture that would bring about fewer questions about how I was really doing. A reach that left me fatigued beyond measure.

Lost. Top Floor. My coping strategies evacuated with everything else that comprised who I had previously been. All those years of managing chronic illness while also maintaining my strength of perseverance…all those skills honed over years even in situations like Long Covid where no answers or cure were clear…none of them could be called to mind and put into practice. I tried. Believe me, I really tried. But, honestly, that perseverance took so much more energy than I had inside of me. Something as simple as starting an anti-inflammatory diet (something I have done successfully before) required more thought than I could see through to fruition. Eventually, I stopped trying to cure my Long Covid symptoms. I preached patience to myself because it was the only tool in my arsenal that I could muster. I allowed myself the grace to wait rather than shaming myself for not fighting harder. 

So I waited. Impatiently patient. Resigned to maybe never seeing “me” again. Accepting of the need to rebuild from scratch.

And then, I guess you could say I snuck up on myself, because I never saw or felt “old me” resuscitating herself. And yet, she did.

And so here I am, a year later and I am cautiously optimistic that I am on the other side. In the last month of this year, I have read a book with the complexity of thought that mirrors (almost) the way I might have before…the inflammation that has flooded and plagued my legs and hands has receded…the cardboard has retreated from its post as a blockade between my thoughts leaving them feeling connected, even if only by a thread…I have found myself more fully present, laughing effortlessly, enjoying small moments and not needing to take a nap because of the effort…I have felt like myself for the first time in nearly a year and for that, there are no words. It’s not perfect. There are still hurdles to clear and some days are harder than others. But this moment brings honesty to two things I lost sight of this last year.

Gratitude and Hope.

 

 

hope’s effort

Amy Clark1 Comment

Chronic and invisible illness has become a daily struggle rather than an intermittent one. It is exhausting, often defeating, and always frustrating. But when I am able to channel it into writing, somehow that tension and discomfort is eased. I always share the poetry of others her but rarely my own. Today that is different which brings another kind of unease. But nonetheless…it is written (and unedited), so here it is, as it came to mind and then to the page.

hope’s effort

I hadn’t imagined this particular evolution

of days. This—

well, it wasn’t foreseeable

(a game Life plays, with a smirk, knowing

its caprice will always confound human ego).

Exhaustion permeates and saturates the hours,

restricting the freedoms and felicity Joy once knew

but took for granted in her attempt to live

without bounds.

And yet…

A thread of hope rises each day—

a mirage that cleverly deceives the mind

into believing today will be different—

better. It’s what I hold to with a fervor so

vibrant that it seems to be Joy (regained) or even

Wellness (restored)—

(Is it a smile she’s wearing, they wonder, or just

gritting teeth clenched tight

in fear of revealing ___________?)

But, instead it’s just my soul—

hoodwinked, and the believing,

well, it’s kind of tiring.

Hope, these days, engenders new depths of fatigue

because the thread is too thin and elusive,

impossible to grasp

each and every, and some days,

well, I miss it completely. It floats

away—shimmering aloft, visible but…just…

out of reach…

And yet…

I always wake in search of it,

again, because without it,

I’d be laid flat in the blindness

of the not-knowing haze—of the fog

that necessitates a beacon to avoid

getting lost, or worse, giving up entirely—

which is always an easier reach—a falsely 

tangible promise of ease, an empty promise, that,

well, evaporates the moment acquiescence is 

accepted by the mind, the body in need of something, 

anything simpler than the work required in facing, 

in maneuvering the obstacles which can’t be overcome

in a single day…the work required to 

persevere through darkening shades of complexity.

And so….

When the thread of hope rises

each day, each day I will reach

for it, I will cling to it,

until its promise is fulfilled…because

the alternative, well, that’s not living, that’s 

a shadow life…a shadow of life…

that’s existence…wasted,

a promise left waiting—

–unfulfilled in my impatience for something 

immediately better, 

which, well, blinds the eye to all that is still present,

to the thread of hope rising and waiting for the reach,

each day.

And so…

I grab hold…again…and again because despite 

my body’s fatigue, my brain knows this truth—

I am not helpless, hopeless in the face of ______.

Life will change, circumstances will alter,

that does not mean they are worse—

only alive.

And that challenge, of being alive, is always worthy of 

Hope’s effort.

(all gratitude to Anthony Doerr and his novel Cloud Cuckoo Land as the line “A thread of hope rises,” which appears on p. 144 of the novel, was the inspiration for this piece)

neutrality wavers

Amy Clark1 Comment

“See, I’ve been having me a real hard time…”

A couple of days ago, I cried.

The tears weren’t prolific or anything, but as they welled up and overflowed their banks, I couldn’t help but consider them glorious and restorative gifts…only, not in the way you might expect.

If you know me, a tearful moment doesn’t sound like some kind of triumphant occasion since one of my finest skills is feeling all of the feelings, all of the time…to a fault. I am not a daily cry or a cry in front of other people kind of human, but when overwhelmed by any particular emotion, joy…anger… frustration…sadness…love…awe, tears populate my eyes and from there travel as rivulets running. These tearful moments are sort of how I know I’m living in and connecting with the people and the world around me. They are sort of how I know myself.

Well, that used to be true. Until I contracted a relatively mild case of Covid in January 2021 with no prior comorbidities, and the workings of my brain became a bit of a mystery for the long haul.

“I just kept hoping, I just kept hoping/The way would become clear”

My long hauler symptoms have been extensive and, at times, debilitating over the last six months. Irregular heartbeat, intense fatigue, frightening brain fog, weekly and ever intensifying migraines, daily headaches, weird aches and pains, sore throat, hoarseness, tinnitus, dizziness, weakness, chest pain…this list could go on.

Perhaps the most troubling lingering symptom of all evolved as a strange neutrality. Me. The emotional cornucopia… neutral. Let me explain what I mean by “neutrality”…

“So please don’t take my feelings”

I became sort of inert, feeling no strong emotions one way or the other. Like an extinguished candle. And it was so hard to explain this to anyone because I was struggling in so many ways, it was hard to pinpoint this issue. And then, people kept saying they knew how I felt…which was strange because I wasn’t feeling much. In some ways, this neutrality was kind of nice because my lifelong anxiety dwindled significantly. On some level I just couldn’t muster the energy for it. That vacation from being driven by an overthinking  brain and an overzealous set of nerves was actually a delight. Not me at all, but kinda great.

Yet in other ways, this neutral stance was painful. I would be at events that I knew were important to me, that should have felt exciting, exhilarating and joyful and I, well I was just there…present but not…smiling but vacantly…not even sure how much of the moment I would be able to remember without the lingering vibrance of the emotion. I felt so far away from everyone and everything even when they were right next to me. I often found myself surprised by people’s reactions to my words because even my ability to communicate with emotion and sensitivity had been marred. At times, I would become overwhelmed by how badly I had been feeling or by work or just by the world at large and I would want to cry to release some of that tightly wound energy, but I couldn’t do it. That one outlet seemed to have barricaded itself from accessibility. At other times, I would be in conversation speaking about emotional topics, about how strongly I feel on an issue or how passionate I am about education and while my words were all true to who I know myself to be, they felt false in speaking them because inside they seemed hollow, detached. And so that is how I have been walking through the world since Covid, hollow and detached.

“So I just kept going, I just kept going/And hoping I’m growing near”

For a while, I embraced the idea that this was my brain’s way of protecting itself. It was dealing with too much in my extended recovery so maybe adding in emotion would have been debilitating. Actually, I felt it was pretty awesome of my brain to extend that gift. I knew with certainty that when the school year was over and I had the chance to fully rest, all of that neutrality would erode to reveal the emotions it had been shielding me from.

Except, it didn’t. It lingered.

And the longer it did so, the more I realized that this wasn’t just me trying to save myself from overwhelm; this was damage done to my body, to my brain, by Covid. When I considered the work I had to muddle through to relearn how to think through the incredible Covid induced brain fog, I realized that my emotional void very much connected to that situation…maybe even lost in the dense pillows of fog circling and settling…awaiting the sun to clear them away.

“And it feels so nice to know I’m gonna be alright

Please don’t take this feeling

I have found at last”

My brain is different than it was 6 months ago. It is healing–my tears this week are proof of that for sure, but no one can tell me to what point I will heal…because no one really knows. And I just have to try to not let that defeat me. I have to take what my body gives me and know that this recovery road is less than perfect but I am still on it.

So I am just going to say this…take it or leave it…it has become my lived experience and thus, my truth. Even a mild case of Covid can have life altering impacts beyond what anyone can tell you they might be. Be safe. Do what you can to keep yourself and those around you healthy. This is my current plan, because, let me tell you what terrifies me. The possibility of catching Covid again. Terrifies me beyond what I can type on this page. Because I am still sick. Because my brain hasn’t fully healed. Because I am just starting to feel like myself again six months after a mild case and I don’t want to lose that progress or worse. Because my pulse ox still dips into the upper 80’s and I would like for that to repair fully before my system is attacked again. I have had Covid once and I don’t need to re-live that misery (I’m sorta still living it). I’ve done all I can to keep myself and my family well. I should be safe. And yet, in this world, as people continue to tell me that Covid is no big deal, that it is a fiction, that it is nothing to worry about–essentially denying my lived experience, in this world still, I am not safe.

Lived experience can be different from our own and still be accepted as a truth, still carry weight, still be worthy of our attention. Maybe that is an overly empathic stance, but to me, it is the only way we learn to see each other with respect in this world…it is the only way we begin to act for each other  rather than just for ourselves, elevating our own singular story instead of the varied and valuable experiences of those around us. Hibernating in the blankets of that which makes us comfortable only endangers us. And so I tell this story of my experience with Covid. Not for sympathy because while a momentary comfort, sympathy doesn’t fix anything. Nope. I tell this story to add it to the collective tale of this pandemic. Because this outcome isn’t often written about. Because maybe it will help someone realize Covid is not worth the risk. Because maybe I just needed to get it out into the world.

“So, I just kept dreaming, yeah, I just kept dreaming’…Tryna figure out why”

(All lyrics from “This Feeling”, Alabama Shakes)

Forgiveness, part one

Amy Clark3 Comments

I am a chronic apologizer.

My apologetic refrain, a lifelong expression of my need to never inconvenience and to always keep the peace.

I try so hard to teach young women to never apologize for their existence or their strength or their voice and yet I cannot seem to break my own apologetic cycle. So much so that apology seems to be a state of being rather than a momentary but necessary sincerity. And it is disappointing that my urge to please all the people pushes me to say “I’m sorry” when what I should be saying is “This truth is difficult and less than easy, but here it is anyway. Let’s work through it together.” That truth I find myself explaining away contritely could be some element of the chronic illness that is beyond my control but with which I deal daily or it could be some issue that felt necessary to speak up about. And I’d like to be able to say that much of the onus for my need to express apology falls on others for perpetuating an expectation that I should feel sorry. But the responsibility remains with me. It is up to me to own my power. It is up to me not to waver in the face of derision because of it. And I’d also like to be able to say that the writing that follows will be my version of a pithy list of all the things I will no longer apologize for and why.

But it won’t be.

Because here’s the thing…I know that list. I teach that list. I remind others to abide by that list. But my own complicated truth is that I struggle to uphold it in the moments when it matters. This impulse to apologize is composed of threads so intricately woven into the fabric of my being, that to unravel them takes more than a confident written assertion.

And so I will begin in a different place. One that makes sense after a difficult, well, exhausting, day of apologizing needlessly, making myself smaller, and then quieting the things I know to have been important.

That place is forgiveness.

Because, while I cannot undo this habit immediately, I can give myself some grace in the process of trying to. I can forgive myself for faltering.

Today, I forgive myself for questioning myself when I should have questioned others.

I forgive myself for forgetting the value of my work and my voice in that work and for allowing the noise of others to intrude into what I know to be my worth and my truth.

I forgive myself for saying I am sorry when it didn’t need to be spoken. For giving others the easy way out by sacrificing myself so they could have it.

I forgive myself for walking away instead of sticking it out…for lowering my voice instead of furthering it. For turning inward to hide instead of seeking new ways forward.

I forgive myself for adding conditionals into my language that dilute my purpose in order to placate others who shouldn’t really require anesthetizing wording.

I forgive my body for its complications and for the pain, fatigue and challenges it elicits. I forgive myself for not taking the time I need to be well in order to be more for others. I forgive others for not being able to see past the carefully crafted performance of my smile to understand that I am unwell and just scraping by.

I forgive myself for being a flawed human, and at the same time I love myself for being an empathic one.

I celebrate myself for allowing empathy to enter and steer my relationships and how I reach out to and speak up for others.

I celebrate my heart for recognizing hurt in the humans around me and for wanting to be a salve in the healing.

I celebrate who I was yesterday, who I am today, and who I will become tomorrow because as I continue to revise what I have been  and who I want to be, I am grateful for the whole of it.

And this is how forgiveness works. Releasing the burden of hurt (whether it exists within or without) somehow (and rather unexpectedly) removes the scales from our eyes allowing us to see the good which, today, dug me out of a pretty deep hole. Love begins with forgiving the self because if we cannot forgive ourselves, how on earth will we be able to extend love and forgiveness to those around us. Writing this was a great reminder of that truth (especially since I had no idea where it was going when I began…I just needed to write). “Phase One” by Dilruba Ahmed is a great reminder as well…a beautiful one…and I unapologetically offer it to you to read.

sticking around

Amy Clark1 Comment

“And if sun comes
How shall we greet him?
Shall we not dread him,
Shall we not fear him
After so lengthy a
Session with shade?”

(Gwendolyn Brooks, “truth”)

Trauma. Tragedy. Crisis. Disaster. Gross Injustice. Neglect. Cruelty.

In the immediate moment of each of these, as humans, we are good at launching ourselves into action. We unite, we donate, we speak loudly, we act. We are present in the lives of those in need in part because innately, we want to ease someone’s pain and in part because it feels good to know we have helped.

Flood waters know no justice, they hold no mercy. They devastate without warrant, without restraint, without bias. Unstoppably powerful, all we can do is react to the destruction they deliver.

15 years ago when Hurricane Katrina pummeled the Gulf Coast, and more particularly to me, the city of New Orleans, there was an immediate flurry of assistance. Footage made readily visible the dismantling of the city, the dispersement of a people, the deaths of too many…images scrolled our screens revealing the destruction of property, the rescues of terrified families, the conditions of those stranded in dire circumstances. At first the access to these images and information on television was helpful, but it also simultaneously tore a hole in my heart. So many strangers with no connection to my city also had access to these same images I was seeing and at the same time as me–images that felt so intensely personal–images that fueled commentary which had the ability to be both inspiring and ignorant…empathic and vitriolic.

It felt like a violation. Yet, the truth of those images moved humans of this world to offer aid.

People arrived in the city as soon as it was safe to offer food, assistance, clean water, a shoulder to cry on. Volunteers came in force to rebuild and restore New Orleans as a gift to those who love it as more than simply home. And so many who could not be physically present still sought ways to be helpful through donation, words of encouragement, and other beneficence. My emotions were overwhelmed to see that influx of generosity in those earliest and most devastating of days. But what anyone who has ever experienced tragedy, loss, disaster, or trauma of any kind will tell you is this: what stands out most, are the people who are still willing to help when the news crews have departed but the immensity and difficult days of reconstruction linger. Because the healing isn’t immediate. It takes far longer than the spotlight can shine to fully recover and it is the work of those who stick around even when it is no longer popular that makes the true difference–that makes renewal a reality rather than illusion.

“Sweet is it, sweet is it
To sleep in the coolness
Of snug unawareness.” (“truth“)

And today we are in the midst of a different kind of trauma.

The murder of George Floyd, the visibility of that traumatic footage, the perpetuation of commentary from those who have the ability to inspire or to degrade, brings us to an inflection point. At this moment, as a white woman in America, I can only speak from my experience, from my truth. And this is what I know. It is easy for white Americans to stand up right now and scream “Black Lives Matter.” It is easy today to yell for justice and to demand an end to racism. It is easy right now to pray and to be visible in our outrage. The outrage is and should be universal. I in no way intend to diminish the necessity of everyone speaking out in this way, of being mindful, prayerful, and righteously enraged. I only mean to say that right now, when everyone feels this way in the face of this gross abuse of power–in the face of actions laced with bias that birthed injustice and mercilessness…in the face of these flood waters, we must stand strong…and not just for today, but until all of the work is done. Because today it is popular. But six months from now when people of color are still afraid to walk the streets of their neighborhood or through a park, where will we be then? Will we still have the same volume to our voice? Will we still be willing to engage in the difficult conversations and to call each other out for our bias and our tendencies to languish in our own privilege? Will we be able to admit that no matter how nice and kind we are in this world that doesn’t erase larger systemic issues that lead to the daily dehumanization of our fellow citizens of this world who if I am not mistaken (and here is my Christian bias) were all created by the same God? Will we recognize that while we do not have to be ashamed of being white, we 100% have to step up to work tirelessly to break down the centuries of barriers, vilification, and bias that have been created?

Will we be humble enough to be uncomfortable because for real you guys, that necessary discomfort in the work of restoring justice is minuscule compared to the lifetimes of discomfort brought about by the racism so many of us don’t want to admit still exists in this world.

As a woman, I know how powerful the “Me Too” movement has been and I am grateful for the bravery of those few who stood up and stood out elevating their voice so that I could elevate mine. But in all of my years in this work, there is one truth that I know. Change will not come about with only women using their voices. We require allies from the male population who are not afraid to call each other out in the tough moments…men who are not afraid to recognize that they have acted in ways that have demeaned and demoralized and who are ready to change…men who are willing to share the power of any moment with their female counterparts giving light to their ideas and worth to their being rather than burying them.

A similar truth exists here. This is not a momentary injustice. It wasn’t born a week ago…or a month ago…or even a year ago. This is deeply rooted and will take the efforts of all of us to dismantle. The onus does not fall on people of color to resolve this issue. The responsibility belongs to all of us to listen, to ask questions, to reflect, to understand, to own our actions, to do better, to be better, to be courageous in conversation even when that makes us unpopular. It is the actions of those who are willing to do this work even and especially when the spotlight fades that will help in making a lasting difference.

It is time to crawl out of our pits of privilege that allow us to be angry today and forget next week and to summon the strength it will take to not only face the truth but to help others do the same. It is time to take responsibility for the injustice in this world even if it feels like it isn’t your fault because for real, we all live in the same damn world–restoring justice is the work of us all. The sooner we own that as a common truth as white Americans, the sooner we can get to the work we should have been initiating in a unified way long ago.

It is time we stepped out of our own way and stepped beside our friends of color in this fight. Because the healing isn’t immediate. It will take the work of all of us to make renewal a reality rather than illusion. 

I cannot speak for anyone else, but I am sticking around until the work is finished or my time here is done. I see no other way forward in this life than that.

the clam

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“And when the broken-hearted people
Living in the world agree
There will be an answer
Let it be

For though they may be parted there is
Still a chance that they will see
There will be an answer
Let it be”

( “Let It Be”, John Lennon and Paul McCartney) 

My dog, Gingersnap, got out the other day. In the moment of her (apparently much sought after) liberation, she sprinted with the speed of exhilaration, evading capture for far too long and creating quite a caper. As I witnessed her escape and before the fear of potentially losing my sweet (albeit noisy) companion set in, I realized that her fleeing the confines of this house was quite the metaphor for how I believe many of us will feel when finally able to live fully in community again.

Except, I would honestly stay shuttered in this house for another year if somehow it would exonerate my kids and allow them the opportunity to play with their friends again.

I suppose this sounds like the voice of privilege. My kids are healthy. They are cared for and housed and clothed and fed and nurtured every single day. They have a backyard to play in and a safe neighborhood through which they run freely. Believe me, there is not a single moment on any given day where I lose sight of our privilege, especially at this moment in time. But that abundance does not release them from the grip of the emotional impact of this pandemic.

Funny story, when all of this was just a whisper and not yet a vivid reality, it was my hyper-anxious germaphobic child that I was worried about. I just knew this invisible predator of sorts would overwhelm his sensibility and we would be back to sleepless nights wrought with panic attacks. However, while his anxiety has seen an uptick, he knows how to verbalize his concerns and how to ask for help…and he knows how to channel his anxious energy into crafty projects (literally, in the first week and a half of this debacle, he feverishly constructed a cotton candy machine out of materials he could find around the house…don’t ask…it was a long ten days).

Yet, as the days have worn on, it is my younger son, the one who is my heart walking around outside of my body, who seems to be struggling the most. He puts on a good face most days…does his distance learning work, plays soccer in the yard, relishes the opportunity to drink a hot chocolate every morning. But there are other times where he is obviously angry for what seems to be no good reason…where he is constantly complaining of being tired…where he just seems sad. He doesn’t always want to talk about it. He worries about making other people feel badly. I know this because I do the same thing. My family called me the clam growing up because I just held everything in and I see him repeating my history. It is not a good way to go through life.

“I wrote my way out
When the world turned its back on me
I was up against the wall
I had no foundation
No friends and no family to catch my fall
Running on empty, with nothing left in me but doubt
I picked up a pen
And wrote my way out”

(“Wrote My Way Out” Nas, Dave East, Lin-Manuel Miranda & Aloe Blacc)

Thank goodness for his social studies teacher. She has asked him to write a “coronavirus journal” each week as a way to document this moment in history and that has been my only way into understanding where his brain is in all of this. He seems to recognize that it is the only comfortable way for him to get the discomfort and the heartache out into the world…he seems to wield the power of his words effortlessly…and in their wake, he is free for a few days–relieved of their weight.  If I didn’t already fully understand the power of writing, his work in this journal certainly would have taught it to me. Some weeks he has let his comedic personality flow through, but lately, his entries have just been sad.

This was his entry on Friday (he is eleven years old…):

“So, I don’t really know what to talk about today. Today hasn’t been that interesting. All of quarantine has been really boring. I really miss my friends. It’s like I’m living in a hole that I can’t climb out of. It’s like a hole has been dug in me and there are wasps flying around in me all day. People are always saying ‘We will get through this together.’  It sounds good the first few times, but by the millionth time it’s like there is no spirit left in the words. They are supposed to be convincing us, but now it sounds like they are trying to convince themselves.”

If we think our kids are impervious to the trauma of this pandemic, we are blinding ourselves to the complete truth. It is arrogance to imply that because they are kids they have nothing to worry about, no real stress, no troubles. Their whole lives have come to a screeching halt. The adults of this world are struggling to muster the emotional competence to negotiate this crisis, why on earth would children be able to navigate these waters any easier? Their stress is real…their confusion, profound. The impact is vast and beyond what we are able to currently know and that scares the hell out of me–both for my own kids and for the ones that I teach. Yes, kids are resilient humans who tend to be wiser than the adults around them. But we need to pay attention…we need to give credit to the weight of their feelings…we need to honor their experience for being just as difficult as our own…we need to treat them as humans in need…we need to stop and see their truth.

This same sensitive kiddo is preparing to play his guitar and sing in a virtual talent show for school. He decided people needed hope so he is singing “Let It Be.” I mean, he also worships the ground Sir Paul McCartney walks upon, but he knows this song can help people feel better and he wanted to try to make a difference.

Injecting hope into the world despite the “wasps” stinging him on the inside. Maybe he is going to be okay after all?

 

u-turn

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A temperamental sense of balance and an overly sensitive inner ear don’t make the best flight companions. Fortunately, the only moments of the journey that we tend to be at odds occur during takeoff as the plane climbs in altitude. My brain and my ear cannot seem to resolve their past communication issues and as such, are a bit  fluttery when presented with a challenge beyond navigating the balance challenges of a typical day. Each flight and airport present a unique set of circumstances, but discomfort of some kind reveals itself regardless of place or direction. Last night’s flight home brought forth one of the most courageous conversations my brain and my ear have had to flesh out in a long time.

At first, I was relieved. We seemed to be climbing in altitude slowly which always eases tension by allowing my head to adjust to the pressure changes gradually rather than all at once. And then we made a sort of u-turn. Planes turn all the time. No big deal. I sit just in front of the wing and by a window so my eyes can use the visual to explain the discomfort my head feels.

Last night felt different.

The turn was steeper and tighter and incredibly disorienting. There wasn’t a window that I could look through that could grant a stable visual. There seemed to be no steady point on which to focus, to center myself. Gorgeous pink clouds reflecting the beauty of the setting sun should have been distraction enough, but I simply couldn’t get my bearings and it equated to a terrifying minute or so during which the panic of the vertigo days flooded my system. My mind reeled toward flashes of the worst moments from that time swifter than I could stop it. Before I realized what was happening, my hands were shaking and my breath became shallow. Treacherous, sneaky fast, pervasive. Panic acts without notice and I wasn’t prepared to prevent it from persisting. My guard was down.

Eventually, after the plane leveled out, the pressure in my head did as well. I closed my eyes, inhaled deeply, and reminded myself that, despite the painful memories this u-turn invoked, the discomfort was limited, temporary. Despite that feeling of helplessness in mid air, I was okay–safe, balanced, headed home.  Another inhale, a breath of gratitude. The exhale, a prayer of peace.

I have these u-turn moments from time to time-I feel like in some strange way, in our own ways, we all do. A moment when something triggers my vertigo panic button or rips the stitches that contain my grief and suddenly I am swallowed up. Whether fleeting or lingering, the emotion is disorienting and even when I am surrounded by goodness and love, it can be hard to see it clearly enough…even when I know the feeling will be temporary and I am in charge of its dismantling, it can be hard to find my balance long enough to wait it out.

Yet, inevitably, the moment always levels out, the pressure of the panic subsides, I realize that I am held in love unconditionally-that I am safe, and I breathe. Will the vertigo come back some day? Almost definitely. Will that be awful? Um, probably… I can live with that aspect of my life, I have to. I don’t have to like it and from time to time, I’ll be caught in a bit of a u-turn moment, but this is my lot and with it, I can still do so much.

Inhale, gratitude…exhale, peace.

(Entry 29 in the king cake writing challenge!)