Spiritual

The “we” of me

Deb Brock appreciation, Connection, emotional maturity, family, Feelings, grief, mindfulness, relationships, Self-Awareness, Spiritual

2:37 AM; September 20, 2018

I haven’t been sleeping well. Not since I booked Portugal.  By day I am excited and mindful of my internal excitement of a new space, a new trail, a new breath in my senses, especially sight and sounds while I hike.

At night however, when I lie beside my beloved Ron, I think what in the hell am I am doing? Driving off alone to the Canyons is one thing, because I can, and often do, drive home early for want of him. But flying across the Atlantic without him?  By day, fine. By night not so. But, I am an independent soul as well as a private person and going off is good for my spiritual calming.  Ron knows this and so we have this thing where every once in a while, I “just go”. I always come back and it is always good that I have gone because the individual of me gets restored.

Then came the Middleton shooting this week.

Tracking the temps in Portugal, still in the 90s, I wanted to pick up a fresh hiking shirt. I had found one at the East Madison Marshalls and picked it up even though it was a bit too large. I knew I would have time on Wednesday to check Marshalls at Greenway Station and If they had a smaller size, fine, if not I would make do with the larger one. Sure enough Greenway had what I needed. I checked out, went to the car and then grabbed the bag that I had purchased previously. I went back in the store, walked up to the into the queue for the return.  I was next in line so I was ready to walk to the front register.  If you know the store you know at that position you are in clear view of the entry.

Just standing with my return bag, I saw a man run in and within a flash I heard shouting, “secure the doors, there is a shooting outside”.   He shouted again. The lady behind me pushed through a rolling display and ran towards the back of the store. Another lady near by fumbled asking what to do. I suggested she go behind the half wall at the end of the register line which would be invisible to anyone approaching from the front. I went there myself half hidden and half peeking out to grasp what might really be going on. Then the manager announced for all customers to immediately go to the back of the store…lock down by order of police.  While joining the others scrambling to the back I called Cheri and interrupted her pleasantries: “Cheri, I am in west side Marshalls there is a shooting outside. We are in lock down. Inform Ron”. I hung up.

The guy who ran in the store, I learned in a short time by his own report, was the owner of the structure in which the shooting occurred. He heard the shots. He heard people say by name to the shooter” What are you doing? Don’t do this” …bam, bam, bam.  As he told this report from the back of the store, he shouted again that the doors be barred.  Of course, they already were. At first, I thought he was going to be a problem, over-panicked, a hysteric who could cause more alarm than necessary.  I considered that I might need to calm him down. That wasn’t the case, though.

We were in lock down for a bit over two hours. I never felt endangered. I thought it though and considered eminent danger unlikely given we were a couple of structures down from the shooting location and that (via the media reports), nearly the entire Madison Patrol was within a two-block radius.

When they opened the doors and I walked outside there were a couple of helicopters circling overhead and patrol cars everywhere, rows of cars headed west blocked on the road. I turned East away from the commotion and headed for Starbucks (don’t laugh at me). They were still closed given the entirety of Greenway Station was apparently on lock down. I drove to Target to pick up a camera card for my trip. Walking from my car to the door I noticed a wee shake in my system. I was beginning to feel it: I wanted to get home. Even so, I made a couple of other quick stops that were on my list of “to do”. I found the drive home time consuming. I hoped I would have enough tie to get home, unload the few groceries I picked up, make myself an espresso and with fingers crossed, get a glimpse of Ron before I began to see clients.

In early evening when Ron and I both finished with clients we had a glass of wine at our desks finishing up notes. We made dinner and Ron asked me about the deal in town, how I was. I told him I was okay, noting that once it was over and I was driving home, I felt a little shaky but it wasn’t long in duration. We took a walk, talked about the grievous condition of our society, that we at large have a lot of maturing to do.  We watched a bit of “Barnaby” and went to bed.

Ron can verify that I often am asleep within a minute of hitting the pillow, literally. So these recent restless nights are quite rare for me and I chalk it up to “advance missing of him”. This morning however, I woke up about 1:00.  I heard the rain on our metal roof and just listened. The longer I listened to the rain, the more I could remember what the people in Marshalls looked like. I thought this odd in a way, but I’m a visual person, so perhaps not so odd. I could clearly see the man who got us to lock the doors; mid aged, young looking, casual shirt, styled hair but by then hand ruffled quite a bit. I saw a younger middle-aged woman, about the age of our girls who was leaving later that day for Vegas with four friends. She had pretty blond straight hair, clear skin, calm eyes.   She had told me how the previous night her husband couldn’t find the clothes basket that was within an arm’s reach of himself. We both laughed and just cocked our heads. Even more clearly, I saw a young, petite mother to be, her belly all smoothed and egged. She wore a head scarf that ovaled her face and seemed to balance the oval of her full belly.  She was truly lovely in her symmetry. She was with her lover no doubt, given his constant hand on her and his quiet voice.  I saw a younger woman, sitting alone staring out into the store. She looked so hearty and healthy and poised in her solitude…Interestingly, in my reflection, she was the one person I wished I had engaged and inquired of how she was holding up despite my instinct that she was independent, okay, and just waiting the time out. I saw that large man, keeping his arm around his woman emanating safety and control.  He had been nearby when I was still in the front of the store and he called to his wife and said “we must get out now”.  I can still see many of the other faces as well. I noticed there were no children, but of course why would there be it was a school day.

As I lay listening to the rain, seeing these people over and over I realized that I was more disturbed by this experience than I had yet allowed myself to feel. I let myself go into some eye movements to process the ordeal.  My eyes were eager to shift laterally, a sure sign I needed to do so. My self-induced REMs were steady and consistent, a good sign, I thought. Then I began to feel a surge, a quick breath and my reactive thought was “god damn guns!”  I saw the little pregnant woman again and the beautiful girl going off with her friends for a fun time in Vegas and thought of our beautiful Jenny and Krissie. “God Damn the god damn guns!” Then in one instant I began to cry.  My crying spontaneously out loud is about as rare as my not sleeping. Yet in the very moment of hearing my own cry, I felt a safety in the cry welcomed further subs.  I noticed that within the first audible sob, Ron’s hand was immediately on me. Bless him. He is always there for me.  I cried a bit more letting my body finish up this needed release.  I began then to think of more familiar faces…thought of how hard this last year in particular has been for my friends Holly and Bud.  I thought about our friend Elaine in Newfoundland, who really would take care of me. I thought about Tim, our best friend in CO and how important he is to us given that he knows Ron and I collectively better than anyone else. I thought about Jenny and James planning their wedding and Krissie and Gavin and Alexis and the entwining of their lives. I thought about the clients I see day by day, name by name…even clients from years ago.  They all kept showing up in my mind. I thought about the wonderful neighbors on all sides of our little house in Lodi. I thought about Ron, his hand still on me and mine on him. I thought about everyone I know close and dear near and far. It was an explosion of connection with everyone on the planet, so it felt.  I felt the “we” of those I am closest to and the “we” of those I have only known for two hours. I felt the “we” of America and Portugal.   I felt the “we” of those dear people two building down from Marshalls.

Like the one gal that I wished I had engaged, I am a very independent person and I would just as well sit alone in a crisis than be in the collective. That is just my way. It is a gift. Yet even so, in this brief encounter of potential danger, I experienced the necessity of the “we”.

Crying and breathing this “we” was good for me. How holy to love, to live, to “we”. This night’s interruption wasn’t about just me selfishly missing Ron and Ron missing me for a few days away. It was about potentially missing neighbors, family, best friends, clients and strangers in a lock down. This night was about the “we” that we all are. The “we” that we each must be.

Weeping Loons

Deb Brock Connection, Discovery, Feelings, grief, mindfulness, Self-Awareness, Spiritual

I have a nostalgic memory, both pleasant and painful, that occurred a couple years ago. I was sitting on the porch of our most heavenly cabin enjoying a strong summer rain storm. The Loons came to me and wept.

There had been a squall, unlike anything I had ever seen.  I love water, I love being in and on the water, I even profess that in a former life surely, I was a sea captain given my language skills and the synchronization I always seem to experience in the rocking of waves. So when this massive storm came in, I was enthralled. I have seen storms depicted in movies of through reading old sailor tales, which I love. But sitting on the cabin porch watching this massive blanket of what seemed like solid water come across our little lake was daunting, exciting and surreal all in that brief period of time during which it came.

The summer had already been an exciting one for people like me who treasure times on the lake.  It had been an exciting summer because we had Loons.  Loons! Lovely, stately, and wildly calling Loons.  Each evening with the regular 4 PM-5 PM passage of lake residents’ pontoon boats, we would all wave and smile of course, because that is what you do on the little lake.  It doesn’t matter how many times you wave to the same person or crowd, you just wave with each passing be it from the shore, as we most often were, playing Chinese checkers on the porch, a kayak, a paddle boat or pontoon. So, in our accustomed ease of summer delight we waved but this particular year with the Loon business we always asked: “noticed the Loons this evening?  Any motion in the nest”?

That was the conversation: Loons. We had Loons on our little lake and we were all thrilled.  Due to the long-timers on the lake there was even Loon Squad who put up low wake signs, and Loon Alert Signs on the island where they had nested.   We not only had a pair of loons visiting our lake, they had selected this new home on the island just across from our cabin, the nest nearly within eye sight from our front porch.

It was clear that momma and papa Loon were keeping constant eyes on the nest, one always being nearby when we paddled quietly around the island. We knew that we couldn’t paddle too close to the nest so we had to strain to catch a glimpse of their well-hidden nest. The nest was close to the water, as is the custom of Loons. I understand loons build nests close to the water because of the difficulty of their landing and take-off patterns. If you have ever seen a Loon take flight from the water, it is quite the scene, comical in a way, literally taking a running start just skimming the water paddling as fast as they can the difference between water and air until they finally get from flap into flight.

It had been confirmed by one of the Loon squad that there was only one egg in the nest.  Okay, one egg it is, which is not unusual.  Surely, we all thought, we would be seeing a new loon within the next few days!  At least, Ron and I hoped that would be the case because we would be at the cabin only another few days.

Then the rain came. Typical of summer storms, the brightness gave way to darkening clouds, then droplets plucking the lake.  Then the stinging pelts came, and then the squall hit, hard and fast. From gathering of dark clouds to blankets of white water coming straight across the lake in front of us in so short a time. Coming from the East, the wayward wind.

I admit, I didn’t think about the Loons and the nest during the squall because I was mesmerized by the squall’s swift power. I allowed the old sea captain in me to remanence through my imagination.  Then, as soon as it came, the squall seemed to be gone. Where did it go?  How did it come and go so fast, almost as if it were all in my imagination? It came and it went and then, like anyone else who enjoys the refreshment of a post summer storm, we walked down to sit on the dock as the waters settled down and sun came back out.

Then they came, the Loons, Mother and Father directly to the end of our dock. We thought it was cool to begin with. Maybe they came to visit and “ask how we were”. They came to wail in our presence.  This was not their distant, enchanting evening call from across the lake. These two Loons came with in feet of our dock and circled and simply cried.  They wept and wailed inconsolably. It didn’t take the therapist in me to realize this was a cry of great grief.  Then it hit me “Oh no, the storm must have taken our little brown egg!” Oh Loons, oh I am so sorry! The loons were knocking on my therapist door to sit with me as they wailed.

I made every human effort I could to communicate how sorry I was for them. I cooed them, I cried with them, I extended my arms to them in a universal gesture of comfort. But I could not effectively comfort them. Such is so often the case in grief, whether human or otherwise. The loons came, circled about, and wept. We cried with them. I did my best to console but alas, I doubt my consolation was sufficient. Though it seemed eternal, swiftly after they come, they left. They circled while weeping and then they left our dock.  Ron and I held each other and continued our own sadness of this most human-like loss.

Their nest had indeed been washed out by the squall.  They had lost their egg, their single, beautiful, well loved, and proudly protected lightly brown egg. Our potential three were just two again.

The Loons left our little lake not long afterward. It was several years before we again heard in the distance the magnificence of an evening Loon call. I don’t know if any other loons ever nested on the island again. The sound of the Loons has been random over the last few years. Even though random, the haunting loon-like melody is always treasured and hope-inspiring. We yet hope that “The Loons” would come back to our lake and nest again.

They have come back. This summer, the enticing and stirring call of the Loons has been frequent. This last week, our July week, has been daily gladdened by their sounds and their sights as we share our little lake.  It is so wonderful to see them. There is a peace that settles over me when I see them an hear them, as is true with most who treasure the lure of the Loons. I always say hello to them and invite them to stay on our little lake in hopes they will. I sit in my morning kayak bobbing on the water with them, as they dip and dive and tease me with where they might resurface. I stop and close my eyes and cock my ear to their evening tunes that settles me into a deep contemplative breath.

Again, the time had come for us to depart our little private paradise and return home until next month. And as is our usual custom, Ron and I go down to the end of our dock for the last evening sit. It was that most wonderful time of pre-night, “waning dusk” as some poet once call it, when sun’s glow has been all but snuffed and the star light is yet only a hint, that up from the darkening water came one Loon, right in front of our dock. Ron and I took each other’s hand and smiled, then up came another, and then, how about that, one more, smaller little guy! Then just as they came up one by one by one, they dove back down into the water, one papa, one momma, and one young proud of little loon. I guess they just wanted to come by and say “Hello, just wanted you to know we are feeling better now. See you next month when you come back.”

Awful

Ron Johnson family, Feelings, Self-Awareness, Spiritual

I felt a fair bit of sadness over the last few days. I have been confronted by sadness at four different times all within 48 hours. Sadness has been a central ingredient in my understanding how things work, how the world works, and how people work. So it wasn’t with despair or despondency that I felt sad. It was because I love. This is what sadness is about: something loved, but also something lost.

The sadness I felt yesterday actually started a day or two earlier when I wondered why many flags were at half-staff. I first wondered if it had to do with another tragic terrorist bombing, some emotionally troubled person shooting people in a school, or just some important person. Actually, it didn’t matter whether it was a massive tragedy of bombing, some loner dealing his or her loneliness, or just one well-known person who had died. The flag at half-staff represented mourning that was collective. I felt this collective sadness even without knowing who I felt sad with. But I felt sad with someone, or some people, or some country, or some tribe. I have become accustomed to feeling sad, which then immediately reminds me that I am capable of loving, which sadness should always do.

Yesterday I felt two other times of sadness, both of which seemed to blend together with the half-staff sadness. My early Sunday morning is usually pleasantly spent reading the newspaper while lying in bed. Sunday mornings are the only time I “lie in bed,” something that otherwise doesn’t ever appeal to me. Getting past the first page of the Wisconsin State Journal I read an article of a terrible truck-bus accident in Saskatchewan, Canada. Evidently, a truck t-boned a busload of youth hockey players. Having lived in Canada for four years, I know how important hockey is in the country. I was bemused when I first got to St. John’s, Newfoundland, to find the “sports page” was really a hockey page: NHL, AHL, CFL, and many youth groups. Additionally, instead of kids playing basketball on the hard court outside of school, they were playing “street hockey,” replete with hockey sticks and pucks, usually sans pads. As we know, Canada is a hockey country. Canada has “hockey Moms” much more than “soccer Moms.”

This “youth” hockey group bus that was hit was with 16-20 year olds, many of which certainly aspired to the NHL, AHL, or some other “L” in Canada, or anywhere they could play. So when I saw this hockey bus hit, my instantaneous thought was of the triple tragedy of the loss of some 15 people, hockey players, and coaches. I felt the tragedy immediately and deeply with this mix of my quazi-Canadian heritage, understanding of the hockey culture in Canada, and most of all the loss of these 15 people. I even thought about my own brief days of playing hockey in high school, and an hour or two pushing the puck around on our frozen lake up north. Mostly, I just felt sad, as did Deb when she read it a few minutes later.

Then I was off to church, quickly showering and getting my suit on (the only guy in church, by the way who wears a coat and tie). I sat with my good friends, I’ll call them Jan and Bob, who have been struggling with their son’s cancer off and on for several years. It has been a labor of love and we hear Facebook reports of their progress often daily, but never of the danger. Bob asked me how I was, and I responded with a statement that has become regular for me, “couldn’t be better.” He was glad for that, he said but then said that the same wasn’t exactly true for him. He had been in Minneapolis over the weekend and had heard that his son, having gone through tortuous chemo and radiological treatments, had now heard that the cancer had metastasized into his spine. Bob was moved, although he is not a person to openly show such “movement.” I was moved. I told him that was awful. Then I added an adverb to the adjective “awful” and said it with the power that such adverbs seem to give emotional statements. He thanked me. That was it. I put my arm around Jan and said little. Little needed to be said. I did say something like, “this just isn’t right” (meaning that children shouldn’t be dying before parents do). She nodded her head. It was all she could do without coming completely apart. I left it at that. But the sadness has stayed with me.

My work with people, as it is with most therapists, is replete with various losses, hurts, and times of sadness. The next day at work was no different, but the day ended with a session with…, let’s call him Ben. I have known Ben now for nearly two years as he is trying to migrate through his middle age years with the complications of work, children, marriage, and ultimately having a life of meaning. He told me that he had just been fired. Well, I’ve been fired two or three times in my professional career, and it is no fun. But hearing this tragic event in Ben’s life at the same time that he is trying to figure out all the rest of life, seemed…awful. I told him so. He wanted to think about it, thinker that he is, and maybe analyze the causes of the firing, analyst that he is, and do something about it, the doer that he is. But I tried my best to keep him to feeling the awful. Just the awful. Just the feeling. It was tough. But the only way through awful is to feel it, feel it, and feel it…until you finish it. Then you can think, analyze and take action. I was glad that I could be with him at this awful time, and it was to be with Bob, as it was to be “with” the hockey players and families, as it was to be with those unknown people who felt compelled to place the flag at half-staff. It felt good because I could be with these people in their times of awful without feeling awful. I loved all these people. And I am better for it.

Sadness is such a central theme in life. Never easy. Never wanted. Never sought. Always present. This is why Deb and I felt compelled to write our book. We wanted the title to be simple: Good Grief, but the publisher re-titled it The Positive Power of Sadness. Sadness is, indeed, powerful. The power is love.

Further Reading

Johnson, R. and Brock, D. (2017). The positive power of sadness: how good grief cures and prevents anxiety, depression, and anger. Los Angeles: Praeger

Previous blogs on Feelings