Читать книгу Baptized Rage, Transformed Grief - Cheryl A. Kirk-Duggan - Страница 7

Sometimes, we think we have it all together. Others might have the same impression of us. With spouses or partners, educational degrees, a home, cars, name recognition in some circles, and modest notoriety in our chosen fields, it might appear that life is good and success abounds. And in many ways we do have, and have had it together. Yet, sometimes there are loose threads to the garment of our lives; threads that we find in the lives of others and in culture in these United States and the world. In my own life, though I was sometimes not consciously aware of it, the loose threads of anger, grief, and the related loss as betrayal were unraveling. When I was physically active, I was always more connected and at peace. Those little threads did not seem to bother me as much.

Time and time again, however, I would often get out of the habit of physical exercise. When I got too busy with work to work out, I did not have the spiritual revelations that happened when I jogged, power walked, did yoga, or circuit training. In the midst of hit and miss exercise, I could recount problems that were taking an emotional drain on me. Infertility compounded by the seeming onset of spousal Alzheimer’s, seemed to push me over the edge. All hope of having children – biological or adopted, and the possibility of celebrating a 50th wedding anniversary with my beloved spouse, disappeared over the course of twenty-four months; the saga of the Alzheimer’s presentation lasted roughly another four years. The threads began to disentangle. My anger seemed to be right below the surface, at the same time quite deep. Without consistent workouts, some of my senses were dulled and I was oblivious to the depths of pain. After doing yoga and later Body for Life fitness program, I really began to see the rage I could no longer deny. With all hope of having children – biological or adopted snuffed out and with my spouse seeming to lose his former genius status wit, brilliance, and cognitive ability, I became more uptight and troubled. In hindsight, I lived at the intersection of rage and grief for months. The catalyst for my initial realization and the awakening of “the Furies” began while jogging on the shores of the Atlantic, on the Island of Puerto Rico, in the shadows of Viesquez, where the United States’ frequent rehearsal of bombs bursting in air was making a population deadly ill. For months I lived at the intersection of mania and misery.

I met my rage through baptism, during my dawn exercise ritual, as I rounded the curves on the track, on a beautiful, sunlit morning. The Spirit compelled me to re-experience my baptism. “You are holding on to rage about the middle passage (the experience of millions of enslaved persons packed like sardines in the bowels of ships from Africa to the Americas), and you still mourn and hurt around your parents’ deaths. You have much anger regarding the death of your fetus.” After our brief love affair with what we hoped would be our first born nine months later, that dream died in the time it took God to create the world, in seven days. I knew positively that I was pregnant seven days, before I had to then submit to a D & C, because there was no heartbeat.

As I continued running around the track, the voice continued, “You are ravaged by fury that must be released. You are carrying around pain that’s not your own. Let it go! Rebaptize yourself in these waters, so that you can release this agony, and can be reborn and restored.” I heard all of this in amazement, panting as I ran to complete one more lap, with the waves from the Atlantic lapping against the shore and the breezes rustling in the palm trees a few feet away.

Re-experience my baptism? Yeah, right. I’d heard of people doing this, but for my money, wasn’t once enough? Yet, relentlessly, the Spirit tugged at my heart and kept intruding my mind. Being obedient I said, “Sure, why not?” Totally embarrassed, I told a couple of male ordained friends, for no other women clergy were present at this intense focus session of the Faith and Order Commission, National Council of Churches. I gingerly explained to them what had happened and invited their assistance. You never saw men who are usually quite suave, professional, and in control get so agitated and uncomfortable. You could see them thinking about dogma and correct practice. They were worried about protocol; I was focused on my sanity and the recent revelation. In exasperation, one said he was leaving early the same afternoon, so thank you, but no thank you. My other friend, with whom I had a much longer standing collegial relationship, made a noncommittal response and didn’t bring the subject up again, even when I glanced his way knowingly. Not to be outdone, I told him of my plans for baptism the next morning before our meeting ended that night.

Morning came and he was not in the decrepit exercise room where he’d been the last two mornings. I realized for whatever reason, he was incapable of assisting me in this venture. I also realized that I could rebaptize my own self, in the spirit of the priesthood of all believers, and the gift of my own ordination. With a little trepidation, I left the hotel lobby with towels in hand, out to the beach of nearest proximity. To my relief, part of the ocean was enclosed with a reef, so I would not feel the full impact of the ocean as I began my ritual. I knew that people did outdoor baptisms in rivers or lakes, but I had neither; I had an ocean. Another part of my skittishness was not about the ritual I was called to experience, but that I am not a good swimmer. I feel safe in three feet of water, for despite my goal to enter a mini-triathlon, which requires biking, running, and swimming, the swimming and to a lesser extent, the biking is still a dream. Not to be out done, I persevered.

I sat on the concrete embankment for a while meditating on the ebb and flow of the water. I took off my running shoes and dangled my feet in the water so I could adjust to the temperature. Slowly, I waded out into the water. As I stood there, the first revelation was that what had seemed to be solid, the ocean floor, actually shifted. Every time the tide came in and went out, the sand where I’d been standing shifted, so I was slowly sinking. Each time I shifted my position on what initially felt like sturdy ground, I would feel the shifting sand beneath me, again and again. I waded further out into the water. Bravely, I lowered my body and got on my knees and let the water kiss my torso. I finally sat down on the ocean floor as the water pushed my body back and forth. When it was time for me to baptize myself, rather than push my head backwards, which is what would have happened had I had assistance, I lowered my head forward and baptized myself in the name of the Creator, in the name of Jesus the Christ, and in the name of the Holy Spirit. My mission was now accomplished; accomplished but not completed.

I heard no music, felt no overwhelming sense of peace or anxiety, and experienced nothing other than the water. Where was the chorus of angels, or the fireworks, or at least my own rapid heartbeats? Nothing happened. A little disappointed; no, a lot disappointed, I dried off, got rid of some of the sand, and then went back inside the hotel, up the stairwell, and to my room. Still nothing, though I had been obedient. Faintly resigned, I turned the shower on, adjusted the temperature and stepped in. And then, in those moments, came the release, the release that I had desired.

My tears gushed forth; my whole body shook. With the tears came a powerful spiritual, emotional, and physical release. With the release, came the second revelation. I needed to write about my rage, the anger that was brewing, fermenting beneath my skin. These boiling elements were actually, physically getting under my skin in a way that caused chronic dermatological problems, which had not been solved or even had a diagnosis that made sense. This same concretized stress was probably contributing to my weight gain; was causing me heightened tension that could make me really sick if I failed to release the fury. (Years later, the dermatological problems morphed into skin cancer (CTCL: Cutaneous T-Cell Lymphoma, Stage 1.)

So thousands of miles from home, I began this phase of my pilgrimage, May, 2001, of naming, processing, releasing, and coming to heightened sense of consciousness about the powers and principalities, and the demons, that unbeknownst to my waking self, were unraveling my serenity. I began to focus on the first line of the Twenty-Third Psalm, stressing a different word each time I said it through: THE Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want; The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not want; The Lord IS my shepherd, I shall not want, and so forth. I repeated over and over the words of the serenity prayer daily. Sometimes, all I could do was moan: an intense, resonant wailing sound would rumble from the deepest core of my being. Other times I called prayer partners, dear spiritual friends who prayed with me, who let me weep and talk incessantly. Sometimes I would meditate. Sometimes I worked out, did power walking and jogging. One gift of this journey was the efforts of my poetic muse that “came on line,” and allowed for a great outpouring of anger, grief, betrayal, and loss.

Sometimes the words would flow while I was journaling. Sometimes it happened when I was on the stationary bike at the YMCA, or right after a session on the tread mill or during aerobics. After beginning Bikram Yoga, the practice that involves 26 Hatha Yoga positions twice through for ninety minutes in a room heated at 100+ degrees, I could no longer deny the feelings that would emerge. During these intense meditative postures, the issues that bubbled within me would surface. My body was no longer willing to hold on to such turmoil. Waves of nausea or tears or feelings of deep sadness announced my inner reality of emotional turbulence: feelings and realities tucked away and denied, so that I could move through life, and help others. I had been aware of some of this, but much of this melody of angst had been an unsung song in muted silence. I needed to face the facts that some days I didn’t have it all together, and clearly there were parts of my life over which I had no control. Who was I kidding? I know that most days I am totally powerless over people, places, and things. On some plane, I had known this a while back, and, paradoxically, in acknowledging my powerlessness, I actually gained tremendous freedom and power. This lesson had been tucked away, however, so I wasn’t experiencing a lot of freedom or sense of empowerment. I was torn, worn, and tired. I began to keep a legal yellow note pad with me for the purposes of transcribing the words that exploded within my mind, body, and spirit. Other times, I’d grab the back of an envelope. Over the course of a few years, about seventy poems on rage and grief were born. When I felt this volume culminating, over a decade had passed, and there were over 150 poems. My issues with my parents’ death and infertility were the initial catalysts for some of the poems. These poems helped birth the themes that ruminate throughout this meditations.

There were mornings when I realized that I was angry at several things – too many to name. The realization exhausted me. Those were times when the only thing I could do would be to tell God all of my troubles; the God who promised in Deuteronomy 4 to never, ever forsake me. Since sometimes these revelations happened really early in the mornings, I waited until a descent hour to find a conscious, human ear to listen; to be with me in my misery. The earlier thoughts, revelations, and subsequent confession were so important. Sometimes I would pray and cry out to God, and sometimes because I was so restless, I didn’t pause to listen for God’s response. Sometimes I did remember that prayer is a dialogue and not a monologue, and it would be so comforting to sense God’s presence and hear God’s response.

Some mornings, I would wake up and it would be so beautiful, that I would get dressed quickly. I walked and ran the hills as I purged the grotesqueness of this thing, this anger and grief that literally, figuratively, and actually weighed on me and weighted me down. This thing, this angst and sorrow, this ire and woe, this rage and heartache made me feel ancient. During some moments, it would cause an incapacitating affect that thwarted my passion, the fires of joy, hope, and love.

Over time, I realized that I was so angry at God and Mother and Dad, that God let them die, and that they died. One of the reasons I felt such a deep loss, in part was that we were in the process of trying to adopt a child or children. I became so aware of their needs and that if we were blessed with little ones, they would not have any grandparents. The absence of that generation in our lives really heightened my awareness around the loss I felt with my parents’ absence, and how critical grandparents are to nurturing children, and loving them well. In life, it is amazing how we reach out for others. In reaching out for someone else’s children, they would become ours. Sometimes in the process I wondered if in reaching out to someone else’s children, were we asking for more heartache? Our children would never ever know their grandparents on my side of the family, or my husband’s2 side. All are dead. And yes, they live within our hearts and we have pictures, and I know they are all praying for us; otherwise, we could have not been kept safe as long. I know they are in me and I in them, but they are still dead. I know Daddy’s body was tired; he had fought so nobly for so long, but he still is not here. I was angry; he died only six months after Mike and I got married. He and my husband would have been such good friends. Clearly, I am so grateful for having him through adulthood, but I missed him so. I felt sad. I had friends, longtime friends, who were blessed to still have both parents alive. I have other friends who have one parent alive. And of course, I have other friends who for all intents and purposes are orphans. We may have a few aunts and uncles around (of my maternal uncle and aunt, and thirteen paternal aunts and uncles, only one uncle survives), but our parents, those who birthed and raised us are dead. I don’t envy anyone else their wonderful blessings of parents; I grieved the loss of my own.

I still have no clue as to why God let Mother die at the young age of 62. She had so many hopes and dreams. Mother had never been sick; I can’t remember her ever having a cold. The doctor diagnosed her with leukemia in May and she died in October, 1989. She had looked forward to retirement; she believed, as did we all, for her healing. She could have come to visit or live with us, and had so many new and wonderful experiences. Our friends would have embraced Mother. She never got to hold our kids; and of course, now there are no kids for her to hold. Oh the sadness and loss around this one was, is so incredibly deep. There was so much she did not get to do. There are many things I can now not share with her.

I don’t deny she had a wonderful life, but the ending pain was so huge. She had lost so much by the end. She didn’t smoke or drink. She was a faithful and wonderful Mother and a friend. She prayed for us, and like Dad, she loved us. Her death makes no sense to me. I know the one constant in life is that if you are born, you will die; but her death was so sudden. There are times when I feel such a loss that I cannot call her up and tell her to plan to visit. She didn’t get to hold my nephew for long, or sing to him, or tell him stories about other members of our family. Seems selfish? I don’t think so —- it hurts, such a deep loss. Mother, Dad, did you give up? Did your bodies give up? Did God call you and you knew not to fight anymore?

I am angry with God and with Grannie that she had Alzheimer’s. What a waste, waste, waste. My beloved Grannie disappeared, and this woman left in the shell of her body was listless, fitful, no sense of humor. They tell me she could cuss like a sailor. I am deeply grateful I never witnessed any of these episodes. The contrast in the before and after is a nightmare in hysterics. She was a neat, clean, proud, yet humble woman. She loved people at church. She loved to take care of the flowers and made some of the communion linens for church. She spent hours at the church. For years, her home was the sanctuary for ministers of Reeves Temple. They knew they could find quiet and a meal at Bec’s house. Thursdays at Grannie’s were such an experience in collaboration and learning to pull one’s weight. Among maternal extended family, we learned to set the table, and sit and eat with cousins, and how to clear a table, and how to restore a room to a previous order. One neat rite of passage was that when you began high school you could then sit at the “big table.” At the big table, you got to serve yourself, listen to grown folks conversation, and participate as well. I miss that Grannie. She died in her 97th year, having had Alzheimer’s for about ten years or so. The grace is that she lived long enough to see her grandchildren grown, and she shared lots of years with us, loving us, teaching us, and guiding us. She loved a lot of people and was held in high esteem by many. The beauty is that I see much of her personality in some of the grandchildren. Her legacy lives on. The legacies of all people live on, in certain traditions, when one calls out their name and remembers them. What a blessing to remember the good and beautiful amongst the pain. Sometimes we do well moving day to day; other times we are stymied and get bogged down in our realities and how we interact in the world.

One morning on the way to work I saw a deer; it had frozen in the middle of the street, and I waited patiently for it to pass. Getting anxious or blowing the horn would have only made the deer more nervous and it probably would not have moved as quickly. The sound of the horn may have traumatized the deer. Sometimes we are like deer. Sometimes we freeze when the bright lights of crisis, change, and difficulty pierce our reality. Sometimes, like deer, we eventually do move on; at other times, we get stuck in the quick sand of difficult challenges, and we remain there, especially if we do not have a community of accountability around us, to help us come back to a more balanced view of life.

During this period, I also wrote about my anger at society for viewing educational institutions, especially the soft sciences as peripheral. People entrusted with nursery schools, day care, kindergarten, and elementary schools have to purchase their own supplies and remain underpaid. There could be no successful careers and businesses without strong foundations, but those who help to provide those foundations are devalued and compensated poorly. I also realized my anger at folks who create programs but fail to work out a substantial funding apparatus across the years. The rule of thumb is that you need three to five years of capital when beginning any venture, because it will take that long before you can turn a profit. Unfortunately, many visionaries have poor business sense; consequently, many of those who work in the nonprofit sector work too hard and are often grossly underpaid. In faith communities and in higher education, there are so many incompetent people that have advanced amid the Peter Principle. They have been elevated to the height of their incompetence. Seems some of the hardest working, most talented people get the most hassles, and those that worm their way into positions ride on the coattails of those who really care and work really hard.

During that season, my daily prayer was to become aware of my emotional issues and to be able to continue to see where my anger exists. I began to reflect more on anger, research it, and took an anger management training course. One of my prayers was to be able to release more anger, and to be able to use my anger creatively. I had come to recognize that anger, like any other emotion, is not good or bad, it just is. I also recognized that sometimes when anger does exist, one may or may not be aware of it, for it may be buried underneath great hurt, grief, and loss. As I peeled back the onion of my life, I began to see that there was a place where anger and grief, betrayal and loss were intimately connected.

Who knows why there are certain issues in our lives that are hard to release? When we first got married, with school and familial financial obligations, it seemed the wrong time to think about children. Later, when we did try, our attempts seemed futile. I had lots of support dealing with our inability to conceive. Then we gave up; we realized that we would not have the blessings of giving birth to children. Then an astonishing thing happened: September, 1994, we were pregnant; unbelievable! As this was the time before everyone had home computers and internet access, we phoned and faxed everyone our great news. We were so thrilled, so delighted.