Witness to the Suicide Contract

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This morning I was researching a brilliant style of creative non-fiction called the “hermit crab essay”, which derives its style from ordinary, non-literary types (a recipe, a police report, an obituary…) to create the structure for its subject matter. It’s a sub-genre that I want to attempt… very soon.

I was reading an example in crazyhorse literary journal.

“The Son of Mr. Green Jeans: an Essay on Fatherhood, Alphabetically Arranged,” by Dinty W. Moore

When I got to “Father Knows Best”, which describes a failed suicide attempt with a hose to an exhaust pipe, I had a flashback to a day, 36 years ago, when I witnessed such an event.

Isn’t it amazing, I thought this morning, how our lives can be dissected into millions of fragments, some that deliver meaning and messages designed to revisit us years- even decades- later?

I was driving home from school that day (as a teacher), pregnant and tired. As I slowly drove the winding road through my neighborhood, I saw movement in my peripheral vision. At the top of the hill, my middle-aged neighbor was hooking up a vacuum cleaner hose to the exhaust pipe of his car as it was parked in his driveway. The other end of the hose was tucked into the rear driver side window where the glass held it in place.

As I drew closer, I saw him stand up and approach the driver’s side door. With his hand on the door handle, he looked up at my approaching vehicle. I slowed to a near standstill as I reached his driveway.

Our eyes held for a long second, then he looked away and opened the car door. I saw no emotion.

My brain began to process the contents of the scene.

My pregnant body was holding this new life approaching entry to the world, in contrast with the old body approaching exit from the world.

Would this be an even trade?

I quickly turned my car around at the next intersection.

By now, he had started the engine and a puff of exhaust escaped around the perimeter of the hose. Or maybe I imagined this. Perhaps the car simply shuddered in revulsion upon starting.

Having had my own experiences with suicidal thoughts, I weighed the outcome and my role at this brief intersection in time. There had been a time in my own life- many, many years, all of my childhood years, actually- when my first thoughts upon awakening and my final thoughts before sleep- were the desire for death. I had craved it. I knew his desire.

Should I interfere? Or not?

Should I let him complete this suicide contract with himself? Or intervene on the premise that maybe I was meant to cross his path that day as a kindred spirit?

Was the message in this for him? Or was it a happenstance directed to me?

I drove quickly to the bottom of the hill, to the nearest house where I knew a friend and neighbor was at home, and used her phone to call 911.

We were a small village. The man’s wife was the owner and proprietor of The Village Store, an ancient place whose floorboards knew us all. I dared not call the store. The fire station staff would soon alert her.

Instead, I parked my car at the intersection and waited for the 911 responders to arrive. Followed by the missus.

Now she would know who had called in the suicide attempt in progress. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

They got there in time. When I set out again, homeward bound, he was out of the car, arguing with the responders. He was drunk.

A week later, he completed his task.  I read about it in the newspaper.

I continued to buy my milk and newspapers at The Village Store. She and I never acknowledged what had taken place on that cloudy winter day.

Attention, Whiners (That Would Be Me)

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Midlife Crisis Alert.

The day before yesterday, I had a weird day of self-pitying confusion. I was chalking it up to just general tiredness after a busy day, writing deep self-exploratory memoir material in a beautiful tropical setting that contrasted vastly with my frame of mind.

However, this morning a link to an article about this precise issue for Midlifers popped up in my Facebook feed from #KripaluCenterforYoga&Health- including quotes from #MariaSirois and #TheHarvardBusinessReview. Nowww I get it!

You would think that I, as a recent student of Maria’s wonderful Kripalu program Rejuvenate & Reclaim Life after 40, would especially be aware of this, but no- I forgot. Every thing in the article’s reference material precisely described what I experienced.

From Hannes Schwandt, The Harvard Business Review:

“Paradoxically, those who objectively have the least reason to complain (e.g. if they have a desirable job) often suffer most. They feel ungrateful and disappointed with themselves particularly because their discontent seems so unjustified – which creates a potentially vicious circle.”

I thought I was being whiny. Whiny is not what I’m about. I’m here alone so there was only one person in whom I confided my confusion.

Yes, I’m a lot old for a Midlife Crisis. That’s what I thought, but if you envision the “100 Good Years” of Ayurveda, I could very well be at the bottom of the U.

The U: In youth, 20s, 30s, we go merrily along. Then we can hit the bottom of this visual “U” in our 40s, 50s (or 60s, in my case). After hitting bottom, in our 60s, 70s, 80s and beyond, we gain insight and rise up again.

Janet Arnold-Grych:

“In our youth, we are filled with fire and expectation. In midlife, we begin to become aware of a balance sheet we’ve constructed that tallies effort and outcome, anticipation and realization. In many cases, we feel we’ve come up short somehow in what we’ve done or who we’ve become. Even if we stand in a very good place, things can somehow seem flawed. Add to that our increasing awareness of the ticking of time, and we might find ourselves wading in dis-ease, exhaustion, or befuddlement.”

 Yeah. That’s where I was the other day.

Maria Sirois, Kripalu:

“You don’t want to deny what’s happening because, in some ways, it’s part of normal human development,” says Maria. “You might not even have language for this burgeoning transition and that’s okay. Explore it the way a young child might—get really interested in it.”

“Get really interested in it.” YES! I was really trying to figure out the “why” of it.

I confess. Two days ago I was even saying: Maybe I should just chuck this whole writing thing. WTF! I love writing!

From the Kripalu article:

“Harvard Business Review labels midlife malaise a natural state; Maria terms it a wake-up moment. ‘Yes, it can be scary,’ she says, ‘but it can also be tremendously exciting when we recognize that we do have options in terms of reshaping our lives.’ You might naturally bob up from that midlife murkiness without paying it too much attention, but taking the time to thoughtfully explore both the downward slope and rising terrain will give you clarity as you move into the next exciting phase—whatever that might be.”

For more insight, I suggest that you explore the articles below. There’s some very beneficial content for anyone at the bottom of the U.
I’m on my way up.
Links to the referenced content:
Janet Arnold Grych for Kripalu The Midlife Roller Coaster
Hannes Schwandt, The Harvard Business Review, Why So Many of Us Are Experiencing a Midlife Crisis
Jonathan Rauch, The Atlantic, The Real Roots of the Midlife Crisis

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Perfection is Overrated

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Is Perfection overrated? I think so.

A writer friend just sent me a download on the importance of being “Good Enough,” as opposed to being “Perfect.”

Long Story Short: If we fall victim to the whims of the Perfectionist in ourselves, we can damage the expression of our Creativity.

Example:

You write a stream-of-consciousness response to a few thoughts that you wish to convey. Your article is gritty and true.

Then you start fine-tuning it. You go too far. Instead of fine-tuning, you accidentally strip out the emotion.

Instead of capturing its essence, you pound it down to a shadow of its former self.

We need to encourage ourselves in our writing, and our lives, not look for the flaws.

Learning to recognize when we are Good Enough is not always easy, but it’s a good goal.

In fact, it’s a Good Enough goal.

Thanks, Nancy Harris.

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From Hopeless to Hope – My Week at Kripalu Center for Yoga & Health

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This is Mental Health Week.

Last week I enjoyed a glorious retreat of self-discovery and restoration at Kripalu, the world famous yoga and wellness center in Stockbridge MA. I didn’t check in under my writer name and I definitely didn’t plan on writing about my time there.

I also didn’t plan to be transformed by the experience.

First, let me assure you that this is not a woo-woo place. It’s a serious non-profit devoted to helping us become our best selves through a rich catalog of courses for growth.

We were 16 participants in a program entitled “Rejuvenate and Reclaim Life over 40.” On Sunday evening, we shed our flip-flops outside the door to our meeting space and claimed our places on the carpeted floor where a circle of cushioned yoga chairs awaited us. Our youngest participant was 42 and I was the oldest at 65. When Maria Sirois, our clinical psychologist leader, introduced herself, I’m sure that I was not the only one who was more than slightly envious of this sensuous 40-something young woman with a playful, positive style.

Maria told us that we were going to be given the tools that would help us to become more mindful, resilient human beings. We would increase our capacity to thrive and regain our sense of a life worth living. Really?

I began to cry. I was not the only one, of course. Maria passed me a tissue box while lightly, but sincerely, reminding us: “What happens in Kripalu stays in Vegas.” Our individual burdens were varied, and no one was required to share their story, but we found that in our pods of two to six caring peers, we were safe. We could do this.

We would be dreaming and talking about very concrete, practical goals—putting our lives into perspective.

Would we really find serenity and begin living our true, authentic life in just under a week? We would, and we did.

Each morning began with an opportunity to participate in Gentle Yoga, a lovely way to greet the day with a relaxed wake-up yoga practice—easy prone positions or hands and knees asanas. After savasana, we rolled off our mats and followed the fragrance of breakfast.

Breakfast at Kripalu is always silent, giving us the opportunity to practice mindfulness as we enjoyed the nourishing, organic choices. Vegetarian, non-vegetarian organic, Ayurvedic, Buddha bowls— too many to describe here and all beautiful. Have you wanted to try healthy organic foods that someone else has prepared superbly for you? Ayurvedic spices, world sourced organic teas, and an abundance of fresh fruit and whole grain breads. Meals for Living and Thriving.

One is not allowed to use electronics on the premises, except in the Café or in the privacy of your room. I hand-wrote my notes and transcribed them to my laptop each evening. It turned out to be a good opportunity to review what I had learned each day. Mindfulness. Happiness. Flow. Loving Kindness. Courage!

IMG_5148Outside there are expansive lawns, orchards, hiking trails, a lake, labyrinth and lots of places to contemplate quietly or share conversation. Sometimes I enjoyed taking my lunch tray outside to a picnic table under a canopy, even on a cool rainy day when a little wren, with her feathers puffed up against the breeze, was my only company. She hopped over to me and we contemplated each other with our heads tilted, eye-to-eye. I imagined that we were giving each other much needed encouragement.

By the third day, I had the energy to join the Yoga Dances during lunch—an hour of spontaneity during which we were introduced to yoga and Qigong moves that were translated to contemporary music, starting slow, gaining tempo. Fantastic sweaty joyous fun!

Our program also included Wellness taught by an M.D., a class in Qigong taught by- don’t laugh- a soft-spoken, near Harrison Ford look-alike. We also enjoyed a superb class in Nutrition with valuable content that dispelled any of our predisposed ideas that a class in Nutrition might possibly be boring.

The next day I cried some more and finally on Wednesday night I sobbed for four straight hours as the clock inched towards midnight. Filled a wastebasket with spent tissues. I didn’t know I had it in me. Letting go. Crying for the prospect of the new Life ahead of me.

Finally, at midnight, I threw a tunic over my nightgown and set out barefoot, to roam the halls where I made a walking meditation. Passed no one except a person talking to someone on the other side of the world, softly speaking in an Asian language that I couldn’t identify. Found my way to the dining room where I made myself a cup of chamomile tea and closed my eyes as the raw honey drizzled slowly into the cup, wishing I could drizzle the honey over my head— wishing I could feel the sweetness seeping into my soul.

The next morning, I felt cleansed. My fellow yogis ignored my swollen eyes. Maria’s topic of the day was Falling in Love with Life Again. Stillness, Focus, Self-Compassion. Using the tiny moments for relationship building.

I learned that it takes courage to be Authentic. There are epic gains to be made in living a true life of authenticity, but there will also be painful moments too- like crossroads decisions.

Late that night I took a sauna bath, lying back alone and naked in the dark as the heat drew the impurities away. I rested my hands on my belly, feeling my breath rise up with each intake, then drawing out and away with each release.

I came here on the edge of Hopeless. Now, six days later, I am on a path of Hope. Thank you, Maria. Thank you, Kripalu.

#hopeless and #hope

The Canoe Trip

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A Comfort Vest, you may know, is a garment that’s designed to calm dogs who become frightened due to loud noises like thunder. You zip or click or velcro the vest onto them and the close fit provides the soothing comfort of a full body hug. I only learned of these at 4th of July when the local animal shelter was recommending them for dogs who are afraid of fireworks.

Yesterday was my solar return, 1:12 PM, aka birthday. It was the day that the sun returned to the exact position in the sky that it occupied at the time of my birth. Kind of amazing. I reflected on the cyclical nature of life for a bit, and on being a pin dot in the universe.

I drank my green drink and ate my birthday cupcake, then suited up in long sleeved denim, jeans and apron to pick three gallons of blackberries in the bramble patch.

blackberryjellyReturned to mash and sieve the berries into juice and finally made blackberry jelly~ enough for a whole year’s worth of low sugar jelly on homemade wheat germ toast.

Against my better judgment, I ate another cupcake. My excuse is that they were smaller than regular homemade cupcakes. Of course, I also frosted them thicker so that they wouldn’t look like smaller cupcakes…

Since it didn’t appear that this day was going to be much different from any other day, I tucked into a quilt in the living room and did some suitably calm reading (Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking) for the most of the afternoon.

I admired the sun sparkling through the perfectly blue-black jelly, heard “pop, pop…pop” as the lids on the jelly jars sealed down, found a Sharpie and dated the lids.

Suddenly I decided that I wanted to do something to celebrate my birthday, something active, something physical. (Something to counteract cupcake guilt.)

I awakened my husband from his afternoon nap and told him as much. Something active, something physical.

Then I announced that we were going to take a canoe trip.

Did you know that a “canoe trip” is a euphemism for having sexual relations?

No, I didn’t know either.

Apparently the meaning of a “canoe trip” as above (getting f***ed) has also now led to a “canoe trip” meaning getting the raw end of the deal. (see Urban Dictionary)

Their Mad Men example:

Wife: “Honey, how was work today?”
Husband: “It was a real canoe trip.”

I retrieved the life jackets from the garage. Two human and one canine. Our golden retriever, Lily, loves her life jacket. When she sees me carrying it, it means doggy heaven on the water. I think she enjoys the same weightless feeling that we enjoy when we float along on the water. As soon as I buckle on her jacket, she becomes Zen Dog, epitome of all things Calm. She hops into the canoe, settles down and takes in the sights without a single “woof”.

True to form, we put in the canoe within range of four dogs frolicking on the shore. Lily totally ignored them, but maybe she was just being snooty. She was going on a canoe trip. They weren’t. And they weren’t wearing stylish yellow life jackets. About 50 feet after push-off, a sea gull cruised down low to scope out the furry critter with the stylish yellow life jacket. Again, no response from Lily. Silly seagull.

A bit further on, we passed a docile blue heron stalking along the shore. He and Lily exchanged bored glances.

I began to make the association between the life jacket and Lily’s calm behavior. She’s been wearing one for boating for three years already, but I never knew about comfort vests until last month. The life jacket fits like a comfort vest. That must be why she’s so chill when we canoe.

What’s my point?

It’s now 26 hours past solar return 1:12 PM. It’s just another day.

“Calm” is what I like to think I am, but my personal symbol of comfort calm, my comfort vest~ my license plate, will soon no longer be mine. Having moved to a new state, I have to remove it, and someone else here already has dibs on my content.

That’s OK. I have a better one arriving any day. Stay tuned.

dotcalm