Thirty years ago John Lennon faced death and died. That day, I awoke from my seventh cancer surgery and survived. I can never think about his death without ultra gratitude for my life. I never imagined that it would turn out that way.
Wednesday
imagine that
Thirty years ago John Lennon faced death and died. That day, I awoke from my seventh cancer surgery and survived. I can never think about his death without ultra gratitude for my life. I never imagined that it would turn out that way.
Tuesday
Healing
"...experience for yourself the potential of poetry to heal by feeling its power through your own voice. Many people have an intuitive sense that voice in general and poetry in particular can be healing. We have all experienced the comfort of soothing words. Finding the words to articulate a traumatic experience can bring relief.
.... People are frequently moved to write a poem in times of extremity. In mainstream culture there are subjects that are not talked about. They are taboo. For example, each of us is going to die, but we do not talk about dying. We are all in the dialogue of illness, death and dying, whether or not we are talking about it. Poetry gives us ways to talk about it.
...In the United States many people are scared of poetry. They have had bad experiences with it in school. People often believe that poetry is difficult or inaccessible or not relevant to them. Modern poetry is based on voice, and must be passed through our ears. This is where the sense is made. So, when you read this article and you see poetry,
Read it aloud
pass it through your ears
enjoy the
ride, and
know
the difference between poetry and prose
is that poetry is broken
into lines—
that is all.
Multiple ways of utilizing poetry for healing, growth and transformation will be presented including the Poetry and Brain Cancer project at UCLA. Particular attention will be given to issues of Palliative care. The reader will be directed to the scientific evidence of the efficacy of utilizing expressive writing. The developing professional field of Poetry Therapy and The National Association for Poetry Therapy will be discussed."
"Finding the Words to Say It: The Healing Power of Poetry" by Robert Carroll
The National Association of Poetry Therapy
~~~~~~~~~~~
Note: Thank you to Mimi Olsson for sending me this information!
.... People are frequently moved to write a poem in times of extremity. In mainstream culture there are subjects that are not talked about. They are taboo. For example, each of us is going to die, but we do not talk about dying. We are all in the dialogue of illness, death and dying, whether or not we are talking about it. Poetry gives us ways to talk about it.
...In the United States many people are scared of poetry. They have had bad experiences with it in school. People often believe that poetry is difficult or inaccessible or not relevant to them. Modern poetry is based on voice, and must be passed through our ears. This is where the sense is made. So, when you read this article and you see poetry,
Read it aloud
pass it through your ears
enjoy the
ride, and
know
the difference between poetry and prose
is that poetry is broken
into lines—
that is all.
Multiple ways of utilizing poetry for healing, growth and transformation will be presented including the Poetry and Brain Cancer project at UCLA. Particular attention will be given to issues of Palliative care. The reader will be directed to the scientific evidence of the efficacy of utilizing expressive writing. The developing professional field of Poetry Therapy and The National Association for Poetry Therapy will be discussed."
"Finding the Words to Say It: The Healing Power of Poetry" by Robert Carroll
The National Association of Poetry Therapy
~~~~~~~~~~~
Note: Thank you to Mimi Olsson for sending me this information!
Thursday
How I Stayed Alive When My Brain Was Trying to Kill Me
I bought the book but never read it. I really didn't need to, I'm sure. You see, I have the same disorder as the author.
Today is one of those days, when the brain chemistry has taken over. I have to fight it. In the past I didn't and followed the inclinations of it's power. Despondency was the key. It hits me now and then, even with proper medication.
For years the diagnosis was not recognize and life was pretty much a roller coaster of heaven, hell and numbness somewhere in between. Of course, in those early years, the diagnosis really didn't have a name as it was clustered within Schizophrenia. But, it is a separate condition and now treatable.
Still, here I am with overwhelming feelings of despair and unwarranted grief. My friends tell me to call them when I'm like this. They will help me. But, you see, that's not what I do. There is no desire to reach out for help.
Something that has helped me in the past has been journaling. I've got page after page of misery written down. There's something to letting it seep out of me into the pen onto the page, now transferred to the keyboard in these modern times.
I will ride through today as best I can. One thing I've learned that helps is to distract myself. Go to the store, a restaurant, the library, a ride in the car, up into the hills, down to the ocean. Sometimes I cry. But not anymore. Seems impossible now. If I cannot drag myself out of the house, which is not a good sign, I will crochet, paint or draw, make digital art, read, write, listen to music, or watch movies on TV while petting my purr babies.
I am going public with this because I haven't forgotten what it was like when it was unbearable, when the suicidal thoughts were invasive and all encompassing. I didn't have the internet back then. How valuable it would have been for me to find others in the same situation, where I could read that there was hope. If I can help just one person because of this posting, then it is worth it being out with my own history.
There is hope. No matter how desperate the situation, if you can ride it out, like the roller coaster, there is an end to the ride. Just hang on for dear life. And yes, there is value in life. There is value in your own life, even if it doesn't feel like it. Even if you feel like you don't deserve to live, you do.
Just hang on. Get help. Keep seeking help, even if it seems to not help, keep hanging on. There is a light at the end of the tunnel. Suicide is not the answer. I promise you.
Don't worry. I'm not suicidal anymore. I haven't been actively considering it for many years, though sometimes the feelings arise. The meds help with that.
But, here it is. The despondency is in the forefront of my mind, and like a sad old friend, I must take her hand and comfort her, distract her, and hang on!
For years the diagnosis was not recognize and life was pretty much a roller coaster of heaven, hell and numbness somewhere in between. Of course, in those early years, the diagnosis really didn't have a name as it was clustered within Schizophrenia. But, it is a separate condition and now treatable.
Still, here I am with overwhelming feelings of despair and unwarranted grief. My friends tell me to call them when I'm like this. They will help me. But, you see, that's not what I do. There is no desire to reach out for help.
Something that has helped me in the past has been journaling. I've got page after page of misery written down. There's something to letting it seep out of me into the pen onto the page, now transferred to the keyboard in these modern times.
I will ride through today as best I can. One thing I've learned that helps is to distract myself. Go to the store, a restaurant, the library, a ride in the car, up into the hills, down to the ocean. Sometimes I cry. But not anymore. Seems impossible now. If I cannot drag myself out of the house, which is not a good sign, I will crochet, paint or draw, make digital art, read, write, listen to music, or watch movies on TV while petting my purr babies.
I am going public with this because I haven't forgotten what it was like when it was unbearable, when the suicidal thoughts were invasive and all encompassing. I didn't have the internet back then. How valuable it would have been for me to find others in the same situation, where I could read that there was hope. If I can help just one person because of this posting, then it is worth it being out with my own history.
Just hang on. Get help. Keep seeking help, even if it seems to not help, keep hanging on. There is a light at the end of the tunnel. Suicide is not the answer. I promise you.
Don't worry. I'm not suicidal anymore. I haven't been actively considering it for many years, though sometimes the feelings arise. The meds help with that.
But, here it is. The despondency is in the forefront of my mind, and like a sad old friend, I must take her hand and comfort her, distract her, and hang on!
Monday
Is it Winning?
When you write from the heart whether it makes sense to anyone else, is it called writing?
Can it be something valued to others if you don't write to please them?
If you are just doing it for your own personal pleasure, is it selfish?
When you know there are thousands who are also applying themselves at the same time for one full month how is it that there is a sense of solidarity when you don't see them or know them?
Does 50,000 words make a novel all by themselves?
How can one just simply start at the word GO, and have a completed readable story in 31 days without having planned everything out ahead of time?
What happens to those who believe such a thing is possible and realize they cannot complete the task they set before them?
Enough with the questions, already!!!
Just celebrate that the goal has been met, the fun has been enjoyed, discoveries have been made and work with it until it is presentable!
National Novel Writing Month
I'm a "Winner"!
Saturday
One Whole Self
It can be twice as hard worrying about disappointing others.
Either way, equip yourself fully, start with one whole self, then begin.
~~Brad Rice
Thursday
Winter Warnings
.
once verdant and plush,
once brilliant...
like red and amber jewels,
blessing with visions of warmth,
these harbingers of winter
hang listlessly now,
ready to fall
to their earthly graves.
once brilliant...
like red and amber jewels,
blessing with visions of warmth,
these harbingers of winter
hang listlessly now,
ready to fall
to their earthly graves.
Wednesday
Writing About Family
Writers Call for Submissions for Anthology: Writing About Family
Possible subjects:
using life experience; networking; unique issues women must overcome; formal education; queries and proposals; conference participation; self-publishing; teaching tips. Tips on writing about family: creative nonfiction, poetry, short stories, nonfiction, novels.
Tuesday
Two Trees
It's very difficult to untangle the roots of two trees that have grown too tightly together. The roots, clingy and knotted, are torn. Too often both trees growth will be forever stunted if not separated. It's painful to make that sharp final cut to be released from what is ultimately suffocating. And like trees in a forest, each needs it's own sustenance in order to survive and still live together in harmony. ~Elizabeth Munroz
Thursday
Kitty Letters
It broke my heart every day to realize the loss of personal dignity, and sense of independence taken from my parents. When they described life in the nursing home as being "kept imprisoned" it was the day I finally broke down and cried. Yet, I knew the nursing home was decent. I had traveled great distances to visit over that year. The place was clean, but noisy. The staff people, for the most part, were compassionate, though hurried.
But, I could see my parents point. I thought it was like prison, too. I made it a point to call them everyday to listen, to see if there were things I could mail to them, discuss the good old days, and to update them on their kitties. Yet, I felt like I wasn’t doing enough for them.
So, their kitties began to send them cards and letters every day to cheer them, (well, I wrote on their behalf) in which they described their lives exploring their new home, getting acquainted with the Old Lady cat who already lived here, and their adventures in the new neighborhood.
As my parents settled into their new life, still the stressful inconveniences bothered them. But finally, they began to relax a bit and accepted the routine of where they were. The daily phone calls became more pleasant, (less complaining and unhappiness) and every new Kitty Letter they received brought them joy, gave them things to talk about, encouraged other fun things their cats had done in the past. They looked forward to every day. I was lightly scolded when they didn't get them "on time".
Three days before Dad died, I brought two kitty letters with me to deliver in person. My Dad, in hospice care because of a brain stem stroke from five months before, carefully opened the envelopes, shakily unfolded the pages, and read aloud in his slurred whisper to my mother, the latest news from their kitties.
With family members all gathered together, even among all the heart wrenching stress, those last days have been some of the most precious of my life.
But, I could see my parents point. I thought it was like prison, too. I made it a point to call them everyday to listen, to see if there were things I could mail to them, discuss the good old days, and to update them on their kitties. Yet, I felt like I wasn’t doing enough for them.
So, their kitties began to send them cards and letters every day to cheer them, (well, I wrote on their behalf) in which they described their lives exploring their new home, getting acquainted with the Old Lady cat who already lived here, and their adventures in the new neighborhood.
As my parents settled into their new life, still the stressful inconveniences bothered them. But finally, they began to relax a bit and accepted the routine of where they were. The daily phone calls became more pleasant, (less complaining and unhappiness) and every new Kitty Letter they received brought them joy, gave them things to talk about, encouraged other fun things their cats had done in the past. They looked forward to every day. I was lightly scolded when they didn't get them "on time".
Three days before Dad died, I brought two kitty letters with me to deliver in person. My Dad, in hospice care because of a brain stem stroke from five months before, carefully opened the envelopes, shakily unfolded the pages, and read aloud in his slurred whisper to my mother, the latest news from their kitties.
With family members all gathered together, even among all the heart wrenching stress, those last days have been some of the most precious of my life.
Monday
This Old House
The paint had peeled and faded. But, it still captured the eye whenever driving by on the highway. The Anderson Place in Fluvanna, New York near Chautauqua Lake. Living inside was like being caught in a time warp. It was once an eighteen room mansion. I rented half of it for $65 a month in 1970. Why was the other side of the house so carefully bolted? Had those hand crocheted lace curtains really been hanging there for 100 years? I thought so. So many things in my side of the place were very old. I could tell that the kitchen was probably the original settlers house, built in 1810, before less than eight families occupied that part of Western New York. The extra-wide floorboards ‘neath the fifty year old linoleum showed that they were hand-hewn.
The Anderson family had been successful enough that the rest of the place built up very fast. Ceilings loomed 15 feet above, in the dining area, living room and upstairs bedrooms which made the thirty foot entry hall and staircase a magnificent imposing welcome, if you entered through the double main doorways. But, no-one ever came in that way anymore. There wasn’t even the hint of a walkway to the entrance. The eastside porch was my entry. The westside was to the other side, no walkway on that side either.
One day, I came home to discover the little old ladies I had rented from were inside of my house. They had let themselves in with a key in order to access the basement in preparation for winter. We chatted a while before they left. I asked whether they would consider renting the other side. No they wouldn’t That was “Mother’s side” of the place. Mother had been dead 47 years by that time. They didn’t reveal much except that they had lived on the newer side since becoming adult and married, raising their children there and moving on to other quarters in retirement.After they left, I noticed they had accidentally left the door bolt unlocked between my kitchen and the other side.
Curiosity got the best of me and I opened the door. Much to my amazement, I stepped back into 1923. A kitchen with old wood stove, filled with time worn cooking utensils. The dining room and parlor with its ancient curtains still remained as they were, yellowed roller shades at half-mast beneath them. Why was there no accumulation of dust? Had these women kept a shrine to their dead mother all these years? Had they just spent the day cleaning every cobweb, every dust bunny as well as preparing the furnace for winter? It was a mystery to me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Note: Since that old home was demolished after I moved away, I have no pictures of it. The photo I have taken and placed here is representative. This is the Mark Twain house located in Hartford Connecticut. Similar in style, but not as old as the home I lived in. The kitchen appliances are also representative.
Saturday
Thought
Our thought processes
encourage wonder,
give opportunity
for consideration
of what will be,
or what once was,
to infinite possibilities
of fantasy and reality.
We are all capable
of thinking
no matter our intellect.
It is measurable
in all living creatures.
We are not alone
in cognition.
Who is to say
it is not possible
in all species
until it can verified?
Thinking is the inevitable
background experience
no matter what we do.
"I think therefore I am".
Yet, It is the one thing
to be eradicated
in meditation
within certain sects
of spiritual practice.
Think of it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Note: Digital art and Buddha photo by Elizabeth Munroz
Friday
Capturing
The stories smolder beneath my thoughts.
I search for my notes,
my misplaced
outlines and plans.
I want to write with
with cohesiveness and flow.
Like a river with the boat
carrying the readers
as though watching
the intricacies of shoreline,
both beauty and muddy,
trees and shadows
capturing smiles, tears,
and that sensation of
"I know what that's like.
I know, and I understand."
I want the reader
to absorb the book with their heart,
because it is my heart I have written,
my heart on the pages.
I want to give away my heart
with my words,
so you know me.
~~~~~~~~
Note: Digital art by Elizabeth Munroz
Thursday
Aging Pain
Looking to the future
I wonder if pain will continue
throughout the next thirty years.
I wonder if doctors
will proliferate in my life.
I wonder if coping will be
my everyday strategy,
if the enemy shall wake me,
accompany me each moment
throughout the hours
like it did the generation before me.
Are genes my destiny?
How will I break free
of the pattern
that's already begun?
~~~~~~~~~
Note: Digital art by Elizabeth Munroz
Tuesday
Listen
Indian chants
Arabic belly dance music
Exotic...
red n gold
carpet...
cross cultural
noise
in my brain
carpet...
cross cultural
noise
in my brain
life can be fun!
I know there's a dance for that!
Sunday
Curve in the Road
When life throws you a curve
and you cannot fathom why...
Why is this happening?
What can possibly be the purpose?
Remember...
it is what we all have to face
in one way or another.
No matter how threatening it feels,
inner strength you didn't know you had,
will come forth and surprise you.
The valiant soul you are
will surpass you and uphold you
when you are feeling overcome.
So hang on....
all things pass.
And, when your heart is thrilled with new results, celebrate.
Celebrate with all your heart.
Savor the gifts that life offers.
Cherish the things you hadn't noticed before;
the air you breathe,
the water slapping at the shore,
the soft cloud in the sky,
the little kids playing in the park,
purring of a kitten.
the sound of a quietly strummed guitar,
laughter,
crying,
and yes, the neighbors dog
There’s something in it all you missed before.
Now you have the chance.
Take it moment to moment.
You know now the foolishness
the folly, the petty ways you'll leave behind.
You have struggled to come out of your cocoon.
You have worked hard,
You have released yourself
from the things that kept you locked up.
You have traveled beyond that curve...
Now free yourself,
and fly into that new zest for life you rightfully earned.
Have some peace of mind...
Remember you have triumphed.
You are stronger than before.
You have gained appreciation
for those things of which you were unaware
and cherish the challenges that brought you to this new place.
Elizabeth Munroz
Aug 29 2006
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