Diana's Blog: Quirky Words and Book Reviews

October 11, 2008
One of the books I treasured when I was a kid was Alan Paton's TOO LATE THE PHALAROPE. Set in Paton's South Africa, we see a white policeman fall in love with a native girl. The affair is discovered and he is betrayed and reported. The book broke my heart open. I was too young to understand about romantic love. But I did know injustice. My real dad -- and everything about him, stories, pictures, his name -- were severed from my life when I was five -- forever -- by my mother and stepfather. I understand the reasons why my mother and stepfather did what they did, so my heart forgives them -- but I am not sure that I can forgive what they did -- the rapes, the violence, the alcoholism, the suicide attempts, the abandonment, the neglect.
What I find most amazing is I've been thinking about forgiveness lately. So I looked up the word Forgiveness in the OXFORD DICTIONARY OF MODERN QUOTATIONS, 3rd. Ed. There were a handful of choices, and I immediately went to the one in the index marked "until we f." It was a powerful quote by Paton -- marked an unrecognizable PATO in the index -- and it was from TOO LATE THE PHALAROPE:
"When a deep injury is done to us, we never recover until we forgive."
As I write, I am also assimilating the first visit of longer than a half-hour I've had with my younger brother -- born of the same father as I -- in probably fifteen years. We talked for nearly six hours today, sharing stories, filling in the gaps, and finding puzzle pieces that fit that one had but the other didn't.
I was filled with fear as I drove to meet him -- the child fear -- because to see him would mean all the old energy and the old scenes would come flooding back. I promised myself I would be real and I would stay in that vibration of light.
One wonderful thing about my brother. He has played the piano since he was three. And, he has been living in my parents' home for the last year and a half, giving classes to people in piano, yoga, Spanish. I said to him, "You are immensely talented and all that violence and abuse kept you from sharing your music with the world. " And I burst into loud, gasping tears. Not pretty in a restaurant, but very real.
And then he got it. I have always loved and treasured him -- we were trapped apart by the violence. Not any more.
"When a deep injury is done to us, we never recover until we forgive."
I am gently moved into a place of forgiveness.

Labels: alcoholism, brother, forgiveness, mothers, OXFORD DICTIONARY OF MODERN QUOTATIONS, rape, stepfather, talent, TOO LATE THE PHALAROPE, transcending the trauma, violence

September 16, 2008
I have been procrastinating all night. I don't want to do this book. Don't want to. Which means that I must. It is HEALING RAGE. When I first saw the title, I thought Healing was an adjective, not a verb. Distance, that's what I do.
I often say that the right book crosses my path just when it is the perfect time.
I don't get angry. Not at all. The first glimmer of possible anger, I address it, deflect it, and curse myself for what I must have done wrong. My therapist says it is time to let the rage out.
"What rage?" I ask.
My new massage therapist says my liver is tight with anger. Unexpressed.
Anger is Danger. See the words! They are the same!
The walls of my childhood home shook with anger. The walls bore the holes left by my stepfather's fists and my mother's hips from when she fell after drinking. His middle name was Fiore. For years, I thought it was Fury. When I discovered that Fiore meant Flower, I figured that was what made him so angry, having a middle name like that. I forgive them both everything.
It was my fault.
Being raped by Fury when I was four, five, six and older, was my fault.
Being loyal to my real dad, which made Fury angry enough to rape me, was my fault.
Seeing my real dad beat up by Fury and sent away forever, was my fault.
I open the book and see that Ruth King says trauma gives birth to rage, and we hold rage in our bodies. Types of trauma that give birth to rage: emotional neglect (like my mother not protecting me and trying to kill herself?), verbal abuse (like Fury yelling obscenities?), loss (my real dad gone after I was six), physical violence and sexual abuse (like every day.)
King wants the rage child to be expressed. Remember that version of Aladdin when he let the genie out of the bottle? That was one pissed-off genie.
I have a punching bag that I bought a few months ago -- I take probably a dozen swipes at it at a time, then walk away. I do kick-boxing once a week! I dance! My body can express some of these emotions, but Ruth King also suggests meditation, creating a stillness practice, and recording dreams. The energy that is trapped in rage, she says, needs compassion to be released.
My therapist believes it is most effective if someone caring bears witness to the rage. I haven't allowed that yet. Way too frightening. That little rage child, the one wearing pigtails and sucking her thumb -- a stopper for these trapped emotions, peers out with wide eyes. "You want me to do what?"
I left her behind. King would classify the adult me as Distracted -- I stay busy -- and Devoted -- I am intuitive, caring and a perfectionist. That's the Flight version. There's Fight -- Dominance and Defiance. And there's Shrink -- Dependence and Depression.
I know that I am Transcending The Trauma. Better boundaries. Less blaming myself. And believing that that little girl with the pigtails was one amazingly strong soul who deserves to express her true feelings. All of them.
Dancing does it. Writing works. Lighting a candle enlivens me. All of me.

Labels: abuse, HEALING RAGE, peace., rape, Ruth King, therapist, transcending the trauma, violence

The perfect book always seems to arrive on time. SILVER LININGS landed on my porch this afternoon. The book is full of homespun wisdom, old saws that still sparkle, still photographs that seem sunny. Many of the essays are manufactured and tired, other thoughts are delightful prose. I glance at each page, drawing from it a smile or a memory.
When I was a kid, the other children called me Pollyanna. I was always trying to see the bright side, despite the yelling and the hitting, the swearing and the touching in my house.
We lived in the suburbs, but the woods behind our house hadn't been developed yet. And, there I found jack o'lanterns and ancient oak trees, whose thick low branches easily supported my weight, and even a trickling brook that dwindled to near nothing. I walked through the shallow woods any time I could escape, being scratched by thorns, bitten by mosquitoes, entranced by the lightning bugs, and I was in my own heaven. On special days, I could see elves and fairies, and angels. When I was around seven, I considered myself a Pantheist. I heard that word -- which I interpreted as the divine in every creature, even rocks -- and I embraced it. I kept that perception secret.
One day I saw a deer with a small rack on his head, standing on the hill that led from the woods into our backyard. So close to us, the deer had safely traveled a few miles from his home in the mountains. Excited, I broke my rule to keep special beauty secret from my mother and stepfather. I yelled, "A deer! A deer!" And, they immediately called someone to take the deer away. I couldn't watch, and I felt so guilty.
In SILVER LININGS, an Anne Frank quote pops into view: Think of all the beauty still left around you and be happy. It was a summer night, the night of the deer, and I wandered back outside -- secretly -- after dark. The stars sprinkled across the entire sky, lifting my spirits. There's a Vincent Van Gogh quote in the book: For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream.

Labels: Anne Frank, books, deer, kids, Pantheist, Pollyanna, SILVER LININGS, Vincent Van Gogh, violence, woods