Zen and History

History is happening—always, right here, right now, you are historying at this very second!—and right now, the history happening seems to be pretty solidly anti-zen.  While I am not in a history classroom of my own these days, I find myself still filtering everything through the lens of history—what has happened before, and what have we learned (or not) from those happenings? And one step further—how do we make sense of the history happening around us, and how do we most appropriately and effectively respond to those happenings?

Our founding fathers were hyper conscious about their place in history, about the legacy of their actions in forging a new sort of government.  You can see this time and again in their writings. We’ve lost some of that today in the glut of media and the reduction of speeches to sound-bytes, in the replacement of thoughtful responses with strident reaction.  A sense of spectacle has displaced a focus on legacy.  Appeals to chaos, fear, and emotion create an environment in which division and anger thrive. Yes, our founding fathers argued and politicked and published nasty articles about each other—and pretty much ignored the founding mothers-- but at the end of the day, they truly believed they were working for a larger good, NOT for their own egos.  They took time to think. To read. To learn. To write. Not just to spew.

I think I can safely posit that we are not in founding father land anymore.

 Being conscious of history we are forging NOW only works if we have a strong foundation of history in the distant and recent past. Recognizing evil in speech and action is easier when we understand this is nothing we have not seen before—the targets of prejudice and discrimination have just changed with each passing decade.  In this context, history seems completely anti-zen – so many bad things have happened, so many people have done terrible things to each other, even in this country I love so much. Responding to dark moments may seem impossible if we cannot look back to those who have stood in the face of darkness before.  History teaches us that bad stuff happens. A lot. And good people in EVERY era of history, without fail, stand up to answer the bad, often at great personal cost. We can make THAT kind of history.

History teaches, but rarely comforts (except to show time and time again that in spite of pretty hideous events and actions, time marches on and the world keeps going).  Progression – not to be confused with progress – is inexorable. History helps us make sense of dark times even as it gives us hope that the dark times are not forever.

The facts of history are set, but the interpretation of those facts is fluid, and if we study history honestly (and without need for self-aggrandizement ala our past) we can fulfill our responsibility to interpret history without erasing the less than flattering parts.  Interpretation takes time. Insta-interpretation is dangerous, reactionary.  History is, beyond anything else, proof that the passage of time is inherently powerful—and that over time the full import of our choices will become clear.

I sense a certain vibe of “um, yeah, and? So what? This is not your normal kind of post.”  I know. Over the last few weeks I’ve been thinking a lot about history and how much I wish people would study it—maybe because I am not teaching it right now (although I have been covering a fair number of history classes in my substituting job).   Nationalism vs. patriotism, the Constitution, patterns of immigration and discrimination in the US (and elsewhere), there are so many things history can teach us about—but we have to go and learn. Learning takes discipline, and work, and a willingness to acknowledge when our own understandings have been limited or flat out wrong.  Knowledge really and truly is power, just sometimes it is a power gained through painful re-evaluation of things we thought we knew.

I love history so much.

I know I can learn from my own history. I can understand my own fears and behaviors and then respond to them in a much more zen like way if I can place them in context, my own historical context.  I was at CHOP last night with one of my kids (routine visit, just weirdly at night), and the smell of the blanket they gave me to keep warm, combined with the darkness outside, put my brain in a pretty bad place—but I understood why. I have too many memories of nights at CHOP, trying to sleep on a sheet that smells like hospital. Knowing this history helped me just breathe through the moment. I could respond, not react. I did not just start rocking back and forth and cursing at the MRI machine. I have done that before, so…yeah. I just took a deep breath, said a little prayer, and opened a Dorothy Sayers mystery to read.  History helped.

Can you imagine if we could do this in our life here in the US? If we could understand civil rights history in our country and thus respond thoughtfully to the concerns of those voters who rationally worry that their voices and votes continue to be suppressed? If we could learn about the Chinese Exclusion Act, or the quotas of the 1920s, or the “No Irish Need Apply” signs in store windows and thus respond with compassion to those people who come from afar in search of a better life like our own ancestors did? If we could look at politicians from not that long ago who worked together and got along despite deep philosophical differences, and we could hold name-calling politicians accountable for rhetoric that reduces our civic discourse to a playground argument?

The tool of history is one of the most versatile and valuable in our civic toolbox. We may not find zen, but if we understand the past, we can more thoughtfully and responsibly approach our future.

Peace to all, and to our country. Now go vote.

Zen and Memory

“MEMORY! All alone in the mooooooonlight! I can smile at the old days….”

I will take “Oversung Karaoke of the 80s for 200, Alex…”

With all of the sturm und drang of the last few weeks, I have been thinking a lot about zen and memory. I tend to think about memory a lot, for my entire life I have been intrigued by the history of things, the memory I can feel in different places. I know that sounds a bit wooooooo, but I do.  Kind of in a “the rocks cry out” sort of way. Places hold memories as much as people do, and if you know their stories, you can feel those memories of place.  No wonder I became a history teacher. But THAT is another story for another time.

Memory can feed and nurture zen. I remember visiting my great grandparents in Western Kentucky—the smell of Grandma’s house (often a lovely bacon-y smell, she made us bacon every day for breakfast, a rare treat), the heat of the sun in her backyard against the cold water from the hose that we used to fill up an old metal basin to play in, the comfy chair where Grandpa spent his days. Even the ughulous  parts of those trips are not bad memories, even though I joke about them—the epic van breakdowns in New Stanton, PA, Zainesville, OH, Bruceton Mills, WV, the scary hotel situation where mom unleashed her Jersey on the staff while dad was packing the car. ;)

 I remember childhood church-ish picnics where my mom would bring cold chicken and green grapes and we would sit in the sun and have fun activities with other families.  I remember playing elaborate games of time machine in our backyard apple tree. Memories of my childhood home, of Christmas traditions, of love and family feed my zen when I remember to revisit them.

But what if you can’t smile at the old days? What if those memories are BAD?

My son has told me in the past that he does not remember much of his life before he was 10.  He said it sort of nonchalantly one day, and it took my breath away…since those years were full of t-ball and playgroup and homemade Halloween costumes and the Yankees winning an awful lot in the fall—good, zen-feeding things.  But when my son turned 9, his 6 year old sister was diagnosed with brain tumors. Everything fell apart.  He does not remember before that.  The bad memories clouded the good.

Bad memories have a way of sticking around. Not every single detail—but the worst moments are branded into our consciousness somehow.

14 years later, I can now remember and talk about the early days after my G’s diagnosis without weeping. Even THAT took years. Those memories are excruciating, and certain moments are seared into my mind.  The first two years after diagnosis were brutal.  Now my memories can sometimes help people (G failed so many protocols, we have a lot of experiences of different drugs we can share—without the emotional turmoil and terror each failed protocol produced).  The 5 years AFTER the first rounds of treatment were pockmarked with small progressions, scares, and the ever present threat of an immediate resumption of treatment.

Memories are hard sometimes. The “old days” were not always beautiful.

My Rosie asked me yesterday if she used to be super happy when her siblings came home from school. She saw some of our neighbors’ kids running out to greet their siblings, and thought it was so cute. “Did I do that, Mom?” she asked.

I couldn’t remember.  I Could. Not. Remember. I realized…Rosie was 2 when G got sick. G was on treatment during the whole time R would have been the little sibling at home. I don’t remember.

I hate not remembering almost as much as sometimes I hate remembering.

I have no great answer for what to do with difficult memories. Denying them is not healthy, nor is wallowing in them—although honestly, sometimes that just happens, they rise up like a blob and encompass me. This is what happens the day after scan days—I have to dig out of the morass of memory that rises up when we return to the hospital, we look at the brain tumors (which are all still there). 

Often I do that by writing. If I can put those dark thoughts/rememberings into the light, they lose some of their power…not right away, usually, but eventually.  And every time a new ugh memory pops up (that happened this week when a friend shared struggles her child was having in school—struggles that reminded me of some of the cruelty my own child faced in her middle school years), I try to give it light and then keep moving forward---not without the memory, but in control of the memory.  Sometimes I can use those memories to help others. That is empowering, too.

For all those women and men who are publicly dealing with difficult memories right now—stay strong. You are stronger than your memories. Unlocking dark memories and forcing them into the light gives YOU the power, not the memory.  Stand strong in your truth, and your memories become part of your power. Your memories and courage are helping others.

And I truly believe that in truth and power we find healing, and in healing we find zen. Memories are powerful, but they are OURS. We are not theirs. Working through memories is such a hard work – for me, especially with certain things (er, most things) related to my daughter, I still have so much work to do.  But once the memories are out in the sun, they cease to fester and poison my brain.

For all those brave, brave people forcing your memories into the sun…I salute you. And hey, maybe Andrew Lloyd Webber had it right…

Daylight! I must wait for the sunrise!

I must think of a new life…and I mustn’t give in.

When the dawn comes tonight will be a memory too….

LOOK, a new day has begun!

Taking Back the Day

I had a radical idea yesterday morning, during one of the 57 drives I do each week.

I can take back April 5. 

Take. It. Back.

In our family story, April 5 stands as one of the Quadrangle of Worst Days Ever that we had (right up there with Diagnosis Day and Possible Malignant Transformation Day, nearly tied with Progression After 5 Years Off Treatment Day…). The day haunts me.  And Facebook keeps helpfully reminding me of how nervous we were before April 5, 2012,  how desperately sort of hopeful we were, even though we knew G didn’t seem to be doing well.

5 years ago, April 5’s MRI obliterated our hope.

I know. That’s a long time ago.

Here is the problem: I am a History teacher. Remembering the past is my JOB. Literally I get dollars to dissect the past with nearly 70 students each day.  The great irony of what prolonged stress does to memory is not lost on me.  Thank God for Post-It notes. But the varied dates of medical smite that fill a decade and more of our family history—I can’t shake those memories, and trying to understand them, trying to gain some kind of perspective is the only way I know HOW to manage them.

Or denial/avoidance, but that is another story.

Our neuro-oncologist used to routinely ask me to “tell our story” to new medical students, knowing that it was my weird party trick, being able to recite a litany of dates/chemo fails/statistically improbable complications/more dates/random sarcastic jokes/things that only happened to our G/dates and dates. I can’t remember what I did yesterday, but the medical yikes—I remember.

So my drive time idea was pretty radical.

Take back the day.

Some days can’t be taken back. Diagnosis day is always going to be tough, it’s the center of our personal timeline of Before Tumors and After Tumors (we are now in the Year After Tumors 12.5). We remember it as a survivorversary, but it’s still a tough one to navigate each year. Progression Day is also tough. Restarting EVERYTHING with a teen who could understand things much more than a 6 year old could was brutal—especially since I had to be the one to tell her that we had to start up chemo again, after brain surgery the next day. I am not sure I know how to reframe that memory of the moment with my child in a waiting room.

But April 5—I can take that day back.

Because yes—it was horrible. It was a dark, miserable, son of an unprintable punctuation marks in a row kind of day. It was a day ONLY describable in 4 letter words that need to be spat out. BUT…

Today it doesn’t matter.

Unless docs talk about that trial in what seems to me to be a cavalier manner (*cough, which never, ever ends well), it doesn’t matter to our family.

Because 5 years later, G’s tumors look better than they have in years. Not that tumors really ever look good (“spring ’17, the tumors are wearing a subdued palette of less enhancement and maybe even slightly less mass effect! Stunning Detail!”)—but the horror of that day IS a memory. The next chemo shrunk that horrible, catastrophic growth. Nothing has been easy since then—G’s school challenges and ruptured appendix and whooping cough fest were all AFTER this day—but WE ARE STILL IN THE GAME.

And that merits taking back the day.

I am not exactly sure how to do it. Wednesday is our “nobody home for dinner” day, and somehow in my mind taking back a day always involves food. But even if I just try to remind myself all the day, Hey, WE ARE STILL IN THE GAME. G IS DOING GREAT. CADBURY IS IN THE CLOSET. WE HAVE A DOG. IT’S SPRING. I JUST GOT A SWEATSHIRT WITH HAPPY BIRDS ON IT. Pretty much anything to stay in the moment of today…

I consider that a win.

So we’ll see how it goes, this radical experiment of mine. Can I NOT wallow? Will I eat my 3^rd bag of Cadbury? Does anyone else in my family even remember the day? Does that even matter?

But come hell or high water, I am going to try to take back April 5, to have it just be a springy day of promise and potential. And Cadbury, likely.

Taking back the day.

Let’s do it.

*****************

So I wrote this last night.

I woke up this morning. Birds are singing. Dog pooped right away (without needing to sniffle every blade of grass on our street).  I only had to yell at 3^rd born three times to get her out the door for school.

And you know what I realized? I am the only one here bound by that day. Nobody else in the house remembers. And as I walked the dog, and felt some of the old erghleyugh rising up, I looked at the trees, the birds, the spring flowers starting to bloom, and I know that old April 5 is just that. Old.

And FB reminded me this morning…yes, that day was awful. BUT—the rememberings are all posts by our friends and family who were hurting FOR us, praying for us, rallying hope and good will in our direction—usually marked with pictures of my smiling warrior.  THAT is what today needs to be about. I know those folks will likely all get reminded about this today too—

hey everyone. this is Kristin's sister Laura posting this for her: G's scan was not good... Thank you everyone for praying. We are going to Plan B and G is actually taking it remarkably well...we are trying to be super positive for her.

Thank you, friends and family.  We love you all so much.

Today I WILL let myself off my Lenten car silence thing –there will be music. I will eat Cadbury. I will take this day back as the day our friends and family stood with us and held us up when we were falling.

We’ve had 5 April 5ths since that bad one. I claim those as a win.

NOW let’s break out some Cadbury and some Safety Dance and get this day going.