Night listening

I had mild insomnia last night. Sometimes I get really agitated when I can't sleep, but there are other times when I don't really mind. When I relax into the dark and quiet, when I can just be part of the world.

I woke up around two and was awake for at least an hour, listening to the world around me. I could hear the wind in the trees. I wondered what they were whispering about.

I could hear a car door slam, the car start and drive away. Was it the end of a party? The start of a work shift? The aftermath of an argument? Or someone else not sleeping who wasn't content to lie in bed and drift? I do love that drifty feeling, I used to imagine I was in a boat on a safe, dark sea and the waves would lull me to sleep.

I could hear my breath and heartbeat. Once, when I couldn't sleep, I rested on my side and listened to my heart in my ear. I told myself a story about when the world was young, when the heartbeat of everything could still be heard. When the heartbeat of the rocks and pebbles was in syncopation to that of the ocean, which was a counterpoint to that of the birds and lizards and worms. And so on. It was a good story, one I even remembered when I woke up.

I woke up last night from some kind of frightening dream, I was so sure I'd remember it I didn't bother writing it down. As I lay there in the dark I reminded myself over and over, it's just a dream. I still thought it was interesting, but I soothed myself so well that now all I remember is the start of waking, the sharp edge of fear and knowing there was something that woke me.

And I remember the quiet summer dark. The rustle of leaves and answering rustle of sheets as I turned. And my breath gradually slowing as finally, I fell back to sleep.

Sometimes, listening to quiet is what we most need.

(c) 2008 Laura S Packer

Unwelcome

I keep trying to write a post about hope (I know, I repeat myself sometimes) but keep coming back to the blues. Not the music, I love the music, but the mood.

I have the blues. I'm whiney, mopey, dopey and just a pill to spend time with. I'm tired of listening to myself complain. Crying is boring (though cathartic and sometimes revelatory) but sometimes it's just all I can do. I've not been able to write about hope because right now? It's not a big part of my emotional vocabulary.

I know it will pass. The blues have visited before and likely will again, an unwelcome house guest who eventually leaves me with a mess to clean up, but does leave. For now though, it just sucks. I feel like an unwelcome stranger in my own life.

I keep trying to think of it metaphorically - Yes, this is an important part of the hero's journey - and then decide that's just so much bull. I feel crummy.

I keep trying to remind myself that, realistically speaking, I have very little to complain about. I'm fairly healthy, I'm loved, I love. When you get down to it, those basics make me lucky. That doesn't really help when I'm in one of the potholes I've been encountering. Potholes aren't rational places.

I keep trying to think my way through and we all know that doesn't work, but feeling these feelings just makes it worse. There doesn't seem to be much room between thinking and feeling right now.

Phooey. I know, it will pass. I'm not the scum of the earth even if I'm feeling that way on occasion these days. And this isn't the whiniest, most self-indulgent blog post on the planet, though I think it's in the running.

Thanks for indulging me in this post, it's useful writing it out. And thanks for your patience, your regularly scheduled blog will return soon.

(c) 2008 Laura S. Packer

The music of what happens

It seems to me that since I am a storyteller I should occasionally relate stories here.

I am not the first to ruminate on listening, nor will I be the last. The ancient Irish understood that the incidental sounds in our lives were as precious to hear as anything we could deliberately create. Listen. What do you hear?


From the life of Fionn, the greatest of Irish chieftains, borrowed from the Sacred Texts website.

Once, as they rested on a chase, a debate arose among the Fianna-Finn as to what was the finest music in the world.

"Tell us that," said Fionn turning to Oisi'n.

"The cuckoo calling from the tree that is highest in the hedge," cried his merry son.

"A good sound," said Fionn. "And you, Oscar," he asked, "what is to your mind the finest of music?"

"The top of music is the ring of a spear on a shield," cried the stout lad.

"It is a good sound," said Fionn. And the other champions told their delight; the belling of a stag across water, the baying of a tuneful pack heard in the distance, the song of a lark, the laugh of a gleeful girl, or the whisper of a one moved in passion.

"They are good sounds all," said Fionn.

"Tell us, chief," one ventured, "what you think?"

"The music of what happens," said great Fionn, "that is the finest music in the world."

(c) 2008 Laura S. Packer (such as it is, the story isn't mine)

Riding past fear

It is the things we fear and face that shape us. I know, other things shape us too, but those monsters in our path that we manage to get by, shaking, maybe bleeding, leave scars that we can wear proudly, scars we can decorate with tattoos of pride.

I am once again riding in the Pan Mass Challenge this year. And for some reason, this year I am fighting it tooth and nail. 

For those of you who don't know, the PMC is a two-day 160 mile fund-raising ride that supports the Dana Farber Cancer Center, a world-class treatment and research center here in Boston. And for those of you who don't know, I had cancer when I was in my 20s. I'm fine now, but it is one of those things - one of those monsters - that leaves scars.

This ride. The first time I did this ride it changed who I see myself to be in some fundamental ways. I became a cancer fighter, not just someone who had a tumor, an illness. I became someone who could change the world by riding a bike. I became someone who could ride a bike for a long time, in spite of being a short round woman. 

Each time I've ridden it's been different. Last year, for example, I had back pain so had to cut the ride short, but it was still just as powerful. I still cried and laughed and rode and rode and rode. I still triumphed. I'm sure I'll write at some point about the ride itself, but for now, I need to write about this.

And now this year. The ride is in two months and I am no where near ready; the preparation is a monster in my path, whispering that I can't do it, can't ride that far or raise that much money. I only just started fund raising and I am not riding enough to be sure that the long August miles will be fun. I need to get past the monster of my own fear.

So the only thing to do is to ride. To wave to the monster in the road as I pedal by and to trust that my legs are strong enough, my heart is brave enough to carry me past whatever pain and worry is haunting me. To remember that this time, right now, is just as much a part calling myself a cancer fighter as the two days of the ride, as knowing I've raised the money that helps others.

I'm sure you have your monsters in the road too. If I can ride past mine I'm betting you can dance past yours.

(c) Laura S. Packer

p.s. If you want to sponsor me click here

At sea

I’ve spent the last week on a cruise. This is not a vacation choice I would have made for myself, but was a wonderful, generous gift from a friend, and it has been revealing. I’ve learned a number of things while I’ve been out here. This isn’t the most inspired of posts, but I still wanted to touch base here, now, while these thoughts are fresh.

First, the ocean is big. Really big. Big in a way defies description and fills me with admiration for those early sailors who took off across the waves in boats much smaller than this one. The ship I’m on is large, I can’t capture it in a single photograph, the publicity shots are all from a helicopter or across a harbor, but in the middle of the ocean, we are no more than a grain of rice in this vast bowl of blue. The horizon that surrounds us is so broad and flat that I imagine bumps and texture that, intellectually, I know are not there, but my imagination places them there because I can’t really comprehend of that much space around me. No wonder early maps had mythical lands on them, no wonder the oceans on most maps, even now, are much smaller than they really are! We can’t believe that we are as finite as the ocean forces us to accept.

Truthfully, I’ve always kind of liked these experiences that force me to come face to face with my finite nature, with my smallness in the enormity of the world. I think I like them because it’s comforting to think that, no matter what I do, it is only the actions of one tiny person in the world and too, it’s a nice way to say, “But I am still here! Even in the face of all that!” This has certainly been the most extended version of that experience I’ve ever had. And this entire ship is designed to minimize that experience. It’s big, it’s confining, and it’s overwrought in its design, a constant statement of “Look at ME!” When I get home I want to spend some time looking at something comparatively simple and small – my garden, a leaf, a wall. Something without neon.

And another thing I’ve learned – while the ocean has reminded me of how small I am, the service here is supposed to make me feel special, but it only serves to make me feel anonymous. The staff are all very pleasant, but they have to be. They aren’t nice because they like me, it’s because they are paid to be. I don’t like this level of servitude, I’d rather get my own cup of tea sometimes, rather know that the person smiling at me actually sees me, not just another customer. I don’t think I really would want to live in the lap of luxury for too long. I’ve discovered I like taking care of myself. Admittedly, someone to do a little more around the house would be nice, but not like this, not for this long.

And a final thing I’ve learned, though not the last, is how very deep pattern recognition runs in people. We see shapes in the water and the horizon and know they are something real, even if they aren’t. After a week on a ship with 3000 people I recognize so many faces. I have the same conversation with most of the people I’ve interacted with (where are you from, what do you do, gosh there’s a lot of food here). We are creatures that recognize patterns because it’s what kept us alive way back when and now it keeps us in routine, safe, familiar. It’s not an adventure, but it does offer comfort. No wonder we keep telling the same stories over and over again. We recognize these patterns, tell these stories, so we know who and where we are, so we’re not lost at sea. We need them, we need to recognize them, just as I recognize the face of the woman I’ve never spoken with but saw in the corridor a few days ago.

Who knows if I might, someday, need her?

(C) 2008 Laura S Packer

Domestic paleontology

I'm at the home of a friend's mother, cleaning. The mom is a wonderful woman who, in her later years, has filled her house with everything she could possibly want - something I can certainly understand, we all want what we want. She has built the life she always craved, is able to be whoever she wants and has all the accoutrement she needs to be that person. The problem arose when she truly filled the house and it became a place with narrow passageways, canyons with walls built of boxes filled with her treasures.

Not too long ago it became clear she needed to live somewhere else, someplace where she could get help if she needed it. Living alone into your 80s is a wonderful and risky thing. The ads we all mock ("I've fallen, and I can't get up") are a frightening reality for older people. While she was loathe to give up her independence, it was apparent that she needed greater care than her family could provide as they had dispersed to different parts of the country. So now she's living safely with her daughter. Which leaves the house.

I'm helping my friend sort through years of accumulation and treasures, strata of a life. Each time we clear something - a pile of old newspapers that hides a box full of old letters, for example - there is something else to be found - a drawer full of china they used when my friend was a child, in the back are old photos, receipts, mismatched kid gloves and the odd pair of baby shoes. And all of this comes with stories attached.

Some are stories my friend can tell. "Wow! When I was kid we used this when we...." So I listen. Honestly, I think that's a big part of why I'm here, to act as witness. But many of the stories are only implied, hinted at by the physical objects, but lost. Who was Maisie and why did she write a letter to my friend's long dead great-great aunt? The letter is just a friendly social missive, but it's an intimate note, gossiping about people no one in the family now knows.

It's these lost stories that get my mind whirling. I will never know the details, but I can and do imagine them. Endlessly.

It's hard to do the work we have to do when we keep finding treasures like that. Of course, there are still the piles and piles of magazines, styrofoam plates, old shoes and more to sort through. But I don't know what I'll find next, what will lead me to the next suggested story.

It's work that is at once heartbreaking, exhausting and endlessly fascinating, a deep reminder of the interconnectedness and fragility of all our lives; these lost family stories could be mine, the photos could be my lost relatives, the letters could have been written to me or to you. Each story may be lost, but it leaves a trace, a fossil footprint just waiting to be found. This is paleontology of the spirit.

(c) 2008 Laura S. Packer

p.s. My friend read this story and said it was okay to publish. So there.

Whoa - hello!

What happened? All of a sudden my visitor count is soaring (for me - multiple hundreds, instead of tens). I don't know why. I'm curious - did this blog get commented upon somewhere? If so, I hope it's not someplace like "suckiest blogs ever." Or am I being poked at my some kind of robot? What's up?

Let me know. I'm wondering.

Waiting time

I'm on my way back from the Art of Storytelling festival in Miami. It was a lovely experience, lots of good stories told and heard, as well as some teaching time. There were two things in particular that marked this experience for me.

1. It feels like another step towards being a "real" artist. This is silly, of course. I already am an artist, I've been an artist forever and expect I will continue to be an artist for the rest of my life unless something changes drastically. But this was another example of truly being in the world as an artist. It felt really good. And it felt like real work. Which also felt good. Though I am now very tired.

2. And there was a lot of waiting around. Right now I'm in the Miami Airport (it's 5:30 in the morning, so if I'm more rambly than usual, forgive me) waiting for my plane home. I waited for rides, waited for events, waited for this or that. In between the waiting there were short, intense bursts of activity, but the waiting was a real, necessary part of the event. So I got to thinking about waiting time.

Here in the US when we wait we get really impatient. Two minutes in line and we're complaining, twitchy and whining. It's rarely an opportunity to get to know the people around us, nor a chance to just rest in the moment. Our lives are so busy we can't afford the wait.

But waiting is part of life, it's part of what we need to do. Not everything runs on the same schedule we do - and frankly, often enough we make others wait, it's only fair that it happens to us from time to time. It's an opportunity to cultivate patience, to have a meditative moment, read that book you cart around, to observe or even connect with those around you. Our lives are so hectic, just waiting offers a chance to stop and be, even when we don't want to.

I certainly don't manage to live with that zen in-the-moment mindset all the time or even often. But on this trip, with these moments of waiting, I've been able to take deep breaths and just be calm. Even when I've not had a book to lose myself in. It's felt pretty good.

Secrets (listening, continued)

Secrets are often hard things to carry around. They weigh you down, make you old before your time and drive you into isolation. If you have a secret it's easy to think you're the only one who has suffered this terribly truth and this knowledge can change you. Mind you - not all secrets are burdens, some are joyful, but those often end up being shared in short order. I'm talking about the heavy ones. Or the ones that at least feel heavy.

If you can find someone with whom you can share your secret you'll often find that, really, it's not so bad. You're not alone. If someone would just listen to you without judging then your life might be a little better. Chances are pretty good the secret is no worse than anyone else's.

If you're afraid to tell anyone your secret, afraid no one can truly hear your secret without flinching, then there is still hope. Check out PostSecret.

Sometimes we need to know that someone is listening, without seeing their reaction. Maybe it's kind of like going to confession - you name your sins and are somehow forgiven. PostSecret encourages you to write your secret down on a postcard and to send it out. You know someone will read it. You know you're not alone anymore.

A selection of received postcards is posted every Sunday. And you know what? Every week almost, I find one of my own secrets there and I realize, I am not alone.

Through the act of being silently listened to, these revealed secrets accomplish many things. The secret teller has the opportunity to give up their burden. The secret reader may find themselves on the screen and realize they are not the only one who has carried a particular secret. And the community that has arisen around sharing secrets, via PostSecret, is impressive and has helped many people through their own dark nights, by listening to each other's secrets with kindness and compassion.

If you're reading this blog you may already know about PostSecret. Check it out again anyway. You are not alone. And if you're wondering if I've sent in a secret I will tell that yes, I have. It helped. I don't need to tell you what it is, because someone else already knows, already listened to me, already shared my burden.

Letting go of your secrets can be an act of survival.

On dying visibly

I know I have a lot to say about listening, but life and death keep getting in the way. I have a post half written that I'll finish when I can. For now, though, there is this.

I wanted to bring a powerful article and photo display to your attention. Walter Schels is a photographer living in England. He has taken a series of photos of people in hospice care, recorded their stories with the assistance of his partner, and then took another photo after they died. This is all on display in a London gallery, but more immediately you can read an article about it here and see the photos here.

The entire exhibit is called Life Before Death and stands as a reminder that so many of us only begin to live when we know we're going to die. When I had cancer I lived with more immediacy and vibrancy than I had before. I celebrate my not-dead day (April 19th, for those of you who may be interested) to remind me that yes, I am alive. Yes, this is the only chance I get to live fully.

All that aside, these photos are beautiful. The stories are so human and stand as a testament to how alike we all are, how we all have the same needs - to be loved, cared for, to not die in utter isolation, to be remembered.

Take a look. It's not frightening but has a somber beauty, like the tolling of a bell.

(c) 2008 Laura S. Packer