Archives for February 2021

Trekking Through Trauma

February 28, 2021 by Denise Brake 4 Comments

If you have ever been through therapy, you know there is not a line drawn down the middle of your life with good things on one side and bad things on the other. And I say ‘through therapy,’ not ‘in therapy,’ as ‘in therapy’ implies that you can be ‘out of therapy.’ When I was going ‘through therapy’ after a spiritual crisis, it felt like I was going through one of those old-fashioned wringers on an old tub washer—my old life was being crushed, wrung out, flattened. I felt like the energy and purpose of what I thought life was all about was being snuffed out of me. There was no ‘in therapy’ then returning to ‘normal life’ when I left a session—it affected every aspect of my life and left me exhausted, crumpled, and changed.

Having a very strong line of demarcation between right and wrong when I was young was a coping mechanism for me to feel like the world was orderly. It helped me feel more safe, more in control. Things were easier to sort—either you’re with me or against me, it’s good or it’s bad, it’s black or it’s white. And I was the arbitrator of those judgements. My world view was narrow. That worked for a while. But as I got older, there were things that clashed with my categories. If I love this person, how can I vanquish this part of their life to the ‘bad category?’ Wait, the person I voted for did what?! That’s not acceptable. If this action helps one person and harms many others, what does that mean? Things weren’t an easy call anymore. Things were confusing. The huge gray area between black and white opened up my narrow world and threw me for a loop.

In order to process the gray area of our larger lives we must process the black, white, and gray areas of our own personal lives. The line of demarcation was strong down the middle of my own life, in my own head and heart. I rejected parts of myself. I made up stories in my head to try to make sense of my categories. I embraced the actions and people that made me feel like my point of view was the ‘right’ one. I ignored my individual desires, then projected those grievances onto others. How could they?! Not how could I not? So going through therapy exposed all of those thoughts, feelings, and actions that I grew up with. It showed me that I very smartly did those things to feel safe and to feel some control. It opened up different ways of thinking and different possibilities. My life through therapy became a giant puzzle, not a bin of good or bad. Each reaching back into my past retrieved a piece of the puzzle that clicked into place. Oh, yes, that makes sense. Holy cow—yes! Oh, no, really? Such sadness. Parts of my present life fit perfectly with the pieces that I had assembled from my past. The picture of my life was coming together—it was finally beginning to make sense. And it was my life, with all the good, bad, indifferent, compelling, benign, happy, grief-filled, hard, and satisfying parts of my life—all in the big picture of who I am.

That was almost fifteen years ago. Therapy never ends. Once you go through it, it tends to stay with you. You ask the questions to yourself. You try to figure out if any of the puzzle pieces were in the wrong place, even if they looked like they fit back then. The past year, no, make that two or more years, has kind of messed up my puzzle again. I have a ton of questions about our world, about the divide in our country—that black and white divide, about the actions of elected leaders, about people making up stories to fit the wished-for narrative in their head and heart. Believe me, I get it. But it has shaken my sense of safety and rightness. So I do what I have always done when I feel shaken or lost or scared or upset—I get outside. Mother Nature soothes me. My world becomes bigger than the mess that scares me as I immerse myself in the small details of the Life that intrinsically holds the seeds of creation. I find things that make me happy.

From shadow to potential and creativity. Like butterflies.

Why would anyone choose therapy that seems so hard and harrowing? Not everyone who chooses is in the midst of a crisis like I was, but at the time, I just needed some relief from the pain of the crisis. I didn’t know how hard the journey of relief was going to be. But even in the midst of the difficulty, there was relief as well as exhaustion in the artesian well of tears that flowed from my eyes. There was relief when another puzzle piece clicked together where before there was a numb emptiness. There was relief in developing an awareness of myself where before there was an outsized fear of what could happen. There was also an immense sense of holiness I felt during the process and certainly looking back at it. It was hard, holy work. God was with me then just as God was with me during my young years when fear controlled my narrative. The harrowing trek was worth it. The crisis was there for a reason. It pushed me to action, it pushed me to truth, it pushed me to awareness. I didn’t have to reject any pieces of myself or of my life anymore. The black and white sorting bins were gone. And with that reconciliation came more order, more control of my life, and more safety—all of the things I yearned for when I was young. My adversity led me towards fruition. It’s not like I have arrived—I’m still on the journey. Things can still shake me and make me want to go back to hiding in fear. But Nature helps me breathe deep relaxing breaths again. She shows me how shadows can become butterflies. How curiosity partners with knowledge and truth. How treasures can show up on our doorstep in routine life and when we least expect but need them the most. Nature shows us how Goodness is restored.

The Things We Carry

February 21, 2021 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

Texans are carrying a heavy load this week. Four or five inches of snow, even some ice, does not in and of itself make a crisis. The crisis comes with lack of expectation and preparation. Even warnings—empirical and/or logical—of something possibly happening are often ignored when we don’t or cannot wrap our minds around them. Our brains love the same wired routes our neurons provide for thoughts and feelings that occur over and over again. A pandemic killing half a million people in a year—no way! Mask-wearing the whole world over—are you crazy?! A rioting mob trying to stop the confirmation of a new president in our Capitol—that’s not going to happen! A deep-freeze in Texas—get real! The past year has attempted to re-wire our brains.

So our daughter Emily found herself carrying buckets full of snow into the house to dump into the bathtub. It’s what one does when no water flows from the taps. Luckily she has had experience living in the wilderness where electricity is the lightning and running water is a river. But she humorously disdained her pioneer life in urban Austin—that’s not what is expected, not what she was prepared for in that environment. Not what any of them were prepared for. It begs the question: What are we personally and we as an entity of this country willing to carry? And why?

I carried a backpack on our snowshoe hike at Crow Wing State Park at the end of January. I had realized on a previous outing that I became much more dehydrated while snowshoeing than hiking, so packed some water and a snack for each of us. We also had a place to carry added or subtracted layers of clothing, depending on the weather. The road to the campground was unplowed and barricaded by a pile of snow, so we made our tracks through the flurry of white. The campground was a snow-ghost-town, returning to the forest for the season.

Part of the trail followed the Mississippi River, and we traipsed across a wooden bridge that spanned a ravine that led to the River. That was certainly easier than trekking down and up the ravine in our snowshoes.

We saw a very large Oak tree by the River that had an old beaver wound on it. Other trees in the area had been taken down by beaver, but what an ambitious attempt on this Oak many years ago! Right above the old wound was a new wound made by a Pileated woodpecker. All living creations carry their hurts and their wounds.

Deer tracks led to a steep precipice high above the River…and went over the edge, down the embankment, and crossed the River. I was amazed a deer would choose such a steep path, but perhaps it was being chased. We do extraordinary things when we need to.

A newly fallen nest, last year’s home for some bird family, would not be seen in the brown leafy litter of Fall, but it stood out in sharp contrast to the white, sparkling snow crystals of Winter. Unseen or highly visible often depends on the background, the exposure, and the deemed value.

As I looked at the nest in the snow, my eyes lifted upwards to the treetops where a squirrel’s nest stood out against the sky-blue sky. The home of the sky-bird was on the ground, and the home of the ground-squirrel was in the sky. Sometimes it’s a topsy-turvy world.

We continued along the River, heating our bodies with exertion in the teens-cold chill.

A dark stripe beyond an island revealed the River wasn’t completely frozen over despite most areas with foot-thick ice. Not expected. Dangerous. I hope the deer didn’t barrel across the ice and fall through the crack.

Our single-file trail opened up to a wide road used by snowmobilers. A road that can carry many people.

As we circled back to the campground, we passed through a low-land, a wet-land, a frozen swampy area. The leafless branches of a Hawthorn shrub exposed the sharp thorns that are usually camouflaged with foliage. Along with our wounds, we also carry barbs that we use for protection, but that can inflict harm, either consciously or unconsciously.

Back at the campground, we stopped for a water and snack break. I had felt my energy waning and my throat getting dry on the previous leg of the trail. I was glad that I had prepared for that and carried supplies with us. With water and a granola bar to renew my strength, we snowshoed back to the car.

What are we willing to carry and what makes us, compels us to do so? As parents, as mothers, we literally carry our children for many years. For most parents, whatever burden that may bring is worth it. Worth the energy, worth the time, worth the money, worth the wounds. There is an instinct we share with many creatures to protect, care for, and love our offspring. Add to that intention, education, societal norms, and creativity and child-rearing becomes an honor, an art-form, the work of our lives, and a means of growth like no other.

What are we willing to carry for others? For family members, for friends, for community members, and for strangers? What compels us to do so? Bridges make carrying burdens easier. How do we prepare and build bridges? What things that we carry are we willing to put down? Our thorns? Our wall of defense? Our prejudices?

Our brains like safety. Crises threaten that safety. Creativity and data allow us to anticipate crisis. Preparation ameliorates crisis, and intelligent and caring responses can help restore that sense of safety in a topsy-turvy world. Emily and the rest of the Texans will weather this storm, but just like the host of other crises that have plagued us this past year, we could have done better. The signs were there. The theory and the data were there. We could have been better prepared. Let’s rewire our brains.

The River Becomes a Road

February 14, 2021 by Denise Brake 2 Comments

There have been a number of times in my life when things are moving along quite smoothly, when all of sudden I am pulled up short. Stopped in my tracks. Now what? Now what the holy heck do I do?

I have a 1924 photo of my Grandmother dressed in trousers and a wide-brimmed hat standing in front of a large horse-drawn wagon that was loaded with all the family possessions. They were moving from North Dakota back to South Dakota. Imagine packing up your entire household into a wagon pulled by horses or oxen and traveling across the prairie! Many times when I see the Mississippi River, I think about the pioneers who traveled across the country in their covered wagons and were stopped in their tracks by the sight of the Great River. Now what do we do?

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I wrote the words above three weeks ago—and then, I got stopped in my tracks. The administrative side of my website was being all sorts of crazy—not saving my writing, not importing photographs, not sending messages to the web host. Now what the heck do I do?! Since I couldn’t finish my post, I did the only other thing that made sense at the moment—I made cookies! Lol! But the irony was not lost on me. My title ran through my mind again and again—the river becomes the road, the river becomes the road. Just as I was stopped in my tracks, I got a notice that it had been seven years since I had signed up for my website. Seven years. Nearly 400 posts. Was this obstacle trying to tell me something? Was this the end of the road? Was it time to settle on this side of the River and forget the crossing?

It was the frosty day we hiked at Bend in the River park, looking from the high bluff out over the River ice, that I noticed the tracks crossing the River. The deer and the fox are the first ones to venture across the ice. How do they know when it’s thick enough to hold them? How do they know when it’s safe?

Two days later and with a tip from a neighbor who had drilled through the ice to actually check how thick it was, we decided to snowshoe on the River.

We were not the first humans to do so. Numerous snowmobile tracks ran along the shore, even through some areas that had turned to slush after flirting with the warm side of thirty-two degrees.

There were fat-tire bike tracks on the River road. Someone had snowshoed before us. Someone had walked with their dog.

Animal tracks left the three-season safety of the Riverside trail at Mississippi River Regional park to follow the River road or cross to the other side. It was strange to see the river-side of the embankment where the constant flow of the water cuts into the bank leaving eroded soil, exposed roots, and leaning trees. A different perspective. One of more understanding.

The farther we walked, the more tracks we saw! Cross-country ski tracks joined the motorized, the meandering, and the measured tracks of all the other creatures. It was a busy road of ice and snow.

What is the allure of the other side? What entices us to re-group, plan, wait, and work to overcome obstacles when we are pulled up short and stopped in our tracks?

At Crow Wing State Park, forty-five miles up-river, there is a marker commemorating the Red River Oxcart Trail and the place where the fur traders crossed the Mississippi River. Perhaps it wasn’t so deep there, perhaps the River wasn’t quite as wide as it is today, perhaps they carried load after load of rocks to make an underwater road of sorts. At other places along the Mississippi River, before ferries and bridges, the settlers had to unload the wagons, take them apart, and canoe the contents and parts across the river and reassemble and reload on the other side. With obstacles, we are forced to look at things from a different perspective. And yet we ask, “How do we know it’s safe?” And yet we acknowledge, “We want to get to the other side.” Here in the North, the Winter ice can become the road. The obstacle becomes the pathway.

John C. Parish, in 1920, wrote about early traders and pioneers that “Rivers proved to be an unfailing source of trouble.” The rivers of our lives prove to be the same. Just when things are moving along quite smoothly, we are pulled up short. But there is usually a golden tree enticing us onward, despite the obstacles—hope for a better life, a different perspective for understanding, faith that what we do matters. And the very obstacle holds the key to the solution. The river becomes a road. Life is that complicated, and life is that holy.

Archives for February 2021

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