It's time... to let go of the things which do not spark joy.
~Susan Hennessey
At 6:15 the morning after the 2016 election, I got up, put on my sweat clothes, and drove forty-five minutes to Berkeley for my weekly dance/meditation practice. Thirteen of us, all women, staggered quietly into the drafty old church building and took our places on chairs, on mats, lying flat on the vintage hardwood floor. It wasn't until we were all settled into place, our breath quieted, the rickety building warming, that I heard the first sob; a single lament rising from a corner on the other side of the room. a tangible thing that erupted so unexpectedly into the serene space. It echoed, filling up the air, and then hung, as though suspended in weightlessness. Another one arrived on its heels, this one from the person next to me, a long, helpless wail. It exploded from of all of us then. One by one. The keening and the sobbing; the utter disbelief. Until the first deep bass notes hit off the walls, and one by one we rose, and the music took us, and together we danced our sorrow and our despair.
We sat in the car, in a lucky parking space directly in front of the beautiful Conservatory, with its gorgeous architectural details, wide expanse of lawn, pretty benches surrounded by flowers. And crows. I remember a lot of crows that day. A life-long lover of butterflies, I was deeply disappointed that after sitting in traffic to get on the bridge, then fighting traffic all the way across town to the park, we had gotten it wrong. The more my daughter tried to talk sensibly to me about our options~including simply going back the following week~the more agitated I became and before either of us knew what was happening I was talking about our new president and how he laughed about kissing and grabbing women, that he might get us into a nuclear war, that he was trying to take our health care away and he was banning innocent people from coming to our country, and on and on until it took on a life of its own, and suddenly we were throwing our high-pitched voices at each other across the small car, back and forth, back and forth, until I heard her say, over and over, Stop mom, I can't take it anymore.
It is such a painful memory.
This morning I read a piece about the trauma of these four years. How we have had to hold our collective breath, and what it feels like to be able to breathe again. The relief and joy that we feel, but also, all of the other pent up feelings that we can now begin to release. Because we cannot feel the feelings, psychotherapist Martha Crawford writes, while we are still in the midst of the traumatic episode, in the midst of crisis, in the midst of abuse, in the midst of moral injury. She continues that it is only when we begin to suspect we are safe enough that we can afford to experience the worst of the rage, pain, sorrow.
Somewhere in what became that terrible conversation in the car that day, my wise, thirty-something daughter kept trying to tell me that it was my trauma that was speaking. No it isn't, I insisted, feeling utterly invisible. He really might get us into a nuclear war. He really is a racist. He really did brag about and on and on. These are facts, I kept saying, Not my trauma. It wasn't until the following year, when I reentered therapy, for the first time with a serious trauma expert, that I began to see the truth of what she was speaking. It's not that it wasn't true that a horrendous person was now leading our country and doing horrendous things because it was true. It is true. And it's not that we haven't all been traumatized by these four years, because we have. We absolutely have, individually and collectively as a nation. But, and also, if we are already vulnerable due to the weight of previous trauma, especially feeling powerless and abused at the hands of a man or men plural, or, in many cases, by society itself, then it's just that much more difficult. We already have post traumatic stress. For millions of us in that situation, we are not just experiencing the trauma of having a madman in the White House, we are also re-experiencing every trauma that ever happened to us.
One of the greatest gifts of that morning dance four years ago was that I had the direct experience that I was not alone in my pain. The working definition that my therapist uses for trauma is that it is unbearable pain experienced alone. The healing happens as we have the experience again and again of no longer being alone, of having a loving, compassionate other there to witness, to empathize, to hold us as we remember, as we are thrown off our axis yet again, as we begin to feel again.
When the election was called for Biden on Saturday, when people started honking their horns, when they hit the streets to celebrate, not only here in this country, but around the world, when cathedral bells rang not just in Washington DC, but in Paris, when fireworks lit up London, when Black Lives Matters Plaza filled to overflowing with an historic public celebration, with singing and dancing, and so much joy, like so many others, I sat in my home and wept. Truly I have not been alone. When Kamala took the stage that evening, resplendent in her symbolic white outfit, complete with gorgeous pussy bow tie, her strength, her love and her joy palpable, I wept again, as I did when Joe took the stage and love and empathy flowed from the good and kind and strong and capable man who will be our next president. I was so not alone that day, and the feeling of being an integral part of not only a country, but a world that longs for better, for decency, and human rights, for goodness, for healing, was overwhelming.
I woke up Sunday morning for the first time in I don't know how long bathed in serenity. It was like a miracle, mind free, body relaxed, heart warmed, soft and pliable. But by that night I was deep in it again. Because it's not over yet. There are crises still ongoing, abuses of power right and left, the damage he can still inflict huge, and the Grinch is openly trying to steal Christmas. But there is light at the end of the tunnel. Biden will be, I'm assured by experts out there that I trust, who know a lot about what they are speaking of, the next president.
So why am I still allowing the Grinch to steal my serenity, to snatch my joy? Though in the Grinch's defense, he did grow a heart by the end, which our president's personality disorders will not allow him to do. I mean I know that trauma teaches you to be always on red alert, always scanning for danger, and that feels like the key to survival. But the truth is, that just steals your life. I can't snap my fingers and heal it, but there are plenty of things I can do to take better care of my nervous system, beginning with turning my face from him and toward things that are good for me. I can stop doom-scrolling on twitter, and start joy-scrolling more artists on Istagram. I can stop listening to inciteful podcasts and write more. I can stop clicking on HuffPost, with their giant, scary headlines and take photographs. I can make art. I can consciously breathe, though yes, this one can be dicey. I can Facetime with my 3-year-old granddaughter. I can read Louise Penny's new book that is waiting at the library. I can listen to music more. I can smell my still-blooming roses. I can sky gaze, one of my favorite pastimes, and I can savor the possibility of rain today, desperately needed rain. I can light a candle, smile for no reason, reach out to a friend, even my therapist if necessary. I can endeavor to feel my feelings. In short, I can practice radical self-care, even in circumstances where that is challenging. And I can dance. All by myself in my living room, alone but not really, grateful that this time it is not in despair, but in relief, and maybe, if I'm lucky, in joy.
