Wishing for Peace in our World: the Power of Listening

        Often those of us with a heart for social justice get excited over trying to answer questions. Questions like, "How can we help?" "What will have the greatest impact?" "Will our monetary resources be used properly?"  Some of the social, economical, and health problems we seek to address run deep and wide, and these may be worthy questions. 

     I attended "A Dinner of Hope" hosted in our community at Hide House on June 25th, 2015.  I entered the event with some fear in my heart.  I knew Kwizera Ministries was a US counterpart set up to support Solace Ministries in Rwanda.  I was afraid because genocide is a huge, terrible topic and I would be listening to a survivor tell his story.

     It's stories that can sear us to the core and ignite us to action.  Stories are a great and heavy gift to the listener.  You can never "unhear" as story.  Were these honest accounts from Rwanda in the mid 1990's something I was "ready" to hear?  Assuming I was "ready enough", I was afraid of feeling too small to make a difference.

     We have to listen to the stories.  It's the stories that transforms history to reality.  It bridges the "them" to "us". 

      That night I listened to Yves Nyamushanja tell of watching his community crumble as Tutsi people fled to churches for safety and came face to face with Hutu neighbors willing to slash and slaughter them. Hearing Yves recall a day when he, at age 12, was the only one to walk out of the church alive was wrenching.  

    Jean Gakwandi spoke next and I was amazed that he was present, as he is the original founder of Solace Ministries , established 1995.  He believes that "the first step of the healing process is to listen to survivors, comforting them".  At Solace Ministreies survivors are able to tell their stories  and listen to each other.  This itself is a  gift greater than material objects.  They received the gift of knowing they were not alone.  To paraphrase, Yves states that "without that , we would have gone crazy".  It's the stories that allow us to momentarily be with and be there for another person. 

        Jean points out that we need to listen vigilantly because history rewrites itself very quickly.  He states he is discouraged that the numbers of Tutsis murdered seems to shrink every year, as if 2 million dead is a travesty, but one million doesn't sound so bad.  When people get transformed from stories to numbers they lose their humanity.  The goal of Solace is to "become an alternative family for survivors, restoring their dignity and creating networks of support for individuals who are traumatized, lonely, poor, and desiring hope as they confront an uncertain future.

     How gracefully Jean and Yves answered my initial fears and questions!  We can help by listening. They affirmed that just seeing people in the US gathered for a dinner to support their community helps to validate and build self worth and hope.  Aren't those precious gifts?   Yes, we can also buy (super strong) coffee, beautiful woven baskets and colorful beaded necklaces.  But at the core of all missions is the restoration of humanity.  Let us carry this forward.

More information available:  www.kwizeraministries.org  and www.solacem.org

HIPPA & Dusty Medical Records

       "How do you make something unknown again, when it's burned into your heart?"  For those of us riding the Saturday night wave of the  Dusty Medical 10 year Anniversary Fest (8/29/15), that question had no answer.  We relived our "youth" to the soundtrack of 2006.  I don't know how old you were at the time, but I was 9 years younger than I am now.
       I had moved back to Milwaukee after spending college years in Madison and post-college years in Seattle.  I moved to  Bay View... Milwaukee's "new East Side".  Before long I was making googly eyes at the Hi-Fi Cafe guy with the goofy mustache.  Reuniting with my prom date of 1993 may seem like an obvious choice in hindsight, but took me by surprise at the time.
       We drove along the Lakefront in his blue Chevelle.  He shared new music with me as he had in years before.  We had now moved on from cassettes to cds, but the songs were intentionally ordered and selected for my ears.  "Listen to this, EVEN YOU would like it, "he said handing me a cd.  (I of course took this as an insult.)  I listened to it and he was right, I did like it.  The music was a train ride, the words were a poem.  I was forever hooked on the Goodnight Loving.
       So then he nonchalantly mentions how he will be putting out a record by these guys on his record label.  Hmm, record label ?  Chevelle?  Who is this mysterious prom date from my past?  One half of the Get Drunk DJ's; one third of the Night Terrors.  Sounds like the guy for me!
       "The thing you love about your partner will be the thing that drives you crazy later, " I remember hearing at the time.  Music.  I loved his love of music; his passion for authentic music and his persistence in sharing it.
       Sadly, I have discovered that this tendency does not lead to monstrous financial gain :)   It does however lead to a catalog of unique, original artists pouring out what they carry inside.  (see www.dustymedical.com ) Many of these songs would have disappeared like drops of water on dry earth.  Happily they are now captured on vinyl.
       I am proud of my guy and the hours he has devoted to this "of the people, by the people, for the people" record label that strives to break even so it can put out another release.   And yes, sometimes  I do have to ask him to turn down the music.

Crying over Milk...

     "Watch out for the crack!"  was the battle cry we heard each night at dinner as one of my brothers or I inevitably spilled our milk cup.  Classic tupperware cups in orange and gold rolling towards the edge of the table.  But that was the easy part, quickly wiped up after hitting the floor.  It was the dreaded crack that was home to lost crumbs and "gunk" where the milk would.... ?? Well I'm not sure exactly.  Curdle? Require the disassembly of the kitchen table?
     At any rate, moms for decades have indeed been crying over spilled milk. Whether we "should" cry about it or not is debatable.  My heart especially rockets out to the moms, including myself who have chosen to attempt to breastfeed yet found that our bodies were unable to produce luxurious quantities of milk.  Yes, we guzzled the tea.  Yes, we ate the cookies (thanks Monica!).  Choked down supplements along with the chunky vitamins.   Yes we shed a silent tear when other moms posted their "problems" on Facebook regarding what to do with their freezers full of excess milk.
    Today is a day on my breastfeeding journey.  I wanted to say the "bittersweet final day of"... but I can't.  Today I rediscovered my last 2 bags of breast milk.  Last, last; as in we are not planning to have other children.  As in, my current 2 year old laughs if I try to offer him breast milk.  With each child a different journey of nursing for various lengths of time for various reasons.
     Those 2 "measly" bags peeping out from behind the unused frozen bananas (someone will be over soon to make us smoothies and banana bread) and below the food coloring-rich freezie pops.
     I can't yet let them thaw in the sink and slip down the drain.  I worked so hard to extract each drop of milk.  I was hooked up to a fancy 1st world pumping machine where I pumped in my car between work shifts.  Each day I squeezed out just 1/4 ounce to one ounce of milk at a time.  I remember carefully shaking each drop into the bottle, letting it regather and shaking again for one last drop. I certainly did cry over spilled milk more than once.  Precious for the hopes, determination and even fears carried within.
     So I will tuck those 2 tiny bags back into the freezer, not even close to 1/4 full.  Hey, it's one of the few times I can choose to not spill the milk.
   

Listen To Your Mother 2015!!

What a thrill to step onto the stage at Alverno's Pittman Theater Sunday April 26th and read aloud!  I was able to share a bit of my story with many ears, hearts and even some bright lights.  I hope that those who recognize the story can find solace, reprieve, and even hope.  Read on....

New Motherhood: New Identity?

        Becoming a Mother involves a great transformation of identity. Dormant traits rise up, and familiar characteristics sink below the surface. With my first two children, I experienced personal growth in some areas, and crumbling in others. Key parts of my identity were whittled down or stripped away. My ideas changed as who I thought I would be as a mother were replaced by less pretty realities. But despite the changes, I maintained my core identity of being a kind, understanding person with an appreciation for art and  nature. I was still bright, still a problem solver.

        After the birth of my third child I experienced an emotion I had never felt before: Terror. It did not descend all at once, but crept in during the year following his birth. 

        It began with feelings of anger and frustration. Everyday bumps in the road felt like catastrophes. I was constantly rolling my eyes and sighing with irritation. I would not have allowed other people to yell at my children the way I was doing. This brought with it great shame and self-judgment.

        As time went on, I began to have trouble concentrating and remembering. I had to leave myself notes to Eat Breakfast and other everyday tasks that shouldn't require a second thought. I once thought to myself , "Why is that woman waving at me like she knows me?" Hours later I slowly remembered that we had met multiple times before.  

       Over time, my identity changed to the point that it no longer felt like me. I thought that there had to be some physical explanation for this. I researched brain tumors, neurological diseases, thyroid problems. I tried everything I could think of to feel better: accupuncture , healthy eating, an antidepressant, supplements, martial arts; on and on. Each thing seemed to provide a fraction of relief, but only briefly.

       As I got worse, the minutes would drag on so that surviving one hour felt like the feat of the century. Other days the time would slip by, and how did it get so late, as I didn't even get my coat off yet or make dinner? I still had to pee! Could it possibly be bedtime for the kids? This  was terrifying.

        My exhaustion became debilitating. Each day was a race to make it to the kids’ bedtime, when I could collapse into bed. At night I did not have the energy to fill my pillbox correctly or even plug in my cell phone.  My husband described me as "listless" at the time.

      Eventually, the anger I felt turned into rage. My irritation turned to a physical sensation of agitation. My thoughts were filled with irrational hatred towards almost everything.  I felt like I was losing my mind. I felt the terror of not feeling like myself or knowing who I was. I no longer felt kind or understanding. Once at the top of my class, I was no longer smart.  I wanted to live, but I could not stand living in my body. When I tried to tell people about my concerns, their cheerful reassurances only made me realize they could not comprehend what I was going through.

      Having 3 kids seemed too much for me with all the details to manage: grooming, meals, homework, sports, not to mention keeping track of library day, hot lunch day, spirit day...  My secret fantasy was to lie in a hospital bed with brief visits from my children and husband.

     Nearly a year later a friend recommended the Postpartum Progress website.  When I read things like "symptoms include rage", I began to cry with relief.  This meant I was not alone.  I went from thrashing around in a dark sea with my head underwater, to having a point of light to focus on.   If this was postpartum depression it needed a new name. Something to capture the disintegration, the terror, the trauma, the drowning feeling of hopelessness and helplessness.  Recovery has been slow and involves being knocked underwater again and again.  Medication helped me reach a turning point, and taking care of myself through time, baths, hobbies and friends is essential.

         I now feel I have my identity back. I have some of the old me, as well as the continued transformation motherhood brings.  I am here.  I enjoy things again.   The terrible buzzing in my head is usually gone.  That is enough.