Chew the Gum

 

It’s the pain, don’t cha know

Anne Lamott tells the story of having her tonsils taken out as an adult. After two weeks, her prescription for painkillers ran out. She called the doctor’s office to get a new prescription, and the nurse said No. The nurse told her to chew gum vigorously, which is the last thing that Lamott wanted to do with a painful throat. 

How Are We Then To Act?

 

Katharine Smyth, expectations and reality

When we get cancer, we think we have to act like the cancer patients in the movies. People who have no experience with cancer also expect us to act like these stereotyped, sanitized, devoid-of-personality presentations. Don’t act when you have cancer. Let yourself experience what you are feeling and thinking. 

Loving Horror but Hating Death

I’m delighted to have an essay published today in Paper Dragon out of Drexel University. “Poking Death’s Boundary” explores our fascination with horror movies, cemeteries, walking with grief, and dancing with death like a distant cousin. 

https://drexelpaperdragon.com/poking-deaths-boundary/

(The artwork above is by Martha Liebenow.)

Respect and Responsibility

Nurturing Compassion for All Creation

When someone or something we love dies, we grieve.

Right now, half of the country is angry and the other half seems to be gloating.

(Much of this post is something I first published on October 6, 2017.)

In Lauret Savoy’s essay, “The Future of Environmental Essay,” published by Terrain Magazine, she says there are two words we need to remember when we interact with other people, other cultures, and the land: respect and responsibility.

Two New Essays

 

I am thrilled to have two essays published recently. Both of them are about grieving someone you love and trying to make sense of the world without them in it.

“Speaking of That … which we weren’t” was published in the Chautauqua Literary Journal. This is a print-only journal, so you can’t read it online.

But “Fragile, Fracture, Fear” is online. It was published by Cleaver Magazine, and this is the link:

https://www.cleavermagazine.com/fragile-by-mark-liebenow/

gratefully, 

Mark

Solace of Nature and Grief

When grief knots me up, I head for nature. Breathing the fresh air of the mountains pulls me out of my funk.

Nature demands nothing of me. It accepts me as I am.

Nature goes about its life and provides openings for me to participate as I want. I can sit beside a river for hours and let the sounds of the undulating water soothe my sorrow. I can wander in the forest’s cool shadows when the heat and brightness of the sun become too much. Or I can tromp across a mountain and physically work out my anger and frustrations.

Falling Leaves

My neighbor Jackie stopped in and exclaimed how beautiful the yellow leaves were on the maple tree in my backyard. I downplayed it and said that she should have been here a week ago when all the trees were vibrant with fall colors. Then I turned and saw the yellow filling up the entire window and I was stunned. Knowing how much was gone, I no longer saw what was still here.

When leaves drop in autumn, I am sad for the loss of all the life that has buzzed, flown, grown, and trotted through the woods. Colors become muted, trees go bare, and a chill clings to the air. I turn away from the windows thinking that life has ended outside and there is nothing more to see. Yet when the leaves are gone, I will be able see deer moving down by the creek, a barred owl sitting on a branch, feel the contours of the land, and watch the sunset’s rays moving through the bare trees.

Chew the Gum

Anne Lamott tells the story of having her tonsils taken out as an adult.  After two weeks her prescription for painkillers ran out.  She called the doctor’s office to get a new prescription.  The nurse said No and told her to find some gum and chew it vigorously, which is the last thing that Lamott wanted to do with a painful throat.  The nurse explained that when we have a wound in our body, the nearby muscles cramp around it to protect it from any more violation, and that Lamott would have to use those muscles if she wanted them to relax.  She got the gum and she said that the first chews felt like she was ripping things in the back of her throat, but in a few minutes all of the pain was permanently gone.

For some people the death of a loved one is so traumatic that they never want to deal with the grief.  This freezes the one who died in a perpetual state of unresolved dying, and prevents survivors from taking the risk of loving someone else as deeply again.  They think this protects them from ever feeling the pain of grief, and it partially does, but it also drags shadows over every good thing that happens.  If we take no risks, we will experience no wonder.

Public Grieving

The bombings in Boston remind us that public tragedies lead to public grieving, and even if we don’t know anyone involved, when we see photographs of the faces of those who were killed when they were happy, see the faces of the injured in pain, see the despair on the faces of those who lost loved ones, we also grieve.  Public grieving becomes personal because we identify with their sorrow, confusion, and anger.  It doesn’t matter if the photographs are of people in Boston, India, or South Africa.  We are affected and we feel compassion rise from within us because we are part of the same human community.

When innocent people are killed, this is like a hammer tapping on a porcelain vase.  It sends cracks shooting through our conviction that goodness is the ruling force in the world.  How could this happen? we ask, as if we hadn’t been paying attention to news reports of bombings like this occurring around the world almost every day.  The pressure cooker bomb?  It’s the bomb of choice in Afghanistan.  How did we not know this?  We may take note of tragedies in far away lands being reported on the evening news, but then we go back to what we were doing, thinking “How sad, another bombing in…”  But if we see a photograph of the face or the limb that’s been blown off, then it becomes tangible and it affects us personally.  We grieve individual people, not numbers.