Anxiety

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From Crazy Brave (2012)

  We got up, ate cold pizza for breakfast, left over from my husband’s shift at the restaurant the night before. I washed the children, cleaned the house, and he went to work. I worried about money and what we would do when he lost his job. He would eventually lose it, as he had lost all the others. The only question was when. The last time he had walked out on a job we had had only an industrial-sized box of pancake mix, a gift from my mother, for meals, to supplement beans and commodity cheese. My mother was disappointed with my life and did everything she could to keep from coming to the side of town I was living in. She had grown up in worse and had cleaned and cooked her way to decency. My life was now a mockery of her struggle. Every night my husband came in from work in a furious cloud of anger. He told yet another story of how someone had tried to put one over on him. He had barely managed to keep from punching out his “skinny white boss,” who was riding him even though the new waitress was the one screwing up the orders. We had nearly starved before he got this job. The baby was nearing eight weeks old, and as I watched my husband open another beer and pace the room, I decided I had better start looking for work. I would wash dishes, dance on tables if I had to, rather than starve the children or myself again. Some days his mother would come over and we would pool our resources for food. We were bound together for survival. Her mood shifted according to the nature of our predicament. On the good days we would hit the yard sales together. I was her ally as we searched through junk for dishes and clothes. If she was feeling especially hospitable, she would buy me something to wear for under a dollar. One morning as I was toweling off the children from their bath, my mother-in-law pushed her way roughly into the house, puffing on a cigarette, then blowing smoke into my face. My husband surprised me with the swiftness of his leap between us. He had never taken up for me before when she slid into her enemy mode. “Mom, get out of here, now!” he warned her. She stepped back, surprised at the vehemence of his reaction as he slapped the cigarette from her hand, determinedly pushed her out the door, and slammed it behind her. The smoke followed her. “That cigarette was doctored with curses,” he told me. “She’s witching you.” One morning as we struggled to put a bag of stuff from a yard sale into the trunk of her car, she showed me a book of spells written in Cherokee that she had acquired during her last trip home. The book was so old the pages were turning to powder. I didn’t touch it.

• From The World of Biblical Israel (2013)

  158 Lecture 22: National Identity—Intermarriage Shechemite men must be circumcised before one Shechemite man can marry Dinah. o Beginning in the Babylonian Exile, the practice of infant circumcision among Judeans became a cultural mark of identity, a ritual and sign that Judeans observed while in Babylonia, a land that did not practice circumcision. By the Second Temple period, circumcision was centrally important to an emerging Jewish identity. • After all the Shechemite men had willingly submitted to circumcision, two of Jacob’s sons, Simeon and Levi, “took their swords and came against the city unawares, and killed all the males” (Gen. 34:25). o This mass slaughter of men who have just agreed to the terms of a treaty with Jacob’s sons takes us by surprise even though the text indicated that the brothers had negotiated deceitfully. o Again, what seems significant is that Levi in particular takes it upon himself to prevent a treaty of intermarriage with foreigners and that the dividing line between these two peoples is the practice of circumcision. • The Jacob cycle is recognized as a pre-exilic composition; therefore, it represents one of the written sources that exilic editors incorporated into what ultimately became the Torah. It seems possible that the story of Dinah was shaped in ways that expressed exilic and postexilic anxieties around national identity. These anxieties found expression in the practice of circumcision, in the prohibition of intermarriage, and in the role of Levites interpreting and making sense of the Torah. o This is what we mean when we say that the crisis of exile determined which stories were preserved and how they were told. Dinah’s is a story that has a lesson for returning exiles, a message that the Levites were helping them understand: “Therefore, do not give your daughters to their sons, neither take their daughters for your sons” (Ezra 9:12).

• From The World of Biblical Israel (2013)

  22 Lecture 3: ancestor Narratives in Genesis o The Israelite god repeatedly reveals himself to Abraham and to his descendants, Isaac and Jacob, and forms a covenant relationship with them. o God asks Abraham to “walk before me and be righteous.” In return, Abraham receives God’s promise that he will be the father of a “multitude of nations,” and he is granted an eternal landholding in Canaan. As a mark of the covenant, Abraham is asked to circumcise himself and his male descendants. • The rest of the book of Genesis narrates the history of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and Joseph—four generations. We often refer to the first three men as the “patriarchs.” o Each one experiences divine visitations, during which the terms of the Abrahamic covenant are reiterated. o At the same time, each of these men faces serious challenges that seem to make the promises of land, progeny, blessings, and great nations useless. Abraham, for example, must wait 25 years from the time that he is first told he will father a great nation to the birth of the son that God has promised him. The patriarchs also face threats to their lives, often coming from God himself. • Several of the recurring themes of the patriarchal narratives speak to the exilic reality of those preserving these stories. o These themes include the Israelite god’s presence and power, which transcend national boundaries; the covenantal relationship between Abraham’s descendants and the Israelite god; the eternal nature of the covenantal relationship; and the gift of the Promised Land as an everlasting bequest. o The stories also acknowledge tensions experienced by the exiles: wives who cannot conceive, children whose lives are threatened, a land prone to famine and war, and a god who does not always protect.

• From Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma (1997)

  Years after this apparently minor incident, John, driving with his wife and children, swerves to avoid an oncoming car. He freezes in the midst of the turn. Fortunately, the other driver is able to maneuver successfully and avoid catastrophe. One morning several days later, John begins to feel restless while driving to work. His heart starts racing and pounding; his hands become cold and sweaty. Feeling threatened and trapped, he has a sudden impulse to jump out of the car and run. He acknowledges the “craziness” of his feelings, realizes no one was hurt, and gradually, the symptoms subside. A vague and nagging apprehension, however, persists most of the day. Returning home that evening without incident, he feels relieved. The next morning, John leaves early to avoid the traffic and stays late to discuss business with some colleagues. When he arrives home, he is irritable and edgy. He argues with his wife and barks at the children. John goes to bed early. He is awakened in the middle of the night and faintly recalls a dream in which his car is sliding out of control. He is drenched in sweat. More fretful nights follow. John is experiencing a delayed reaction sensitized by the bike accident he had as a child. Incredible as it may seem, post-traumatic reactions of this type are common. After working for more than twenty-five years with people suffering from trauma, I can say that at least half of my clients have had traumatic symptoms that remained dormant for a significant period of time before surfacing. For many people, the interval between the event and the onset of symptoms is between six weeks and eighteen months. However, the latency period can last for years or even decades. In both instances, the reactions are often triggered by seemingly insignificant events. Of course, not every childhood accident produces a delayed traumatic reaction. Some have no residual effect at all. Others, including those viewed as “minor” and forgotten incidents of childhood, can have significant after effects. A fall, a seemingly benign surgical procedure, the loss of a parent through death or divorce, severe illness, even circumcision and other routine medical procedures can all cause traumatic reactions later in life, depending on how the child experiences them at the time they occur. Of these traumatic antecedents, medical procedures are by far the most common and potentially the most impacting. Many clinics (unintentionally) amplify the fear of an already frightened child. In preparation for some routine procedures, infants are strapped into “papooses” to keep them from moving. A child that struggles so much that he or she needs to be tied down, however, is a child too frightened to be restrained without suffering the consequences. Likewise, a child who is severely frightened is not a good candidate for anesthesia until a sense of tranquillity has been restored. A child induced into anesthesia while frightened will almost certainly be traumatize d often severely.

• From Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma (1997)

  If you notice that you are using words that are usually thought of as emotions, take each one and ask yourself: How do I know that I feel emotion? Because emotions are based on connections with the past, the picture or memorabilia may bring memories of other events. Just notice the sensations that come with these memories in the same way. Keep reminding yourself to sense and to describe what you sense as sensations, not as emotions or thoughts. Turn to the next picture and repeat the process. Remember to go slowly enough to be able to notice the sensations that arise in response to the pictures. For each picture or page of your scrapbook, stay with the sensations that are evoked for a few minutes and see if they change. They may stay the same or disappear, but they may also become stronger. Whatever happens, just notice it. If the feelings or sensations become too intense or unpleasant, deliberately shift your attention to a pleasant experience that you have had, or that you can imagine having. Focus all your awareness on the bodily felt sensations of that experience instead. Shifting your attention to the other sensations will help the intensity of the uncomfortable feeling to subside. Remember that unresolved trauma can be a powerful force. If you continue to feel overwhelmed by the exercises or any of the material in the book, please stop for now, try again later, or, enlist the support of a trained professional. If an image of a horrifying scene shows up in your mind’s eye, ever so gently notice what sensations come with it. Sometimes, when sensations are intense, images come first. The sensation is ultimately what will help you move through the traum a- whatever it is. You may end up knowing what it is and you may not. For now, just be reassured that as you move through your reactions, the need to know whether it was real or not will loosen its grip. If there is an objective need to know whether it is true, such as to protect a child who may be at risk, you will be in a better position to handle the situation effectively.

• From Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma (1997)

  Children can even be traumatized by insensitively administered enemas or thermometers. Much of the trauma associated with medical procedures can be prevented if health care providers do the following: 1. Encourage parents to stay with their children. 2. Explain as much as possible in advance. 3. Delay procedures until the children are calm. The problem is that few professionals understand trauma or the lasting and pervasive effects these procedures can have. Although medical personnel are often quite concerned with the children’s welfare, they may need more information from you, the consumer. First Aid for Accidents and Falls Accidents and falls are a normal and often benign part of growing up. However, occasionally a child may experience a traumatic reaction from one of these everyday occurrences. Witnessing a mishap of this sort will not necessarily clue you in to the degree of its severity. A child can be traumatized by events that seem relatively insignificant to an adult. It is important to be aware of the fact that children can be quite adept at covering up the signs of traumatic impact, especially when they feel that “not being hurt” will keep mommy and daddy happy. Your best ally in responding to your child’s needs is an informed perspective. Here are some guidelines: Attend to your own responses first, inwardly acknowledging your concern and fear for the injured child. Take a deep breath and exhale slowly; sense the feelings in your own body. If you feel upset, do it again. The time it takes to establish a sense of calm is time well spent. It will increase your capacity to attend fully to the child, while minimizing the child’s reaction to your own fear or confusion. If you have the time to gather yourself, your own acceptance of the accident will help you focus on the child’s needs. If you are too emotional you carry the potential to frighten the child as much as the accident has. Children are very sensitive to the emotional states of all adults, but particularly their parents. Keep the child quiet and still. If the injury requires immediate movement, support or carry the child, even if he/she appears capable of moving on his/her own. Children who make great efforts to show their strength often do so to deny the fear they are feeling. If you sense that the child is cold, gently drape a sweater or blanket over his/her shoulders and trunk. Encourage (insist, if necessary) the child to take sufficient time to rest in a safe place. This is of particular importance if you notice signs of shock or dazedness (glazed eyes, pale complexion, rapid or shallow breathing, trembling, disorientation, a sense of being somewhere else). If the child’s demeanor is excessively emotional or overly calm (before the storm), rest is very important. You can help the child settle down by being relaxed, quiet, and still yourself. If hugging or holding seem appropriate, do so in a gentle, non-restricting way.

• From The World of Biblical Israel (2013)

  147 people then make a covenant with God, promising to “put away all these [foreign] wives and their children” (Ezra 10:3). o The book of Ezra closes with a decree that all returnees should put aside their foreign wives and remain separate from “the people of the land.” • Nehemiah served as governor of Judah during the same period as Ezra, and much of the material about intermarriage from the book of Ezra is repeated in the book of Nehemiah. • Although it seems unlikely that the oath of all the Israelite men to put aside their foreign wives and their children was ever carried out on a large scale, the issue of intermarriage was clearly important to the community of returned exiles. They had managed to maintain their Judean identity as worshipers of the Israelite god while in Babylonia, but upon returning to Judah, they found that those who had stayed in the land did not share the same sense of national identity and boundary marking. Public Reading of the Torah • A second focal point for the restored and reconstituted Judean community is the temple and the Torah of Moses. In the books of Ezra-Nehemiah, the lengthy transition to a Torah-centered community is sacralized in a single remembered event. • We learn that Ezra gathered all the people of Israel to Jerusalem in the seventh month. He stood on a raised wooden platform or pulpit, flanked by laity and Levites, and he opened “the book of the law of Moses which the Lord had given to Israel” (Neh. 8:1). • Ezra then leads a kind of liturgy. He blesses the Lord, his god, and the people respond, “Amen, Amen,” lifting up their hands, bowing their heads, and worshipping their god, whom they understand to be in some way present in this gathering around the Torah. 148 Lecture 20: The New Israel—Resettling the Land • While Ezra presents the Torah and reads from it, the Levites are described as “helping the people understand the law.” We must remember that the Torah was in Hebrew, and many of the people gathered would no longer speak or understand Hebrew. • During this Second Temple period, we begin to see several developments that will become foundational to early Judaism: the elevation of the Torah and the study of the Torah to a religious and community-forging ritual, the elevation of the role of scribes, and the elevation of the status of the Levites as translators of the law for the people. Carr, An Introduction to The Old Testament, pp. 207–228. Kessler, The Social History of Ancient Israel, pp. 128–157. 1. What factors contributed to internal divisions and debates in the Judean community during the time of the rebuilding of the temple? 2. Why might Persia have adopted a policy of repatriating exiles and sponsoring the rebuilding of local temples and shrines? Suggested Reading Questions to Consider

• From Trash (1988)

  “You getting lazy, girl?” Lee teased me. “Better rev it up, we got cooking to do.” I wiped my mouth and imagined burying her under a truckload of carrots. I felt like I had been drinking whiskey, but my stomach was empty and flat. The blacktop on the way out to the Girl Scout camp seemed to ripple and sway in the sunlight. Lee kept talking about the camp kitchen, the big black gas stove and the walk-in freezer. “This is going to be fun.” I didn’t think so. The onions still had to be sliced. I got hysterical when someone picked up my knife. Lee was giggling with a woman I’d never seen before, the two of them talking about macrobiotic cooking while rinsing brown noodles. I got the meat cleaver and started chopping onions in big raw chunks. “Bite-sized,” Lee called to me, in a cheerful voice. “You want ’em bite-sized, you cut them,” I told her, and went on chopping furiously. It was late when we finally cleaned up. I hadn’t been able to eat anything. The smell of the sauce had made me dizzy, and the scum that rinsed off the noodles looked iridescent and dangerous. My stomach curled up into a knot inside me, and I glowered at the women who came in and wanted hot water for tea. There were women sitting on the steps out on the deck, women around a campfire over near the water pump, naked women swimming out to the raft in the lake, and skinny, muscled women dancing continuously in the rec room. Lee had gone off with her new friend, the macrobiotic cook. I found a loaf of Wonder Bread someone had left on the snack table, pulled out a slice, and ate it in tiny bites. “Want some?” It was one of the women from Atlanta. She held out a brown bag from which a bottle top protruded. “It would make me sick.” “Naw,” she grinned. “It’s just a Yoo-Hoo. I got a stash of them in a cooler. Got a bad stomach myself. Only thing it likes is chocolate soda and barbecue.” “Barbecue,” I sighed. My mouth flooded with saliva. “I haven’t made barbecue in years.” “You make beef ribs?” She sipped at her Yoo-Hoo and sat down beside me. “I have, but if you got the time to do slow pit cooking, pork’s better.” My stomach suddenly growled loudly, a grating, angry noise in the night. “Girl,” she laughed. “You still hungry?” “Well, to tell you the truth, I couldn’t eat any of that stuff.” I was embarrassed. My new friend giggled. “Neither did I. I had peanuts and Yoo-Hoo for dinner myself.” I laughed with her. “My name’s Marty. You come up to Atlanta sometime, and we’ll drive over to Marietta and get some of the best barbecue they make in the world.” “The best barbecue in the world?” “Bar none.” She handed me the bottle of Yoo-Hoo.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The other ladies, having hearkened to Pampinea, not only commended her counsel, but, eager to follow it, had already begun to devise more particularly among themselves of the manner, as if, arising from their session there, they were to set off out of hand. But Filomena, who was exceeding discreet, said, "Ladies, albeit that which Pampinea allegeth is excellently well said, yet is there no occasion for running, as meseemeth you would do. Remember that we are all women and none of us is child enough not to know how [little] reasonable women are among themselves and how [ill], without some man's guidance, they know how to order themselves. We are fickle, wilful, suspicious, faint-hearted and timorous, for which reasons I misdoubt me sore, an we take not some other guidance than our own, that our company will be far too soon dissolved and with less honour to ourselves than were seemly; wherefore we should do well to provide ourselves, ere we begin." "Verily," answered Elisa, "men are the head of women, and without their ordinance seldom cometh any emprise of ours to good end; but how may we come by these men? There is none of us but knoweth that of her kinsmen the most part are dead and those who abide alive are all gone fleeing that which we seek to flee, in divers companies, some here and some there, without our knowing where, and to invite strangers would not be seemly, seeing that, if we would endeavour after our welfare, it behoveth us find a means of so ordering ourselves that, wherever we go for diversion and repose, scandal nor annoy may ensue thereof." Whilst such discourse was toward between the ladies, behold, there entered the church three young men,--yet not so young that the age of the youngest of them was less than five-and-twenty years,--in whom neither the perversity of the time nor loss of friends and kinsfolk, no, nor fear for themselves had availed to cool, much less to quench, the fire of love. Of these one was called Pamfilo,[19] another Filostrato[20] and the third Dioneo,[21] all very agreeable and well-bred, and they went seeking, for their supreme solace, in such a perturbation of things, to see their mistresses, who, as it chanced, were all three among the seven aforesaid; whilst certain of the other ladies were near kinswomen of one or other of the young men. [Footnote 19: See ante, p. 8, note.]

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Oh, yes, this home-coming was as friendly and happy as good will and warm Breton hearts could make it. Yet Stephen was oppressed by a sense of restraint when she took Mary up to the charming bedroom overlooking the garden, and she spoke abruptly. ‘This will be your room.’ ‘It’s beautiful, Stephen.’ After that they were silent, perhaps because there was so much that might not be spoken between them. The dinner was served by a beaming Pierre, an excellent dinner, more than worthy of Pauline; but neither of them managed to eat very much—they were far too acutely conscious of each other. When the meal was over they went into the study where, in spite of the abnormal shortage of fuel, Adèle had managed to build a huge fire which blazed recklessly half up the chimney. The room smelt slightly of hothouse flowers, of leather, of old wood and vanished years, and after a while of cigarette smoke. Then Stephen forced herself to speak lightly: ‘Come and sit over here by the fire,’ she said, smiling. So Mary obeyed, sitting down beside her, and she laid a hand upon Stephen’s knee; but Stephen appeared not to notice that hand, for she just let it lie there and went on talking. ‘I’ve been thinking, Mary, hatching all sorts of schemes. I’d like to get you right away for a bit, the weather seems pretty awful in Paris. Puddle once told me about Teneriffe, she went there ages ago with a pupil. She stayed at a place called Orotava; it’s lovely, I believe—do you think you’d enjoy it? I might manage to hear of a villa with a garden, and then you could just slack about in the sunshine.’ Mary said, very conscious of the unnoticed hand: ‘Do you really want to go away, Stephen? Wouldn’t it interfere with your writing?’ Her voice, Stephen thought, sounded strained and unhappy. ‘Of course I want to go,’ Stephen reassured her, ‘I’ll work all the better for a holiday. Anyhow, I must see you looking more fit,’ and she suddenly laid her hand over Mary’s.

• From Trash (1988)

  “Meet me for lunch on Monday,” she insisted, while her eyes behind her glasses kept glancing at me, turning away and turning back. My palms were sweaty, but I nodded yes. At the door she stopped me, and put her hand out to touch my face. “Your family is very poor, aren’t they?” My face froze and burned at the same time. “Not really,” I told her, “not anymore.” She nodded and smiled, and the heat in my face went down my body in waves. I didn’t want to go on Monday but made myself. Her secretary was confused when I asked about lunch. “I don’t have anything written down about it,” she said, without looking up from her calendar. After class that afternoon the sociology professor explained her absence with a story about one of her children who had been bitten by a dog, “but not seriously. Come on Thursday,” she insisted, but on Thursday neither she nor her secretary were there. I stood in the doorway to her office and tilted my head back to take in her shelves of books. I wanted to pocket them all, but at the same time I didn’t want anything of hers. Trembling, I reached and pulled out the fattest book on the closest shelf. It was a hardbound edition of Sadism in the Movies, with a third of the pages underlined in red. It fit easily in my backpack, and I stopped in the Student Union bookstore on the way back to the dorm to buy a Hershey bar and steal a bright blue pen. On the next Monday, she apologized again, and again invited me to go to lunch the next day. I skipped lunch but slipped in that afternoon to return her book, now full of my bright blue comments. In its spot on the shelf there was now a collection of the essays of Georges Bataille, still unmarked. By the time I returned it on Friday, heavy blue ink stains showed on the binding itself. Eventually we did have lunch. She talked to me about how hard it was to be a woman alone in a college town, about how all the male professors treated her like a fool, and yet how hard she worked. I nodded. “You read so much,” I whispered. “I keep up,” she agreed with me. “So do I,” I smiled.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  April 17 and 18, 1521. See Lit. in § 53. On the day after his arrival, in the afternoon at four o’clock, Luther was led by the imperial marshal, Ulrich von Pappenheim, and the herald, Caspar Sturm, through circuitous side-streets, avoiding the impassable crowds, to the hall of the Diet in the bishop’s palace where the Emperor and his brother Ferdinand resided. He was admitted at about six o’clock. There he stood, a poor monk of rustic manners, yet a genuine hero and confessor, with the fire of genius and enthusiasm flashing from his eyes and the expression of intense earnestness and thoughtfulness on his face, before a brilliant assembly such as he had never seen: the young Emperor, six Electors (including his own sovereign), the Pope’s legates, archbishops, bishops, dukes, margraves, princes, counts, deputies of the imperial cities, ambassadors of foreign courts, and a numerous array of dignitaries of every rank; in one word, a fair representation of the highest powers in Church and State.362 Several thousand spectators were collected in and around the building and in the streets, anxiously waiting for the issue. Dr. Johann von Eck,363 as the official of the Archbishop of Treves, put to him, in the name of the Emperor, simply two questions in Latin and German,—first, whether he acknowledged the books laid before him on a bench (about twenty-five in number) to be his own; and, next, whether he would retract them. Dr. Schurf, Luther’s colleague and advocate, who stood beside him, demanded that the titles of those books be read.364 This was done. Among them were some such inoffensive and purely devotional books as an exposition of the Lord’s Prayer and of the Psalms. Luther was apparently overawed by the August assembly, nervously excited, unprepared for a summary condemnation without an examination, and spoke in a low, almost inaudible tone. Many thought that he was about to collapse. He acknowledged in both languages the authorship of the books; but as to the more momentous question of recantation he humbly requested further time for consideration, since it involved the salvation of the soul, and the truth of the word of God, which was higher than any thing else in heaven or on earth. We must respect him all the more for this reasonable request, which proceeded not from want of courage, but from a profound sense of responsibility. The Emperor, after a brief consultation, granted him "out of his clemency" a respite of one day. Aleander reported on the same day to Rome, that the heretical "fool" entered laughing, and left despondent; that even among his sympathizers some regarded him now as a fool, others as one possessed by the Devil; while many looked upon him as a saint full of the Holy Spirit; but in any case, he had lost much of his reputation.365 The shrewd Italian judged too hastily. On the same evening Luther recollected himself, and wrote to a friend: I shall not retract one iota, so Christ help me."366

• From Trash (1988)

  The night before we moved Mama into MacArthur, the thunking refrain went on too long. I made myself lie still as long as I could, but eventually I sneaked out to check on Arlene. The lights were dimmed way down and the television set provided most of the illumination. The stair-stepper was set up close to the TV, and my mouth went dry when I saw my little sister. She was braced between the side rails, arms extended rigidly and head hanging down between her arms. I watched her legs as they trembled and lifted steadily, up and up and up. A shiver went through me. I tried to think of something to say, some way to get her off those steps. Arlene’s head lifted, and I saw her face. Cheeks flushed red; eyes squeezed shut. Her open mouth gasped at the cold filtered air. She was crying, but inaudibly, her features rigid with strain and tightened to a grotesque mask. She looked like some animal in a trap, tearing herself and going on—up and up and up. I watched her mouth working, curses visible on the dry cracked lips. With a low grunt, she picked up her speed and dropped her head again. I stepped back into the darkened doorway. I did not want to have to speak, did not want to have to excuse seeing her like that. It was bad enough to have seen. But I have never understood my little sister more than I did in that moment—never before realized how much alike we really were. Jack has been sober for more than a decade, something Jo and I found increasingly hard to believe. Mama boasted of how proud she was of him. Her Jack didn’t go to AA or do any of those programs people talk about. Her Jack did it on his own. “Those AA people—they ask forgiveness,” Jo said once. “They make amends.” She cackled at the idea, and I smiled. Jack asking forgiveness was about as hard to imagine as him staying sober. For years we teased each other, “You think it will last?” Then in unison, we would go, “Naaa!” Neither of us can figure out how it has lasted, but Jack has stayed sober, never drinking. Of course, he also never made amends. “For what?” he said. For what? “I did the best I could with all those girls,” Jack told the doctor, the night Arlene was carried into the emergency room raving and kicking. It was the third and last time she mixed vodka and sleeping pills, and only a year or so after Jack first got sober, the same year I was working up in Atlanta and could fly down on short notice. Jo called me from the emergency room and said, “Get here fast, looks like she an’t gonna make it this time.”

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Anna hurried upstairs to her daughter. She, herself, had not been a turbulent child, and Stephen’s outbursts always made her feel helpless; however she was fully prepared for the worst. But she found Stephen sitting with her chin on her hand, and calmly staring out of the window; her eyes were still swollen and her face very pale, otherwise she showed no great signs of emotion; indeed she actually smiled up at Anna—it was rather a stiff little smile. Anna talked kindly and Stephen listened, nodding her head from time to time in acquiescence. But Anna felt awkward, and as though for some reason the child was anxious to reassure her; that smile had been meant to be reassuring—it had been such a very unchildish smile. The mother was doing all the talking she found. Stephen would not discuss her affection for Collins; on this point she was firmly, obdurately silent. She neither excused nor upheld her action in throwing a broken flower-pot at the footman. ‘She’s trying to keep something back,’ thought Anna, feeling more nonplussed every moment. In the end Stephen took her mother’s hand gravely and proceeded to stroke it, as though she were consoling. She said: ‘Don’t feel worried, ’cause that worries Father—I promise I’ll try not to get into tempers, but you promise that you won’t go on feeling worried.’ And absurd though it seemed, Anna heard herself saying: ‘Very well then—I do promise, Stephen.’ CHAPTER 31S tephen never went to her father’s study in order to talk of her grief over Collins. A reticence strange in so young a child, together with a new, stubborn pride, held her tongue-tied, so that she fought out her battle alone, and Sir Philip allowed her to do so. Collins disappeared and with her the footman, and in Collins’ stead came a new second housemaid, a niece of Mrs. Bingham’s, who was even more timid than her predecessor, and who talked not at all. She was ugly, having small, round black eyes like currants—not inquisitive blue eyes like Collins. With set lips and tight throat Stephen watched this intruder as she scuttled to and fro doing Collins’ duties. She would sit and scowl at poor Winefred darkly, devising small torments to add to her labours—such as stepping on dustpans and upsetting their contents, or hiding away brooms and brushes and slop-cloths—until Winefred, distracted, would finally unearth them from the most inappropriate places. ‘ ’Owever did them slop-cloths get in ’ere!’ she would mutter, discovering them under a nursery cushion. And her face would grow blotched with anxiety and fear as she glanced towards Mrs. Bingham.

• From Crazy Brave (2012)

  I’d somehow even balance a stretched canvas. I didn’t have to think about it. It was a natural dance. But this time I was alone; the children were already home. I thought about what I was going to cook for dinner. Was the hamburger meat thawed, and did we have enough potatoes? And what about salad? It would be dark soon. Was my mother doing all right? Then, without warning, I was gutted by panic. It coiled around me and opened uncountable hungry mouths. I would die if I continued to stand in the middle of the avenue. I would die if I continued my way through traffic. As I press the pulse of memory, I tell myself that if I knew exactly the direction the darkness came from and the shape of the clouds forming in the sky when the panic found me, then I might be able to stop it, even now. If I am going to die, will I explode into millions of pieces? Will I evaporate? Or will I rabbit out into traffic and be run over? When there was an opening in the traffic, I sprinted across the street. My lungs were panicked butterflies in gale-force winds. I made it to the telephone booth outside Jack’s Bar. I hugged myself. I was alive, but, to my dismay, so was the panic. I’d only succeeded in running from one island of panic to the next. I dug through my pockets for change to call home, to tell my daughter’s father that I couldn’t make it. I shook as I deposited the coin and dialed. “Please come and get me,” I told him. “I can’t make it home.” How could I tell him that to make even one step was incomprehensible? That to make it the several thousand steps to go a mile up the road was beyond incomprehensible? I would die. “Of course you can make it home.” “Please,” I pleaded. “I don’t know how.” He told me they were all waiting for me. I was late; he’d already started the potatoes. And then he hung up. I can hear my voice now as I spoke into the telephone. It was flat, a dry plain. In the distance was the muscle of a whirling black tornado. How could he or anyone know? No one watching this slim young woman with her jacket hugged close would have any idea she was dying. I had no choice but to try to make it home. I didn’t have money for a taxi, or even to call a taxi. I was terrified. I had to reach with my mind to imagine each step. I walked a tightrope over an abyss that whirred with the sound of a thousand bullroarers. All around me students walked by to classes, to study, to dinner or home. Cars went up and down Central. The sun continued to fall toward the sea, into the west of endings.

• From Crazy Brave (2012)

  “It means you’ll marry a drunk.” Yet night after night after dinner she would drag my little chair to the sink and my dress would get soaked, no matter how hard I tried to keep from marrying a drunk. Every morning that I woke up with a hangover after trying to keep up with the poet with whom I was so in love, I’d remember the wet belly of my dress. I’d promise myself I’d let him go. I knew I could not save him, but to let him go felt unbearable. One morning he mentioned that his brother was coming into town from California and wanted to have dinner before heading out to the pueblo. He asked if I’d like to go to Jack’s for pizza with them. I knew that his brother was a hard drinker. I tried to ignore the premonition and remembered his words after the last binge, when he had promised that he was going to quit drinking. Jack’s, though it was also a pizza joint, was one of his favorite bars. They did make the best pizza. I decided to go. That night after cleaning the house for company, I took my son to the babysitter. When I handed him over with his pack of clothes, toys, and snacks, I hugged him close, savoring his freshly shampooed hair. When my son saw the babysitter’s new puppy, he wriggled free to go play with it. The babysitter was roasting green chilies and had just pulled out of the oven a fresh batch of little fruit pies that her people made. She offered me some. I wanted to stay put in her warm house, to wash dishes, set the table, and visit and forget the teeth of anxiety. If I followed it to the source, I would be slammed back into childhood, to my father staggering in drunk and beating my mother. The first time the poet hit me was on a Saturday night. We hadn’t been together long. We were in that amazed state of awe at finding each other in all the millions and billions of people in the world. We were partying at Okie Joe’s up the street. He was talking politics with his buddies while I played pool with some of the other native students in the back room. I kept feeding the jukebox quarters, playing the Rolling Stones, “Wild horses couldn’t drag me away,” over and over again. He was down about the anniversary of the death of his best friend, who had been his idol. He had been the only man from a pueblo to finish law school at the university, and he fought the U.S. legal system by any means possible, including his fists. But he couldn’t fight alcohol. He was taken down by drink, his body found in a field weeks after his death. His grieving brothers were honoring him that night at the bar by drinking themselves to oblivion. They were getting rowdy.

• From Crazy Brave (2012)

  Though I was reluctant to be born, I was attracted by the music. I had plans. I was entrusted with carrying voices, songs, and stories to grow and release into the world, to be of assistance and inspiration. These were my responsibility. I am not special. It is this way for everyone. We enter into a family story, and then other stories based on tribal clans, on tribal towns and nations, lands, countries, planetary systems, and universes. Yet we each have our own individual soul story to tend. As I approached the doorway to Earth, I was hesitant to enter. I kept looking over my shoulder. I heard the crisp voice of the releaser of souls urge me forward. “Don’t look back!” And I remembered how Earth is a heavy teacher yet is so much loved by the creator of planetary beings. I did not want to leave mystery, yet I was ever curious and ready to take my place in the story. My mother wanted a baby to show her love for her husband, my father. My father didn’t know what he wanted. If he was going to have a child, he preferred a son, though in his everyday world in the racist Oklahoma of the fifties, it was difficult for an Indian man, especially one who had no living Indian father or grandfather to show him the way. Most people on my father’s side of the family passed from this place relatively young. I am one of the oldest living relatives of our family line. My generation is now the door to memory. This is why I am remembering. My father was born of tribal leadership. Monahwee, who was one of the leaders of the Red Stick War, which culminated in the Battle of Horseshoe Bend, the largest Indian uprising in the country, was his grandfather, six generations back on his mother’s side. Monahwee is still a beloved person to the Creek, or Mvskoke people. Samuel Checotah, another grandfather, was the first principal

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  II. Histories of the Augsburg Diet and Confession. See list in "Corp. Ref." XXVI. 101–112. D. Chytræus (Kochhafe): Historie der Augsb. Conf., Rostock, 1576, Frcf. 1577, 1578, 1600. G. Coelestin: Hist. Comitiorum a. 1530 Augustae celebratorum, Frcf. 1577, 4 vols. fol. E. Sal. Cyprian: Hist. der Augsb. Conf., Gotha, 1730. Cur. A. Salig: Historie der Augsb. Conf. und derselben Apologie, Halle, 1730–35, in 3 parts. Weber: Vollständige Gesch. der Augsb. Conf., Frcf. 1783–84, 2 vols. Planck: Gesch. des protest. Lehrbegriff’s (Leipz. 1792), vol. III. I. 1–178. Fickenscher: Gesch. des Reichstages zu Augsb. 1530, Nürnb. 1830. Pfaff: Gesch. des Reichstags zu Augsburg, 1530, Stuttg. 1830. Add special works on the Augsb. Conf. mentioned in § 119. III. The relevant sections in the general Church Histories of Schroeckh, Mosheim, Gieseler, etc.; in the Histories of the Reformation by Marheineke, Hagenbach, Merle D’aub., Fisher; in the general Histories of Germany by Ranke (Prot.), vol. III. 162–215, and Janssen (Rom. Cath.), vol. III. 165–211. Also the numerous Lives of Luther (e.g., Köstlin, Book VI., chs. XI. and XII., vol. II. 198 sqq.), and Melanchthon (e.g., C. Schmidt, 190–250). IV. Special points. H. Virk: Melanchthon’s Politische Stellung auf dem Reichstag zu Augsburg, in Brieger’s "Zeitschrift für Kirchengeschichte," 1887, pp. 67 and 293 sqq. The situation of Protestantism in 1530 was critical. The Diet of Speier had forbidden the further progress of the Reformation: the Edict of Worms was in full legal force; the Emperor had made peace with the Pope, and received from him the imperial crown at Bologna; the Protestants were divided among themselves, and the Conference at Marburg had failed to unite them against the common foe. At the same time the whole empire was menaced by a foreign power. The Turks under Suleiman "the Magnificent," who called himself, Lord of all rulers, Dispenser of crowns to the monarchs of the earth, the Shadow of God over the world," had reached the summit of their military power, and approached the gates of Vienna in September, 1529. They swore by the beard of Mohammed not to rest till the prayers of the prophet of Mecca should be heard from the tower of St. Stephen. They were indeed forced to retire with a loss of eighty thousand men, but threatened a second attempt, and in the mean time laid waste a great part of Hungary. Under these circumstances the Diet of Augsburg convened, April 8, 1530. Its object was to settle the religious question, and to prepare for war against the Turks. The invitation dated Jan. 21, 1530, from Bologna, carefully avoids, all irritating allusions, sets forth in strong language the danger of foreign invasion, and expresses the hope that all would co-operate for the restoration of the unity of the holy empire of the German nation in the one true Christian religion and church.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Anna hesitated a moment, then she nodded: ‘I suppose so—that is if you really wish to.’ The drive only took about twenty minutes, for now Stephen was so nervous that she positively flew. She who had been puffed up with elation and self-satisfaction was crumbling completely—in spite of her careful new necktie she was crumbling at the mere thought of Angela Crossby. Arrived at The Grange she felt over life-size; her hands seemed enormous, all out of proportion, and she thought that the butler stared at her hands. ‘Miss Gordon?’ he inquired. ‘Yes,’ she mumbled, ‘Miss Gordon.’ Then he coughed as he did on the telephone, and quite suddenly Stephen felt foolish. She was shown into a small oak-panelled parlour whose long, open casements looked on to the herb-garden. A fire of apple wood burnt on the hearth, in spite of the fact that the weather was warm, for Angela was always inclined to feel chilly—the result, so she said, of the English climate. The fire gave off rather a sweet, pungent odour—the odour of slightly damp logs and dry ashes. By way of a really propitious beginning, Tony barked until he nearly burst his stitches, so that Angela, who was lying on the lounge, had perforce to get up in order to soothe him. An extremely round bullfinch in an ornate, brass cage, was piping a tune with his wings half extended. The tune sounded something like ‘Pop goes the weasel.’ At all events it was an impudent tune, and Stephen felt that she hated that bullfinch. It took all of five minutes to calm down Tony, during which Stephen stood apologetic but tongue-tied. She hardly knew whether to laugh or to cry at this very ridiculous anti-climax. Then Angela decided the matter by laughing: ‘I’m so sorry, Miss Gordon, he’s feeling peevish. It’s quite natural, poor lamb, he had a bad night, he just hates being all sewn up like a bolster.’ Stephen went over and offered him her hand, which Tony now licked, so that trouble was ended; but in getting up Angela had torn her dress, and this seemed to distress her—she kept fingering the tear. ‘Can I help?’ inquired Stephen, hoping she’d say no—which she did, quite firmly, after one look at Stephen. At last Angela settled down again on the lounge. ‘Come and sit over here,’ she suggested, smiling. Then Stephen sat down on the edge of a chair as though she were sitting in the Prickly Cradle. She forgot to inquire about Angela’s dog-bite, though the bandaged hand was placed on a cushion; and she also forgot to adjust her new necktie, which in her emotion had slipped slightly crooked. A thousand times in the last few days had she carefully rehearsed this scene of their meeting, making up long and elaborate speeches; assuming, in her mind, many dignified poses; and yet there she sat on the edge of a chair as though it were the Prickly Cradle.

• From Crazy Brave (2012)

  canvas. I didn’t have to think about it. It was a natural dance. But this time I was alone; the children were already home. I thought about what I was going to cook for dinner. Was the hamburger meat thawed, and did we have enough potatoes? And what about salad? It would be dark soon. Was my mother doing all right? Then, without warning, I was gutted by panic. It coiled around me and opened uncountable hungry mouths. I would die if I continued to stand in the middle of the avenue. I would die if I continued my way through traffic. As I press the pulse of memory, I tell myself that if I knew exactly the direction the darkness came from and the shape of the clouds forming in the sky when the panic found me, then I might be able to stop it, even now. If I am going to die, will I explode into millions of pieces? Will I evaporate? Or will I rabbit out into traffic and be run over? When there was an opening in the traffic, I sprinted across the street. My lungs were panicked butterflies in gale-force winds. I made it to the telephone booth outside Jack’s Bar. I hugged myself. I was alive, but, to my dismay, so was the panic. I’d only succeeded in running from one island of panic to the next. I dug through my pockets for change to call home, to tell my daughter’s father that I couldn’t make it. I shook as I deposited the coin and dialed. “Please come and get me,” I told him. “I can’t make it home.” How could I tell him that to make even one step was incomprehensible? That to make it the several thousand steps to go a mile up the road was beyond incomprehensible? I would die. “Of course you can make it home.” “Please,” I pleaded. “I don’t know how.” He told me they were all waiting for me. I was late; he’d already started the potatoes. And then he hung up. I can hear my voice now as I spoke into the telephone. It was flat, a dry plain. In the distance was the muscle of a whirling black tornado. How could he or anyone know? No one watching this slim young woman with her jacket hugged close would have any idea she was dying. I had no choice but to try to make it home. I didn’t have money for a taxi, or even to call a taxi. I was terrified. I had to reach with my mind to imagine each