Relief

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.

Page 45 of 88 · 20 per page

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  You got this, Kris. You got this. Hold fast. Damn, this was rough. “What about porn?” My sorrow instantly shut down. Dad looked stunned, so the doctor continued, “While you can still get around with your walker, you might want to get rid of it if you have any. This way no one else will have to deal with it after you’re gone.” Dad burst into laughter. “That won’t be a problem, Doctor.” From then on, “Dr. Porn,” as we took to calling him, was Dad’s favorite, straight-shooting visitor. At first, hospice scared me because I was a newbie and had no clue what to expect. For instance, I didn’t know that hospice was a service, not a place (though there are hospice facilities). Multiple times per week, a team of compassionate nurses and other professionals skilled at end-of-life care came to check on Dad. They monitored his vitals and adjusted his medications. They groomed and bathed him, allowing my mom more time to just be his wife. They ordered medical supplies and equipment like a hospital bed, wheelchair, and walker. They even offered grief counseling for us all and continued to provide it for over a year past his death. During the final hours, they were with us 24-7, teaching us what was happening and how to respond to it. When we freaked out because Dad’s stomach was filling up with fluid, they gently explained that this was normal. His liver was starting to shut down, which was why his legs were also so swollen. Luckily, they were able to drain his abdomen every other day, providing him relief. The nurses taught us how to use the “comfort kit” they’d made for us—a white paper bag filled with morphine and other prescriptions to help with any breakthrough pain. Comfort kits are designed to keep patients out of the hospital—the last place Dad wanted to be. According to the Hospice Foundation of America, many individuals and families could benefit from hospice care sooner than they get it, but people don’t often know how to access the services. Some are afraid to discuss it or don’t want to concede “defeat.” Some wait for a physician to suggest it, unaware that they can initiate care on their own, as long as eligibility criteria are met. A person doesn’t have to be bedridden or in their final days of life to receive care, either. When there’s a significant decline in health, and comfort is the only thing left to give, hospice is there. Here in the U.S., hospice is covered by Medicare, and in almost every state by Medicaid. It’s also covered by most private health insurance to varying degrees.

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  I quit comparing myself to other patients and coming up short. I quit blaming myself for getting sick and for not getting well. Most importantly, I quit seeing myself as anything other than whole. And while I quit trying to cure myself, I never quit betting on myself. This is how I learned that there was a difference between healing and curing. Curing takes place at the physical level. It’s absolutely possible but never guaranteed. Healing, on the other hand, takes place at the spiritual level and is available to all of us—no matter who we are, what we look like, or where we come from. And just like love, healing never ends. In fact, we can be healing and dying at the very same time. The only thing required to enter the healing path is the decision to do so. Nothing and no one can take it away from you—not even your own mortality. While figuring out how to truly accept this paradigm is by no means easy, know that on the other side of this awareness is a greater ease and appreciation for life, as well as a deeper compassion for yourself and others. Accepting my disease freed me up to love my life, again. It allowed me to embrace living as a cancer “thriver”—someone who lives fully with cancer—who coexists with something that isn’t easy or desired but doesn’t define me, either. Identifying as a thriver helped me stop taking care of myself for cancer (or because “I have to”) and start doing it for me . Because I deserve to feel good—and so do you. Now, instead of eating my vegetables or moving my body for cancer, I do healthy things so that I can have more energy and joy for my life. This may seem like a small mental shift, but for me it was epic. Now, I’m not going to lie, some days are more triumphant than others. Healing is never linear. We zig and zag, take two steps forward and one step back. And that’s OK. It’s yet another thing I’m working on accepting. Before Dad got sick, I thought I had a Ph.D. in acceptance, but after his terminal prognosis, the prospect of losing him demanded that I do some postgrad work. No matter how irrational and misplaced my feelings were, the little girl inside me was still terrified of being left. For a while, denial or gin or researching more medical procedures (that didn’t exist) provided an excellent distraction from those feelings. When I finally had to wake up and accept that the only thing left to do was to make Dad feel as comfortable and loved as possible, I didn’t think I could do it.

• From In an Unspoken Voice (2010)

  Healing Trauma: A Pioneering Program for Restoring the Wisdom of Your Body . Boulder, CO: Sounds True. CHAPTER 12 The Embodied Self The Body is the Shore on the Ocean of Being. —Sufi saying L et’s now return for a moment to my personal story of being struck by the teenager’s car. The outcome of my accident could easily have been horrific, utterly devastating. Instead it turned out to be transformative. Despite having been acutely terrified, disoriented and dissociated, I was spared the dreadful repercussions of PTSD. What saved me from succumbing to prolonged trauma symptoms? Along with the method I have described throughout this book were the conjoined twin sisters of embodiment and awareness . This asset, even beyond its crucial role in regulating stress and healing trauma, is a master tool for personal enrichment and self-discovery. My job here is to entice you to take your body seriously enough to learn a bit more about its promptings. Yet I also want to encourage you to hold it lightly enough to engage it as a powerful ally in transforming intense “negative” or uncomfortable emotions—and so to experience what it’s like to truly embody goodness and joy. Since these twin sisters of mercy are so essential to the prevention and healing of trauma, let’s consider what embodied awareness looks like and feels like. Though we don’t usually bring conscious awareness to the multitude of internal bodily sensations happening moment by moment, these experiences are frequently referred to in common parlance. We “bite into and chew on” tough issues. There are things that we cannot “swallow or stomach,” while others make us “want to puke.” And of course most of us have experienced “butterflies in our stomachs.” Surely the sensation of being bloated, constricted or “tight-assed” catches our awareness and has its emotional meaning. We may be “tight-lipped” on one occasion and “loose-lipped” on another. Or we may just feel open in our bellies and chest or even “breathless with excitement.” Such are the poignant messages from our muscles and viscera. All human experience is incarnate, that is to say, “of the body.” Our thoughts are guided by our sensations and emotions. But how you know when you are angry? Or, do you know how you know when you are happy? Typically, people tend to ascribe a mental causation to an emotion; for example, I am feeling (angry, sad, etc.) because he/she did this (said this, forgot to do this, etc.). However, when people learn to focus on what is going on in their bodies in the here and now, they typically report, “My stomach is tight,” or “My chest feels bigger—my heart is more relaxed and open.” These physical cues let us know not only what we are feeling but also what to do to remedy difficult sensations and emotions. They also inform us that we are alive and real.

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  Parts that had also craved healing. But after a while, it was easy to go back to sleep. To slip into old, hardwired, comfortable patterns of being and relating, because they were familiar. I used to beat myself up about not staying in a perpetual state of awakeness, as if not living my life “like every day was my last” meant that I was lazy, ungrateful, or worse—willfully blowing off the hard-won wisdom I’d learned in the cancer trenches. Maybe you can relate in your own way. Of course, none of that is true. It’s why I often come back to Jung’s notion of orbiting. The idea that we circle around the same themes our entire lives. And with each passing orbit, we reach the next circle of meaning (understanding, integration, assimilation). Translation: it’s normal to step in the same shit again and again, each time with a new willingness to go deeper. What a relief! If you find yourself orbiting, please don’t beat yourself up, mistakenly believing you’re in a downward spiral of stuckness. Believe me, I know the temptation, but orbiting truly is the instrument of our healing. We cycle through change, and all the feelings that come with it. And with each trip around the sun, our souls get wiser, our hearts expand, and we orbit to a new layer of ourselves in and among the both/and. TAKE IT ONE STEP AT A TIME (NOT ONE DAY AT A TIME) One day at a time can be a lot. One step at a time helps you digest and steady yourself. It’s gentler on the nervous system. Some moments will be tough (I’ve certainly shared a few of my doozies). Others will feel softer. If you’re prone to sky-high expectations of yourself, lower the bar. In fact, put it so damn low you could trip over it. Imagine you’ve just come out of a major surgery. Would you expect yourself to have the mental and physical ability to just get back to life as usual? Hopefully not. Hopefully, you’d be willing to allow your body time to recuperate. Remember that loss, traumatic events, and unexpected shit pickles (even those that are for the best) are draining in ways you may not even be aware of. As you learn how to navigate this stage of your orbit, be patient with yourself, dear one. You are not a machine. Taking things one step at a time allows you to set limits on how much you can handle in any given moment. For me, after Dad died, my bandwidth for “normal” life was next to nothing. I literally thought there was something wrong with me as I struggled to get out of bed. I don’t recognize myself anymore, I’d think. The things that lit me up previously felt dry and unappealing—like stale saltines. Why can’t I remember anything? Basic word recall went out the window.

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  Rain check for a time when I’m not so depleted?” I’m not suggesting that you let your toddler or elderly parent fend for themselves. I’m merely pointing out that there are probably some tasks that people can do on their own. Making a sandwich doesn’t require a Mensa membership. And not for nothing, but there are also a few folks in your life who probably take more than they give. Now is a good time to start adjusting that balance. GIVE YOURSELF A PASS You’re not going to be able to have your shit together all the time. Not when you’re maneuvering through the kind of turbulence that requires barf bags. This is where the saying “progress, not perfection” comes in. Perfection sucks the life force right out of you. It kicks your batteries in the balls. Ouch! Don’t do that. Instead, let your new self-care mantra be this: “It’s good enough.” Good enough creates momentum. Good enough allows you to implement better habits. Good enough keeps you from quitting on yourself. Good enough is likely all you’ve got right now, and, well, it’s good enough. You’re going to disappoint people. (It’s good enough.) You won’t be able to pick up the phone as much. (It’s good enough.) You’ll forget to RSVP, and you’ll cancel plans at the last minute. (It’s good enough.) Your e-mail inbox will get so bad that you may decide to declare e-mail bankruptcy, delete everything, and start again. (It’s good enough.) You won’t be the best friend or the greatest parent or partner right now. (It’s good enough.) You won’t “look so good.” (It’s good enough—and so are you.) You’ll need to cut yourself some slack. (It’s good enough.) Now, go get a glass of water, my friend. Cheers. CHAPTER 12 LISTENING TO YOUR LIFE Listen to your life. See it for the fathomless mystery that it is. In the boredom and pain of it no less than in the excitement and gladness: touch, taste, smell your way to the holy and hidden heart of it because in the last analysis all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace. — FREDERICK BUECHNER Here we are in the final chapter, and yet, there’s no finality to grief, trauma, and loss. There’s reaching new stages of healing, but as we all know, those old feelings can still erupt like geysers when we least expect it. While there may be no getting over grief, there is moving forward. There is moving through. And no matter what your situation, there will be a moment when you breathe and think, OK, I’m here now. What’s next? TAKING INVENTORY When things fall apart, there’s often a domino effect—a chain reaction sparked by the initial rupture.

• From My Life and Loves, Vol. 1 (of 4) (1922)

  Bob got off his horse in a clump of cottonwood trees which he said was a good place to camp without being seen. I asked him where the cattle were and he told me “across the river.” Within two or three miles, it appeared, there was a famous hacienda with great herds. As soon as it got dark he proposed to go across and find out all about it and bring us the news. We were to be careful not to be seen and he hoped that we would not even make a fire but lie close till he returned. We were more than willing, and when we got tired of talking Bent produced an old deck of cards and we would play draw poker or euchre or casino for two or three hours. The first night passed quickly enough. We had been in the saddle for ten hours a day for four or five days and slept a dreamless sleep. Bob did not return that day or the next and on the third day Bent began to curse him, but I felt sure he had good reason for the delay and so waited with what patience I could muster. On the third night he was suddenly with us just as if he had come out of the earth. “Welcome back”, I cried. “Everything right?” “Everything”, he said: “It was no good coming sooner; they have brought some cattle within four miles of the river; the orders are to keep ’em away seven or eight miles, so that they could not be driven across without rousing the whole country; but Don José is very rich and carefree and there is a herd of fifteen hundred that will suit us not three miles from the river in a fold of the prairie guarded only by two men whom I’ll make so very drunk that they’ll hear nothing till next morning. A couple of bottles of aguardiente will do the bizness, and I’ll come back for you tomorrow night by eight or nine o’clock.” It all turned out as Bob had arranged. The next night he came to us as soon as it was dark. We rode some two miles down the river to a ford, splashed through the rivulets of water and came out on the Mexican side. In single file and complete silence we followed Bob at a lope for perhaps twenty minutes when he put up his hand and we drew down to a walk. There below us between two waves of prairie were the cattle. In a few words Bob told Bent and Charlie what they were to do. Bent was to stay behind and shoot in case we were followed—unlikely but always possible. Charlie and I were to move the cattle towards the ford, quietly all the way if we could, but if we were pursued, then as hard as we could drive them.

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  He’d visualize his tumor as a snowball—blessing the medicine as it entered his body and melted the tumor. For someone who often struggled with anxiety, you’d think this terrifying experience would have only exacerbated his nerves. And yet, the process of allowing himself to be more open, honest, and vulnerable (aka allowing himself to be himself) helped him heal in ways that went far beyond his physical body. By May of 2017, Dad’s courage and fortitude paid off. The tumor had shrunk enough for him to be eligible to receive the Whipple procedure—a complicated seven-hour surgery that would extend his life. At 5 a.m. sharp, we met him in the lobby of the hotel across the street from the hospital. Though it was only a two-minute walk, he wanted to arrive early (and spiffy), like always and for everything. Dad was nervous but hopeful. He even skipped along the sidewalk—his way of showing us that even though big shit was about to go down, he was still Dad. Still the guy who always tried to make the best of every situation. Cancer might take a bunch of his organs (part of his pancreas, small intestine, spleen, his gallbladder, and bile duct), but it couldn’t take his spirit. Dad being Dad buoyed our spirits, too. “They just started, and all is well,” the nurse assigned to us reported, as we huddled in the family lounge, waiting for news from the operating room. “He’s halfway through, and so far, so good . . .” “It’s going to take a little longer because the tumor was closer to the vein than expected, but they’re still on track. About an hour to go, and then the doctor will speak to you.” Between these nail-biter briefings, we tried to distract ourselves by creating an ultimate movie guide list on my phone. For me, action and thrillers. For Mom, movies about dogs. For Brian, Turner Classics and anything with subtitles (or what I call “cinema Ambien”). Somewhere between Citizen Kane and Marley & Me, Dad’s surgeon emerged. “I got it all,” he said. “We’ll need to do some more chemo as an insurance policy, but as of now, he’s in remission.” Ohthankgod. I exhaled so fully I thought I’d deflate. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt so fortunate as I did at that moment. Mom was a puddle of relief. Brian acted like an ecstatic sports announcer whose favorite team had just scored—gooooal! Dad didn’t want anyone but my mother to tell him the news. In case it was bad, she was the only person he felt comfortable sharing the moment with. He greeted me with a huge, anesthesia-laced grin when I was finally allowed to see him. We laughed. We cried. Above all, we were grateful. Dad thanked his amazing surgeon for saving his life. And then he told us about a dream he had. “It was the craziest experience. I was in an epic sword fight,” he said. “Guess what, Dad?”

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  That may not sound like a lot, but given her condition, the nurses assured her family that it was nothing short of remarkable. When someone is dying, we have to respect and even celebrate not only their desires but who they are. One way or another, they will let you know what they need. With Carole’s expert help, the next time I saw my dad, I sat down with a wad of tissues bundled in my pocket and said, “I’d like to talk to you about how to talk about death, Dad. I want to do this as best as I can, but I’m probably going to be awkward, fearful, and, at times, tearful. Is this something you’d still like to do?” “I’d like that very much, love. I don’t have many people I can talk to about this, and it’s on my mind a lot these days. To be honest, it can be quite lonely.” I started by asking him if there was anything he wanted to experience before he died. “I want to have a little fun every day.” A game of gin rummy would suffice, he said. After a pause, I ventured further. “Are you scared, Dad?” “Not really. I’m just sad to leave. I want to know how all your stories are going to unfold.” Who his brother’s grandkids would marry. Where Brian and I would move. What Mom would plant in the garden that spring. It’s easy to shut down conversations like this because we’re afraid to get them wrong or to be seen as a downer or negative. “Let’s talk about something nice . You’re going to be fine,” we say. But maybe they’ll never be fine again, and not talking about that possibility isn’t fine, either. Addressing the elephant in the room gave Dad palpable relief. Talking about what was on his mind allowed him to feel less alone. It cleared space for us to find joy in the simple everyday moments that remained. Knowing Dad felt less alone made me feel less alone, too, not to mention more present with him, which is what I’d wanted all along. And oh, the gin rummy we played. TAKING THEIR LEAD A few weeks after our talk, Dad began sleeping more. Detaching from his surroundings and relationships. “I can feel him withdrawing, fading away,” Mom painfully confessed. Like an animal who instinctually isolates when they’re vulnerable. But according to hospice, social withdrawal is another natural part of the dying process. It’s the person’s way of starting to let go of their physical life, and as hard as it is for those who remain, that physical life includes their loved ones. When this happens, family members can feel hurt or maybe worried that they’ve upset the person who is dying. Or they can take it personally, not understanding why their loved one is showing less interest in connection. In reality, this distance is very understandable.

• From The Surprising Lives of Christian Saints Course Guidebook (2023)

  22. Josephine Bakhita: Freed from Slavery 170 There ensued a long legal struggle over Bakhita’s rights and freedom. The mother superior pleaded Bakhita’s case to the patriarch of Venice, Giuseppe Sarto, the future Pope Pius X. Meanwhile, as the church intervened on Bakhita’s side, the Michielis sought help from the royal court. The court eventually found, in what must’ve been a bittersweet judgment for Bakhita, that not only was she not the Michielis’ slave but also that she’d never legally been a slave, as slavery had been outlawed in the Sudan since 1877 and in Italy during her lifetime. Bakhita was baptized in early 1890, and 6 years later, in her mid-20s, she completed her novitiate and became a sister herself. Religious life proved varied and energizing for Sister Josephine. The Canossians mixed elements of the traditional religious life with public service work, including ministering to the sick. Her community was deeply interested in Bakhita’s life story, and she was interviewed by a fellow sister in 1910—the beginning of many records and retellings she was asked to conduct throughout her life. Her convent, in the town of Schio near Venice, was requisitioned during World War I as a military hospital. The appearance of male soldiers must have been a significant change for the community, which rallied to meet their needs. Sister Josephine cooked and also served as an ad hoc nurse for the soldiers, who greatly admired her. After 25 years with the community, Sister Josephine was a respected elder, entering her 50s but still an active and vital voice among the sisters. By 1922, she was made doorkeeper, a position of great trust that relied on her discretion and ability to interact with the public. The interwar years saw her shoot to fame as Madre Moretta, the “Black Mother” of the convent. Her story was popularized by Ida Zanolini, a local teacher, who wrote the highly popular biography Tale of Wonder. Visitors began to seek her out, and she was suddenly in great demand as a public speaker at other Canossian convents. A Vatican photographer sought her out, and her portrait became known around the country. Bakhita struggled with her suddenly public image after decades living in quiet and calm.

• From The Selected Works of Audre Lorde

  What then happened felt like a piece of an old and elaborate dance between my mother and me. She discovers finally, through a stain on the toilet seat left there on purpose by me as a mute announcement, what has taken place; she scolds, “Why didn’t you tell me about all of this, now? It’s nothing to get upset over, now you are a woman, not a child any more. Now you go over to the drugstore and ask the man for . . .” I was just relieved the whole damn thing was over with. It’s difficult to talk about double messages without having a twin tongue. But meanwhile all these nightmarish evocations and restrictions were being verbalized by my mother: “Now this means from now on you better watch your step and not be so friendly with every Tom Dick and Harry . . .” (which must have meant my staying late after school to talk with my girlfriends, because I did not even know any boys); and, “Now remember too, don’t leave your soiled napkins wrapped up in newspaper hanging around on the bathroom floor where your father has to see them, not that it’s anything shameful but all the same remember . . .” Along with all of these admonitions, there was something else coming from my mother that I almost could not define. It was the lurking of that amused/annoyed brow-furrowed half-smile that passed as an intimate moment between my mother and me, and I really felt—all her nagging words to the contrary, or the more confusing—that something very good and satisfactory and pleasing to her had just happened, and that we were both pretending otherwise for some very wise and secret reasons which I would come to understand later as a reward if I handled myself properly. And then at the end of it all, my mother thrust the box of Kotex in its plain wrapper which I had fetched back from the drugstore with a sanitary belt at me, and said, “But look now what time it is already, I wonder what we’re going to eat for supper tonight?” She waited. At first I didn’t understand, but I quickly picked up the cue. I had seen the beef ends in the icebox that morning. “Mommy, please let’s have some souse—I’ll pound the garlic.” I dropped the box onto a kitchen chair and started to wash my hands in anticipation. “Well, go put your business away first. What did I tell you about leaving that lying around?” She wiped her hands from the washtub where she had been working and handed the plain wrapped box of Kotex back to me. “I have to go out, I forgot to pick up tea at the store. Now make sure you rub the meat good.”

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  It helped me through difficult periods at other times in my life, including when I started having panic attacks after meeting BD. So, I knew what chronic depression felt like, I’d experienced prolonged bouts of white-knuckling through it, and I could tell when I was sinking into it again. And yet it took me nine months of unbearable struggle before I was brave enough to meet with a psychiatrist and get my own prescription. I was so relieved once I did. There’s no shame in finding reasonable ways, including medication, to help navigate these kinds of highly emotional and upsetting situations. Medication has helped me navigate my own grief and trauma. I never expect it to solve my problems or replace the hard and rewarding work of healing, but it has allowed me to stay buoyant when the ocean swells surround me. Everybody’s journey is different and personal. I hope that by sharing my tools and experiences, you feel less alone. Pillar Four—How You’re Resting (The Health Benefits of Sleep) When I talk with people about their biggest health challenges, sleep is often the number one issue. Most of us know how stressful it is to toss and turn all night, and many of us experience this on a regular basis. In America alone, 70 million people suffer from some sort of sleep disorder. Either folks aren’t getting enough sleep, they’re staying up too late or rising too early, or their sleep is so restless they wake up feeling exhausted. When we’re affected by grief, overwhelm, stress due to increased caregiving, prolonged worry, personal health issues, a global pandemic, toxic politics, social unrest, injustice, economic hardships, and so forth, sleeping well can feel impossible. But many major restorative functions occur while we sleep. For adults, the biggies are muscle growth, protein synthesis, and tissue and cell repair. For infants and children, hormone production and brain development are key (which is why they need so much more sleep than we do). For all ages, sleep is key to ongoing emotional regulation and processing as well. Dreams, too, can help in the processing of traumatic events. And it goes without saying that in difficult times, we need all the emotional support we can get. Not getting enough sleep can negatively impact your mental health, memory, stress response, and more. It increases your chances of developing type 2 diabetes, heart disease, high blood pressure, stroke, and respiratory and metabolic disorders. The number of hours needed is different for everyone, but 7½ to 8 hours usually does the job, with your most restorative window typically between 11 p.m. and 7 a.m. because your circadian rhythm is at its lowest point. So with better sleep in mind, here are some ways to set yourself up for success: Tuck Yourself in Like a Toddler If you had a feisty four-year-old who needed to be asleep by 8 p.m., what time would you start getting them ready for bed?

• From Speak, Memory (1966)

  Then, one spring day in 1918, when the pink puffs of blossoming almond trees enlivened the dark mountainside, the Bolsheviks vanished and a singularly silent army of Germans replaced them. Patriotic Russians were torn between the animal relief of escaping native executioners and the necessity of owing their reprieve to a foreign invader—especially to the Germans. The latter, however, were losing their war in the west and came to Yalta on tiptoe, with diffident smiles, an army of gray apparitions easy for a patriot to ignore, and ignored it was, save for some rather ungrateful snickers at the halfhearted KEEP OFF THE GRASS signs that appeared on park lawns. A couple of months later, having nicely repaired the plumbing in various villas vacated by commissars, the Germans faded out in their turn; the Whites trickled in from the east and soon began fighting the Red Army, which was attacking the Crimea from the north. My father became Minister of Justice in the Regional Government located in Simferopol, and his family was lodged near Yalta on the Livadia grounds, the Tsar’s former domain. A brash, hectic gaiety associated with White-held towns brought back, in a vulgarized version, the amenities of peaceful years. Cafés did a wonderful business. All kinds of theatres thrived. One morning, on a mountain trail, I suddenly met a strange cavalier, clad in a Circassian costume, with a tense, perspiring face painted a fantastic yellow. He kept furiously tugging at his horse, which, without heeding him, proceeded down the steep path at a curiously purposeful walk, like that of an offended person leaving a party. I had seen runaway horses, but I had never seen a walkaway one before, and my astonishment was given a still more pleasurable edge when I recognized the unfortunate rider as Mozzhuhin, whom Tamara and I had so often admired on the screen. The film Haji Murad (after Tolstoy’s tale of that gallant, rough-riding mountain chief) was being rehearsed on the mountain pastures of the range. “Stop that brute [Derzhite proklyatoe zhivotnoe],” he said through his teeth as he saw me, but at the same moment, with a mighty sound of crunching and crashing stones, two authentic Tatars came running down to the rescue, and I trudged on, with my butterfly net, toward the upper crags where the Euxine race of the Hippolyte Grayling was expecting me.

• From Amplified Holy Bible (2015)

  4 When Zedekiah the king of Judah and all the men of war saw them, they fled and escaped from the city at night by way of the king’s garden, through the gate between the two walls; and the king went out toward the Arabah (Jordan Valley). 5 But the Chaldean (Babylonian) army pursued them and overtook Zedekiah in the plains of Jericho. When they had seized him, they brought him up to Nebuchadnezzar king of Babylon at Riblah in the [Aramean] land of Hamath, where he passed sentence on him. 6 Then at Riblah the king of Babylon killed the sons of Zedekiah before his eyes; the king of Babylon also killed all the nobles of Judah. 7 Moreover, he blinded Zedekiah and bound him with bronze shackles to take him to Babylon. [Ezek 12:13 ] 8 The Chaldeans also burned down the king’s palace and the houses of the people, and they broke down the walls of Jerusalem. 9 Then Nebuzaradan the [chief executioner and] captain of the bodyguard took the rest of the people who remained in the city, along with those who had deserted and surrendered to him, and the rest of the [so-called better class of] people who were left and carried them into exile in Babylon. 10 But Nebuzaradan the [Babylonian] captain of the bodyguard left behind in the land of Judah some of the poor people who had nothing, and gave them vineyards and fields at that time. Jeremiah Spared 11 Now Nebuchadnezzar king of Babylon gave orders concerning Jeremiah through Nebuzaradan the captain of the bodyguard, saying, 12 “Take him and look after him; do nothing to harm him, but rather deal with him just as he asks of you.” 13 So Nebuzaradan the captain of the bodyguard sent word, along with Nebushazban the Rab-saris (chief of the high officials), and Nergal-sar-ezer the Rab-mag (chief of the magicians), and all the leading officers of the king of Babylon; 14 they even sent and took Jeremiah out of the court of the guardhouse and entrusted him to Gedaliah [a prominent citizen], the son of Ahikam [who had once saved Jeremiah’s life], the son of Shaphan, to take him home [with him to Mizpah]. So Jeremiah [was released and] lived among the people. [Jer 26:24 ] 15 Now the word of the LORD had come to Jeremiah while he was [still] confined in the court of the guardhouse, saying, 16 “Go and speak to Ebed-melech the Ethiopian, saying, ‘Thus says the LORD of hosts, the God of Israel, “Behold, I am about to bring My words [of judgment] against this city through disaster and not for good; and they will take place before you on that day. 17 “But I will b protect you [Ebed-melech] on that day,” says the LORD , “and you will not be handed over to the men of whom you are afraid.

• From The Selected Works of Audre Lorde

  Feminism must be on the cutting edge of real social change if it is to survive as a movement in any particular country. Whatever the core problems are for the people of that country must also be the core problems addressed by women, for we do not exist in a vacuum. We are anchored in our own place and time, looking out and beyond to the future we are creating, and we are part of communities that interact. To pretend otherwise is ridiculous. While we fortify ourselves with visions of the future, we must arm ourselves with accurate perceptions of the barriers between us and that future. June 21, 1984 Berlin Rather than siphoning off energies in vain attempts to connect with women who refuse to deal with their own history or ours, Black women need to choose the areas where that energy can be most effective. Who are we? What are the ways in which we do not see each other? And how can we better operate together as a united front even while we explore our differences? Rather than keep yelling at white women’s gates, we need to look at our own needs and start giving top priority to satisfying those needs in the service of our joint tasks. How do we deal across our differences of community, time, place, and history? In other words, how do we learn to love each other while we are embattled on so many fronts? I hope for an International Conference of Black Feminists, asking some of these questions of definition of women from Amsterdam, Melbourne, the South Pacific, Kentucky, New York, and London, all of whom call ourselves Black feminists and all of whom have different strengths. To paraphrase June Jordan, we are the women we want to become. August 1, 1984 New York City Saints be praised! The new CAT scan is unchanged. The tumor has not grown, which means either Iscador is working or the tumor is not malignant! I feel relieved, vindicated, and hopeful. The pain in my middle is gone, as long as I don’t eat very much and stick to fruits and veggies. That’s livable. I feel like a second chance, for true! I’m making myself a new office upstairs in Jonathan’s old room. It’s going to be a good year. October 10, 1984 New York City I’ve been thinking about my time in Germany again, unencumbered by artificial shades of terror and self-concern.

• From Giovanni's Room (1956)

  124 James Baldwin by their families to stay away. (I wish Ihad a family,) I'm,on Mallorca nowand it wouldbe a pretty place if you could dump allthe pen- sioned widows into the sea and makedry- martinidrinking illegal I'venever seenany- thing like it!The waythese oldhags guzzle and makeeyesatanything inpants,especially any- thing about eighteen — well,I said to myself, Hella,my girl,take agoodlook.You may be lookingatyour future. The trouble is that Ilove myself toomuch. AndsoI'vedecided to let two tryit,thisbusiness of loving me,I mean,and seehowthat worksout. (I feel fine, now that I've madethedecision, I hope you'll feel fine, too,dear knight inGimble'sarmor.) I've beentrappedintosome drearyexpedition to Sevillewith an English family I met in Barcelona.Theyadore Spain andthey wantto takemetosee abullfight — I neverhave, you know,all thetimeI've been wandering around here.They'rereally quite nice, he's some kind of poet with theB.B.C. and she's his efficient andadoring spouse. Quite nice, really. They do have an impossibly lunatick son who im- agines himself mad about me, but he'smuch too Englishand much, much too young.I leave tomorrow and shall be gone ten days. Then, theyto England and I — to you! I folded this letter, whichInow realized I had been awaiting for many days and nights, and thewaiter came and askedme what I wanted to drink.I had meantto order an GIOVANNI'S ROOM 125 aperitif but now, insome grotesque spiritof celebration, ordered a Scotch and soda.And over this drink, which had never seemed more American than it didat that moment, I stared at absurd Paris, which was as clutterednow, under the scalding sun,as the landscapeofmy heart. I wondered what I was goingto do. I cannot say thatI was frightened. Or, it would be betterto say thatI did notfeel any fear — the way men who are shotdonot,Iam told, feel any pain for awhile.I felt a certain relief.It seemed that the necessity for decision had beentaken from my hands.I toldmyself that we both hadalways known, Giovanni and myself, that our idyll couldnot last forever. And itwasnotas though Ihad notbeenhonest with him — heknewall about Hella. He knew that she wouldbe returningto Parisone day. Now she would be coming backandmylife withGiovanniwouldbe finished.Itwould be something that had happened to meonce— it would be something that hadhappenedto many men once.Ipaidformy drink and got up and walked acrosstheriver to Montpamasse. I felt elated — yet,asI walked downRaspail towardthe cafesofMontpamasse, I could not fail to remember thatHellaand I had walked here, Giovanni andIhadwalked here. And with each step, the facethatglowed insistently before me wasnother facebuthis. I wasbe- ginning towonder how hewouldtake mynews. I did notthink he wouldfightme, but I was

• From Speak, Memory (1966)

  I remembered that summer afternoon (which already then seemed long ago although actually only four or five years had passed) when he had burst into my room, grabbed my net, shot down the veranda steps—and presently was strolling back holding between finger and thumb the rare and magnificent female of the Russian Poplar Admirable that he had seen basking on an aspen leaf from the balcony of his study. I remembered our long bicycle rides along the smooth Luga highway and the efficient way in which—mighty-calved, knickerbockered, tweed-coated, checker-capped—he would accomplish the mounting of his high-saddled “Dux,” which his valet would bring up to the porch as if it were a palfrey. Surveying the state of its polish, my father would pull on his suede gloves and test under Osip’s anxious eye whether the tires were sufficiently tight. Then he would grip the handlebars, place his left foot on a metallic peg jutting at the rear end of the frame, push off with his right foot on the other side of the hind wheel and after three or four such propelments (with the bicycle now set in motion), leisurely translate his right leg into pedal position, move up his left, and settle down on the saddle. At last I was home, and immediately upon entering the vestibule I became aware of loud, cheerful voices. With the opportuneness of dream arrangements, my uncle the Admiral was coming downstairs. From the red-carpeted landing above, where an armless Greek woman of marble presided over a malachite bowl for visiting cards, my parents were still speaking to him, and as he came down the steps, he looked up with a laugh and slapped the balustrade with the gloves he had in his hand. I knew at once that there would be no duel, that the challenge had been met by an apology, that all was right. I brushed past my uncle and reached the landing. I saw my mother’s serene everyday face, but I could not look at my father. And then it happened: my heart welled in me like that wave on which the Buynïy rose when her captain brought her alongside the burning Suvorov, and I had no handkerchief, and ten years were to pass before a certain night in 1922, at a public lecture in Berlin, when my father shielded the lecturer (his old friend Milyukov) from the bullets of two Russian Fascists and, while vigorously knocking down one of the assassins, was fatally shot by the other. But no shadow was cast by that future event upon the bright stairs of our St. Petersburg house; the large, cool hand resting on my head did not quaver, and several lines of play in a difficult chess composition were not blended yet on the board. [image file=image_rsrc13D.jpg] The author in 1915, St. Petersburg.

• From Confessions of the Flesh (The History of Sexuality, Vol. 4) (2021)

  First, it manifests the “penitential” sense which will be given to the monastic institution, more and more insistently. Organizing a disciplined art of contemplation by way of humility, submission to the other, and purification of the heart is the objective that seems to have been given originally to the cenobium.7 And Cassian doesn’t say that the end (finis) or the goal (destinatio) of monastic existence is to lead the life of penance. Yet one sees a principle of coincidence emerging from his texts. Indeed, on the one hand he gives the notion of penance a narrow meaning, when he speaks of it as the collection of procedures at the end of which the transgressions can be forgiven by God.8 But he also gives it a very general definition, which refers to the results not only of these practices, but of all the spiritual exercises of monastic life. Penance is thus characterized as a state, the state which the monk must try to attain: “it consists in never again yielding to the sins.”9 This state has its marks, the principal one being that one’s heart is freed from what inclines to its sins, and this mark (indicum) itself has signs that allow it to be recognized: the very image of faults has been erased from the secrets of the heart, and by “image” one should understand not just the delight that one takes in thinking of it, but also the mere fact of remembering it.10 Penance is therefore that purity of heart which the examination, the humility, the patience, the obedience, the discretion, and the trust in the elders, as well as the determination not to conceal anything from them, can, with the grace of God, produce in the soul. And since contemplation, which is the purpose of monastic life, is possible only by means of such a purity of heart, one sees that penance, understood not only as a procedure for remission but as a constantly maintained purified state, ends up coinciding in sum with monastic life itself. That life must be directed toward the avowal of transgressions, penitential manifestations, the discovery of the heart’s secrets, and the opening of the soul. A perpetual discourse: “While then we do penance […] the shower of tears which is caused by the confession of our faults is sure to quench the fire of our conscience.”11 But this very thing will make it possible to purify one’s thought, down to its deepest recesses, of everything that may give rise to temptation, that constitutes its first stirrings or allows its last traces to subsist. A forgetting, consequently, and a silence of the heart. In this powerful pulsation of confession and forgetting, the monastic life reveals what it is: the penitent life par excellence; penance (exercise) for penitence (state)—it being understood that this state is never anything else than a combat that demands a permanent exercise.

• From The Selected Works of Audre Lorde

  For Black women, learning to consciously extend ourselves to each other and to call upon each other’s strengths is a life-saving strategy. In the best of circumstances surrounding our lives, it requires an enormous amount of mutual, consistent support for us to be emotionally able to look straight into the face of the powers aligned against us and still do our work with joy. It takes determination and practice. Black women who survive have a head start in learning how to be open and self-protective at the same time. One secret is to ask as many people as possible for help, depending on all of them and on none of them at the same time. Some will help, others cannot. For the time being. Another secret is to find some particular thing your soul craves for nourishment—a different religion, a quiet spot, a dance class—and satisfy it. That satisfaction does not have to be costly or difficult. Only a need that is recognized, articulated, and answered. There is an important difference between openness and naiveté. Not everyone has good intentions nor means me well. I remind myself I do not need to change these people, only recognize who they are. November 17, 1986 New York City How has everyday living changed for me with the advent of a second cancer? I move through a terrible and invigorating savor of now—a visceral awareness of the passage of time, with its nightmare and its energy. No more long-term loans, extended payments, twenty-year plans. Pay my debts. Call the tickets in, the charges, the emotional IOUs. Now is the time, if ever, once and for all, to alter the patterns of isolation. Remember that nice lady down the street whose son you used to cross at the light and who was always saying, “Now if there’s ever anything I can do for you, just let me know.” Well, her boy’s got strong muscles and the lawn needs mowing. I am not ashamed to let my friends know I need their collective spirit—not to make me live forever, but rather to help me move through the life I have. But I refuse to spend the rest of that life mourning what I do not have. If living as a poet—living on the front lines—has ever had meaning, it has meaning now. Living a self-conscious life, vulnerability as armor. I spend time every day meditating upon my physical self in battle, visualizing the actual war going on inside my body. As I move through the other parts of each day, that battle often merges with particular external campaigns, both political and personal. The devastations of apartheid in South Africa and racial murder in Howard Beach feel as critical to me as cancer.

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  And with each passing orbit, we reach the next circle of meaning (understanding, integration, assimilation). Translation: it’s normal to step in the same shit again and again, each time with a new willingness to go deeper. What a relief! If you find yourself orbiting, please don’t beat yourself up, mistakenly believing you’re in a downward spiral of stuckness. Believe me, I know the temptation, but orbiting truly is the instrument of our healing. We cycle through change, and all the feelings that come with it. And with each trip around the sun, our souls get wiser, our hearts expand, and we orbit to a new layer of ourselves in and among the both/and . TAKE IT ONE STEP AT A TIME (NOT ONE DAY AT A TIME) One day at a time can be a lot . One step at a time helps you digest and steady yourself. It’s gentler on the nervous system. Some moments will be tough (I’ve certainly shared a few of my doozies). Others will feel softer. If you’re prone to sky-high expectations of yourself, lower the bar. In fact, put it so damn low you could trip over it. Imagine you’ve just come out of a major surgery. Would you expect yourself to have the mental and physical ability to just get back to life as usual? Hopefully not. Hopefully, you’d be willing to allow your body time to recuperate. Remember that loss, traumatic events, and unexpected shit pickles (even those that are for the best) are draining in ways you may not even be aware of. As you learn how to navigate this stage of your orbit, be patient with yourself, dear one. You are not a machine. Taking things one step at a time allows you to set limits on how much you can handle in any given moment. For me, after Dad died, my bandwidth for “normal” life was next to nothing. I literally thought there was something wrong with me as I struggled to get out of bed. I don’t recognize myself anymore , I’d think. The things that lit me up previously felt dry and unappealing—like stale saltines. Why can’t I remember anything? Basic word recall went out the window. (Grief brain will do that to you.) The day I couldn’t remember the word for cat—“you know, the animal that says meow”—I nearly scheduled a brain MRI. Great, now I have tumors in my noggin, too — just what I need. Then I remembered: this is what the process of repair looks like. It may even feel like your body and spirit are totally (and endlessly) rearranging themselves. Does this still fit? Do I even like this anymore? Is this worn-out woobie ready to be retired? As with any major reorg, you will need breaks, hugs, and space.

• From The Selected Works of Audre Lorde

  December 1, 1986 New York City Cancer survivors are expected to be silent out of misguided concerns for others’ feelings of guilt or despair, or out of a belief in the myth that there can be self-protection through secrecy. By and large, outside the radiation lab or the doctor’s office, we are invisible to each other, and we begin to be invisible to ourselves. We begin to doubt whatever power we once knew we had, and once we doubt our power, we stop using it. We rob our comrades, our lovers, our friends, and our selves of ourselves. I have periods of persistent and distracting visceral discomfort that are totally intrusive and energy-consuming. I say this rather than simply use the word pain , because there are too many gradations of effect and response that are not covered by that one word. Self-hypnosis seemed a workable possibility for maintaining some control over the processes going on inside my body. With trial and inquiry, I found a reliable person to train me in the techniques of self-hypnosis. It’s certainly cheaper than codeine. Self-hypnosis requires a concentration so intense I put myself into a waking trance. But we go into those states more often than we realize. Have you ever been wide awake on the subway and missed your station because you were thinking about something else? It’s a question of recognizing this state and learning to use it to manipulate my consciousness of pain. One of the worst things about intrusive pain is that it makes me feel impotent, unable to move against it and therefore against anything else, as if the pain swallows up all ability to act. Self-hypnosis has been useful to me not only for refocusing physical discomfort, it has also been useful to me in helping effect other bargains with my unconscious self. I’ve been able to use it to help me remember my dreams, raise a subnormal body temperature, and bring myself to complete a difficult article. I respect the time I spend each day treating my body, and I consider it part of my political work. It is possible to have some conscious input into our physical processes—not expecting the impossible, but allowing for the unexpected—a kind of training in self-love and physical resistance. December 7, 1986 New York City I’m glad I don’t have to turn away any more from movies about people dying of cancer. I no longer have to deny cancer as a reality in my life. As I wept over Terms of Endearment last night, I also laughed. It’s hard to believe I avoided this movie for over two years. Yet while I was watching it, involved in the situation of a young mother dying of breast cancer, I was also very aware of that standard of living, taken for granted in the film, that made the expression of her tragedy possible. Her mother’s maid and the manicured garden, the unremarked but very tangible money so evident through its effects.