On May 22nd the NYTimes printed an article in the Science Section called "This is Your Life (And How You live It). You can go to www.NYTimes.Com and search the archives to read this piece or email me at Ellen@Berkeleyfamilytherapy.com and I will send a copy of it to you. The article describest how from an individual perspective life narratives are central to how we live our lives. This week they printed a letter (see below) that includes my reflection on these ideas. Good to think that ideas about stories and their central significance to us and our world are coming forth in the popular media. To my mind they missed the key notion of narratives that they are communal in nature and individuals have only a small part in constructing them. Please send me your comments.
Letter to the Editor
NY Times Science Section
Published: May 29, 2007
The Variable Tales of Life
To the Editor:
Re “This Is Your Life (and How You Tell It)” (May 22): This otherwise fine article leaves out an important piece of the narrative puzzle. Our stories are not always composed by us, but come to us in powerful ways from others. If, as children, family members describe us in a particular way, these family stories often remain the same no matter how we change. What others believe about us, what we learn in school, in the media and from the reactions of strangers, define our stories.
In searching for alternative narratives about ourselves, we are often drawn to stories about others. Listening to these stories may offer us new possibilities, but if our new life stories are to fully emerge, we must also challenge the underlying myths and prejudices that limit us.
Ellen Pulleyblank CoffeyBerkeley, Calif.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
More Teachings From Kabul
Suraya #3
Living with danger
Suraya moved quickly from her personal story back to her political story. It is a story of chaos, terror, and instability. I had a difficult time following the timeline of political changes, let alone grasping the complexity and disorder of life for Suraya during these years.
From her perspective, in the late 1960s and early 1970s there was a tension in the Afghani government between the royalists and those trying to create a republic based on democratic principles. In one way or another, extremists took over and pushed the government toward chaos and repression. In-fighting among groups always led to instability and disruption of the lives of the people, with devastating effects on Suraya and her fledgling women’s movement.
From the time she began her struggle for Afghani women, Suraya knew that her life was in danger. In 1978, during one of the periods of warlord extremism, she was arrested. At first, government officials came to her house and said that she must not go out, but that they wouldn’t arrest her if she stayed in her house. Two days later, while the men in her family were sleeping downstairs, women police officers came upstairs and took her away to jail.
For ten days, her jailers tortured and beat her. They used electric shock to try to get her to tell them the names of people who were against the government. After she told me this, Suraya stopped talking for a moment. She had me feel the large growth on her scalp that still remains from the abuse she suffered in prison. Like Kaethe, she knew not to give any names. Instead, she became angry and thought that their treatment of her was an example of how horribly they would treat others. She believed that it would be better to let them kill her than for her to speak about her friends. She didn’t see her torturers as powerful but as pathetic in their need to hurt her.
After one of these torture sessions, Suraya was carried back to her cell with her entire body bruised. Soon after, she was unexpectedly sent home, only to be picked up again and brought to another jail two days later. The torture began again.
In this second jail, Suraya was kept with a small group of women. Every day they believed that this was the day that they would be killed. Still, they laughed and talked, because as Suraya said, “That is our way.” But there were moments when terror crept in.
Suraya said, “They put us in a room with nothing in it. Although we had one another, we were very sad and sometimes afraid. The six women with whom I was closest were young—one was just twenty, one had just been married, and one had just given birth and had been nursing her baby when she was taken to prison. Her milk was flowing, yet the authorities separated her from her infant. Another woman was a young doctor who had been taken away from her clinic.”
Suraya stopped her description of the jail for a moment and said, “I want to tell you the names of all the women in the cell. You must write them down. They must not be forgotten.”
As she listed the women, I carefully spelled the women’s names. They were: Sinega, the youngest; Solela with two children at home; Zahera with an infant at home; Alema three days after her wedding; Fazala, a young student; and Shala, a physician.
Suraya went on, “I tried to encourage them and to tell then that we were fighters for women, but they were so worried about their children. They kept asking me, ‘What will happen to our children?’ I could only tell them that what we were doing was for our children.”
Suraya’s belief that they were acting for others was so strong that the women listened to her. Her words made them feel calmer and more connected to one another, to the women in the streets, and to Afghani women not yet born. Suraya was able to keep clear about this commitment, even as she was tortured. She was taken away many times and brought back to the room bloody and unable to walk. The women would care for her, and she would encourage them. Her imprisonment lasted for eighteen months. She said that she never forgot that her suffering was for the suffering of others.
Living with danger
Suraya moved quickly from her personal story back to her political story. It is a story of chaos, terror, and instability. I had a difficult time following the timeline of political changes, let alone grasping the complexity and disorder of life for Suraya during these years.
From her perspective, in the late 1960s and early 1970s there was a tension in the Afghani government between the royalists and those trying to create a republic based on democratic principles. In one way or another, extremists took over and pushed the government toward chaos and repression. In-fighting among groups always led to instability and disruption of the lives of the people, with devastating effects on Suraya and her fledgling women’s movement.
From the time she began her struggle for Afghani women, Suraya knew that her life was in danger. In 1978, during one of the periods of warlord extremism, she was arrested. At first, government officials came to her house and said that she must not go out, but that they wouldn’t arrest her if she stayed in her house. Two days later, while the men in her family were sleeping downstairs, women police officers came upstairs and took her away to jail.
For ten days, her jailers tortured and beat her. They used electric shock to try to get her to tell them the names of people who were against the government. After she told me this, Suraya stopped talking for a moment. She had me feel the large growth on her scalp that still remains from the abuse she suffered in prison. Like Kaethe, she knew not to give any names. Instead, she became angry and thought that their treatment of her was an example of how horribly they would treat others. She believed that it would be better to let them kill her than for her to speak about her friends. She didn’t see her torturers as powerful but as pathetic in their need to hurt her.
After one of these torture sessions, Suraya was carried back to her cell with her entire body bruised. Soon after, she was unexpectedly sent home, only to be picked up again and brought to another jail two days later. The torture began again.
In this second jail, Suraya was kept with a small group of women. Every day they believed that this was the day that they would be killed. Still, they laughed and talked, because as Suraya said, “That is our way.” But there were moments when terror crept in.
Suraya said, “They put us in a room with nothing in it. Although we had one another, we were very sad and sometimes afraid. The six women with whom I was closest were young—one was just twenty, one had just been married, and one had just given birth and had been nursing her baby when she was taken to prison. Her milk was flowing, yet the authorities separated her from her infant. Another woman was a young doctor who had been taken away from her clinic.”
Suraya stopped her description of the jail for a moment and said, “I want to tell you the names of all the women in the cell. You must write them down. They must not be forgotten.”
As she listed the women, I carefully spelled the women’s names. They were: Sinega, the youngest; Solela with two children at home; Zahera with an infant at home; Alema three days after her wedding; Fazala, a young student; and Shala, a physician.
Suraya went on, “I tried to encourage them and to tell then that we were fighters for women, but they were so worried about their children. They kept asking me, ‘What will happen to our children?’ I could only tell them that what we were doing was for our children.”
Suraya’s belief that they were acting for others was so strong that the women listened to her. Her words made them feel calmer and more connected to one another, to the women in the streets, and to Afghani women not yet born. Suraya was able to keep clear about this commitment, even as she was tortured. She was taken away many times and brought back to the room bloody and unable to walk. The women would care for her, and she would encourage them. Her imprisonment lasted for eighteen months. She said that she never forgot that her suffering was for the suffering of others.
Friday, May 18, 2007
From Kabul: The making of a women's activist
Suraya #2
Suraya wanted to continue telling me about her political work, but I asked her if she would tell me first about her life as a child. She told me her family story.
A traditional Muslim household with dreams of democracy
Suraya lives in Kabul with her father, who is eighty-six years old. He had lived with Suraya’s mother for many years, but her mother died fourteen years ago. Now, Suraya is her father’s main caretaker. When she travels she knows that neighbors and friends will be available if her father, who tends for himself, needs any help. While Suraya stayed in Kabul, her three brothers went to live and be educated abroad. Her youngest brother died of cancer and this brought much sadness to her family.
In telling me about her brothers, Suraya detailed their educational achievements, letting me know that each one had earned a Ph.D. She told me that she had a master’s degree in international economics. Her sister-in-law, our translator, added that she had master’s degree also and that her son is becoming a doctor. She said that he had called her earlier in the day to tell her that he had just received his white coat. Suraya wanted me to know that her family was committed to education not only for their sons, but also for their daughters. This attitude is far from universal in Afghanistan.
Suraya was born in 1944 in a small village, Kamari, outside of Kabul. Her upper-middle-class family was well respected in the community and lived in a multi-generational compound that had not been modernized. Her parents had four children—three boys and Suraya. Her mother was not educated and lived a traditional Muslim woman’s life of praying and caring for the family.
Traditional in some ways, her family was in opposition to the monarchy that ruled the country when Suraya was born, and they were active politically in pushing for democracy. As in Kaethe’s family (see earlier blogs about Kaethe), Suraya’s family had a political consciousness that influenced her view of her role in the world. Suraya’s parents believed that no one could be complete without an education and that without an educated population, no country could become a democracy. Although most Afghani girls and women didn’t go to school, Suraya’s parents placed a great value on education for her.
Suraya said, “My mother had a modern view of women. When I was a small girl, I watched her worry about the lives of the other women in our village. She always asked questions about why a girl could not go to school or why a woman should not be able to be out in the village. She wondered why in a poor family that needed a better life, the woman were forced to stay at home and were not allowed to work. She also was unhappy because our village had no school for girls.
“My father supported my mother in these ideas. He knew that she had
longed to be an educated woman, but there was no choice in her time. She wanted to be sure that I wasn’t hampered in the same way. My older brothers and other relatives shared this view of education for me and for my girl cousins. Even my mother’s mother supported the decision for me to leave home to go to Kabul for high school and then to university there, since there was no adequate schooling for girls in our village.”
I (Ellen) had grown up in a family where there was no doubt that I would go to university. I understood the power of these expectations shared by families all over the world. It was hard to imagine what it would have been like to grow up in a situation in which most girls did not expect to go to school. Suraya draws much of her determination from the educational legacy of her family.
Suraya’s family decided to move to Kabul so that their children could continue their education. Although Kabul was not far away from her village, life there was remarkably different. Suraya’s view of her childhood was that it was secure and supportive with few obstacles. She had always known that she would be able to continue her studies and go to university. It was only when she arrived in Kabul that she heard many stories of what happened to women in other families who were made to marry or had been forbidden to study.
Early in her university studies, Suraya began to think about women’s rights. She realized that her life had been an exception, and that many women in Afghanistan didn’t have any possibility of freedom. She saw that women as individuals couldn’t make changes in their lives, and that the only possibility for women was for them to work together for their rights.
When Suraya decided that she would fight for the rights of women, she had to consider whether she could both do this work and be a wife and mother. She came to the conclusion that in Afghanistan it would be impossible for her to do both. She feared that if she married, her husband might forbid her to work or that her concern for the well being of her children might block her ability to take risks and stay focused. She also worried that she would want to leave Kabul to go and live in the West, as many others had done. Not fully realizing just how dangerous her life would be, she decided that she had to be on her own. So as a young woman, she committed herself to her work over everything else in her life. This focus would be essential when she faced jail and torture.
Keep reading. More about Suraya to come. Send comments and I will post your stories here.
Suraya wanted to continue telling me about her political work, but I asked her if she would tell me first about her life as a child. She told me her family story.
A traditional Muslim household with dreams of democracy
Suraya lives in Kabul with her father, who is eighty-six years old. He had lived with Suraya’s mother for many years, but her mother died fourteen years ago. Now, Suraya is her father’s main caretaker. When she travels she knows that neighbors and friends will be available if her father, who tends for himself, needs any help. While Suraya stayed in Kabul, her three brothers went to live and be educated abroad. Her youngest brother died of cancer and this brought much sadness to her family.
In telling me about her brothers, Suraya detailed their educational achievements, letting me know that each one had earned a Ph.D. She told me that she had a master’s degree in international economics. Her sister-in-law, our translator, added that she had master’s degree also and that her son is becoming a doctor. She said that he had called her earlier in the day to tell her that he had just received his white coat. Suraya wanted me to know that her family was committed to education not only for their sons, but also for their daughters. This attitude is far from universal in Afghanistan.
Suraya was born in 1944 in a small village, Kamari, outside of Kabul. Her upper-middle-class family was well respected in the community and lived in a multi-generational compound that had not been modernized. Her parents had four children—three boys and Suraya. Her mother was not educated and lived a traditional Muslim woman’s life of praying and caring for the family.
Traditional in some ways, her family was in opposition to the monarchy that ruled the country when Suraya was born, and they were active politically in pushing for democracy. As in Kaethe’s family (see earlier blogs about Kaethe), Suraya’s family had a political consciousness that influenced her view of her role in the world. Suraya’s parents believed that no one could be complete without an education and that without an educated population, no country could become a democracy. Although most Afghani girls and women didn’t go to school, Suraya’s parents placed a great value on education for her.
Suraya said, “My mother had a modern view of women. When I was a small girl, I watched her worry about the lives of the other women in our village. She always asked questions about why a girl could not go to school or why a woman should not be able to be out in the village. She wondered why in a poor family that needed a better life, the woman were forced to stay at home and were not allowed to work. She also was unhappy because our village had no school for girls.
“My father supported my mother in these ideas. He knew that she had
longed to be an educated woman, but there was no choice in her time. She wanted to be sure that I wasn’t hampered in the same way. My older brothers and other relatives shared this view of education for me and for my girl cousins. Even my mother’s mother supported the decision for me to leave home to go to Kabul for high school and then to university there, since there was no adequate schooling for girls in our village.”
I (Ellen) had grown up in a family where there was no doubt that I would go to university. I understood the power of these expectations shared by families all over the world. It was hard to imagine what it would have been like to grow up in a situation in which most girls did not expect to go to school. Suraya draws much of her determination from the educational legacy of her family.
Suraya’s family decided to move to Kabul so that their children could continue their education. Although Kabul was not far away from her village, life there was remarkably different. Suraya’s view of her childhood was that it was secure and supportive with few obstacles. She had always known that she would be able to continue her studies and go to university. It was only when she arrived in Kabul that she heard many stories of what happened to women in other families who were made to marry or had been forbidden to study.
Early in her university studies, Suraya began to think about women’s rights. She realized that her life had been an exception, and that many women in Afghanistan didn’t have any possibility of freedom. She saw that women as individuals couldn’t make changes in their lives, and that the only possibility for women was for them to work together for their rights.
When Suraya decided that she would fight for the rights of women, she had to consider whether she could both do this work and be a wife and mother. She came to the conclusion that in Afghanistan it would be impossible for her to do both. She feared that if she married, her husband might forbid her to work or that her concern for the well being of her children might block her ability to take risks and stay focused. She also worried that she would want to leave Kabul to go and live in the West, as many others had done. Not fully realizing just how dangerous her life would be, she decided that she had to be on her own. So as a young woman, she committed herself to her work over everything else in her life. This focus would be essential when she faced jail and torture.
Keep reading. More about Suraya to come. Send comments and I will post your stories here.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
A Teacher From Afghanistan
Suraya—a woman who foments revolution from underneath her burka
Suraya showed up in my life in the most unexpected way. I was at lunch with a colleague who told me about a woman she was hosting from Kabul, Afghanistan. The woman, Suraya, was the Director of the All Afghani Women’s Union (AAWU) and was on her way to speak at the UN on International Women’s Day about the plight of Afghani women. I felt my excitement rise, and I asked my colleague if there was any way that I could meet Suraya and interview her. My colleague said that with Suraya’s hectic schedule, it was unlikely that she could fit me in, but she would mention the possibility to her. When Suraya’s sister-in-law offered to be our translator, Suraya found a time when we could meet. She and her sister-in-law came to my house for the interview after she returned from New York.
In the midst of the excitement in New York, Suraya fell ill with a heart ailment and had to be rushed to the hospital. She made it to her speech at the UN, but she was still not well. The day I met her she looked pale; a middle-aged, heavy-set woman, dressed in a simple dark skirt and a white blouse wearing a head scarf, which she removed when she came into the house. Her dark hair was pulled up and back and she wore no makeup. We greeted each other, and I realized that Suraya understood English, but was too shy to speak it. She was interested to see my house, so I showed her around and then invited her and her sister-in-law to sit in the living room while I went into the kitchen to fix us some tea.
Suraya had been interviewed many times before, and she was at ease with the prospect of telling me about her life and her work. I was on edge. Would I be able to capture Suraya’s story through a translator? We had such a short time. Could I bridge our cultural divide and make meaning of her experience?
As the tea brewed, I again took myself back to Kosova as I had with Florence (see earlier blog). I remembered a visit I had made to a small village in Kosova. I went there with the Kosovar mental health team to speak with a poor rural family about their losses during the war. Before we were allowed to begin the interview through a translator, the man of the house interrogated me. Did I know that the women in his family were not allowed to go out on their own? Did I understand that it was he who made the decisions in this household? He said that he knew things were different in my country and that before he would allow me to speak with his family, he had to be certain that I respected his culture. I told him that I knew that things were different in Kosova and that I had come to the family to hear about their experiences during the war, their losses, and what had kept them strong. I told him I believed that I knew something about loss and that I could also learn more from listening to his story. By reaching out to him, I had made a bridge. He relaxed, and we went on with the family interview.
Carrying a tray of tea, I went back into the living room to join Suraya and her sister-in-law. I felt more ready for my interview with Suraya. I was determined to be open to our differences and to search for moments when we might meet in mutual understanding. I already knew that she was a Teacher and that I was there to learn.
Suraya began our interview by telling me about her work. She showed me the latest edition of the magazine put out by the All Afghani Women’s Union and told me something of their recent history. On March 8th 2002, the AAWU celebrated International Women’s Day. On that same day, the AAWU issued the first edition of their magazine, Women Shout. The last time they had been able to celebrate International Women’s Day was in 1991. The Taliban had silenced them for ten years.
On November 16, 2001, when the Taliban were routed from Afghanistan, the AAWU workers decided that they would gather a large group of women in front of the UN offices in Kabul. Suraya knew that many women wanted to meet in the main square to celebrate the downfall of the Taliban. The government said that she could only march with fifty women, but Suraya and the other women organized ten thousand women who met in smaller groups on street corners all over the city. Suraya marched with two thousand women. All the women who showed up for the demonstration did not wear their traditional burkas, a sign that they were taking back their freedom.
Suraya showed up in my life in the most unexpected way. I was at lunch with a colleague who told me about a woman she was hosting from Kabul, Afghanistan. The woman, Suraya, was the Director of the All Afghani Women’s Union (AAWU) and was on her way to speak at the UN on International Women’s Day about the plight of Afghani women. I felt my excitement rise, and I asked my colleague if there was any way that I could meet Suraya and interview her. My colleague said that with Suraya’s hectic schedule, it was unlikely that she could fit me in, but she would mention the possibility to her. When Suraya’s sister-in-law offered to be our translator, Suraya found a time when we could meet. She and her sister-in-law came to my house for the interview after she returned from New York.
In the midst of the excitement in New York, Suraya fell ill with a heart ailment and had to be rushed to the hospital. She made it to her speech at the UN, but she was still not well. The day I met her she looked pale; a middle-aged, heavy-set woman, dressed in a simple dark skirt and a white blouse wearing a head scarf, which she removed when she came into the house. Her dark hair was pulled up and back and she wore no makeup. We greeted each other, and I realized that Suraya understood English, but was too shy to speak it. She was interested to see my house, so I showed her around and then invited her and her sister-in-law to sit in the living room while I went into the kitchen to fix us some tea.
Suraya had been interviewed many times before, and she was at ease with the prospect of telling me about her life and her work. I was on edge. Would I be able to capture Suraya’s story through a translator? We had such a short time. Could I bridge our cultural divide and make meaning of her experience?
As the tea brewed, I again took myself back to Kosova as I had with Florence (see earlier blog). I remembered a visit I had made to a small village in Kosova. I went there with the Kosovar mental health team to speak with a poor rural family about their losses during the war. Before we were allowed to begin the interview through a translator, the man of the house interrogated me. Did I know that the women in his family were not allowed to go out on their own? Did I understand that it was he who made the decisions in this household? He said that he knew things were different in my country and that before he would allow me to speak with his family, he had to be certain that I respected his culture. I told him that I knew that things were different in Kosova and that I had come to the family to hear about their experiences during the war, their losses, and what had kept them strong. I told him I believed that I knew something about loss and that I could also learn more from listening to his story. By reaching out to him, I had made a bridge. He relaxed, and we went on with the family interview.
Carrying a tray of tea, I went back into the living room to join Suraya and her sister-in-law. I felt more ready for my interview with Suraya. I was determined to be open to our differences and to search for moments when we might meet in mutual understanding. I already knew that she was a Teacher and that I was there to learn.
Suraya began our interview by telling me about her work. She showed me the latest edition of the magazine put out by the All Afghani Women’s Union and told me something of their recent history. On March 8th 2002, the AAWU celebrated International Women’s Day. On that same day, the AAWU issued the first edition of their magazine, Women Shout. The last time they had been able to celebrate International Women’s Day was in 1991. The Taliban had silenced them for ten years.
On November 16, 2001, when the Taliban were routed from Afghanistan, the AAWU workers decided that they would gather a large group of women in front of the UN offices in Kabul. Suraya knew that many women wanted to meet in the main square to celebrate the downfall of the Taliban. The government said that she could only march with fifty women, but Suraya and the other women organized ten thousand women who met in smaller groups on street corners all over the city. Suraya marched with two thousand women. All the women who showed up for the demonstration did not wear their traditional burkas, a sign that they were taking back their freedom.
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
A Reader's View of Hope
From Marian:
I love the words ripple effect of, not just hope but, practiced hope. At tea recently, a friend offered as her answer to "well what are you doing to solve the problems of the world" that she and her husband have decided that there will be peace in the Feinstein household. "If we can achieve peace at home then peace is possible for the rest of humanity," she said. It's true, no matter how tough the job is that we have to do, the story that we tell about its doing is the reality.
The word, the idea of, hope has come up in the public conversation lately. Interesting that analogous words for hope include 'expectation' and 'yearning' as well as 'trust,' and 'rely.' Hope in the form of trust allows a willingness to open up the categories that have demanded judgments and restrictions. That hope allows listening and hearing the part of the story that connects rather than separates. I'm all for hope and reminders to practice are greatly appreciated. I look forward to your posts. A poem that I wrote about hope:
By Virtue Of Picking Fruit
Hope is the weight of the ladder
the vigor of the timber
the angle of the ground
understanding the bold unequivocal thorns.
Bright orange orbs dangle behind these green leather leaves
and fall at first touch into the bold woven bag.
A flower touches my face,
firm adolescent purple, not at all ineffable.
Hope is this orange tree quenching a cold thirst, its bittersweetness nourishing, reminding to do no harm,
comfort in the necessary space
between the hard work of faith and charity.
(4/06)
I love the words ripple effect of, not just hope but, practiced hope. At tea recently, a friend offered as her answer to "well what are you doing to solve the problems of the world" that she and her husband have decided that there will be peace in the Feinstein household. "If we can achieve peace at home then peace is possible for the rest of humanity," she said. It's true, no matter how tough the job is that we have to do, the story that we tell about its doing is the reality.
The word, the idea of, hope has come up in the public conversation lately. Interesting that analogous words for hope include 'expectation' and 'yearning' as well as 'trust,' and 'rely.' Hope in the form of trust allows a willingness to open up the categories that have demanded judgments and restrictions. That hope allows listening and hearing the part of the story that connects rather than separates. I'm all for hope and reminders to practice are greatly appreciated. I look forward to your posts. A poem that I wrote about hope:
By Virtue Of Picking Fruit
Hope is the weight of the ladder
the vigor of the timber
the angle of the ground
understanding the bold unequivocal thorns.
Bright orange orbs dangle behind these green leather leaves
and fall at first touch into the bold woven bag.
A flower touches my face,
firm adolescent purple, not at all ineffable.
Hope is this orange tree quenching a cold thirst, its bittersweetness nourishing, reminding to do no harm,
comfort in the necessary space
between the hard work of faith and charity.
(4/06)
Sunday, May 06, 2007
The Ripple Effect of Practiced Hope
Comment from Alan about Hiroshima:
"I'm sure it was quite a sight. I just wonder if the Japanese feel remorse for what they did in China during the 1930's, well before our entry in WWII."
I can understand Alan's wish for others, in this case Japan, to take responsibiity for what they have done. The exhibition at Hiroshima does not exclude their responsibility. In my mind, if we are to change ourselves and to effect public policy own work is not to blame others, but to hold ourselves and others accountable.
The idea of stories is that as we tell them and as we listen to them, they have the power to change public policy at the same time that they sooth and offer us alternatives for our personal struggles.
An example from Kaethe one of the Teachers I have been writing about with a response from her friend and colleague:
A letter from Kaethe:
Dear Friends and Family:
My days are filled with rehab stuff, some reading, and napping. I have enough stamina to do my regular outdoor workout at my original pace, but the breathing and lung volume measures lag far behind and are what require work. The napping bespeaks to having much sleep to catch up on. I must continue with my IV and inhalation treatment indefinitely, at this point, so that begins and ends my day. I am multiply tethered.
Days don't "open up before me" --as some of you have written -- because there is so little stamina and so much to be done. In truth, this is a kind of blah time. But I have always found that in times of disequilibration/discontent/ dis-ease/unease/uncertainty that the kaleidoscope eventually turns and a new pattern emerges. Sometimes if you listen carefully to the little glass pieces you can hear the momentum mounting and catch the instant that change occurs, but I prefer the surprise of watching the pieces topple into a new design.
So I am letting my life turn as it must. And we shall see.
Again, thank you for being such a wonderfully supportive community during this time.
Love,
Kaethe
In response a friend and colleague wrote back:
Dear K,
I went tonite to a meeting this evening with state legislators from our area who came to meet with people about mental health concerns and funding. I listened as person after person approached the podium with concerns. Some spoke quite personally, some not, most reading their speeches, none could exceed 3 minutes.
When I went up to speak, I began with saying that a colleague, Kaethe Weingarten, in her living and writing and teaching about dealing with illness and trauma, talked about hope, about it not residing as a static trait in a person, but about it being a practice, that we practice it together, that it is a community practice. I spoke about the ways that we were doing it here tonight, all of us differently positioned in the system, in the speaking of our various concerns and in the attentive listening, the note taking, in the endurance and the listening of the audience participants to one another.
Then more speakers spoke. Then we concluded. And the legislator (my favorite one from what I have read) started to respond. And guess what he led with. Practicing hope together.
Kaethe, You should be very proud. You should remember while you do those tedious exercises at home that your work is being used, that your words are being spoken in Charlottesville.
Love,
Melissa
"I'm sure it was quite a sight. I just wonder if the Japanese feel remorse for what they did in China during the 1930's, well before our entry in WWII."
I can understand Alan's wish for others, in this case Japan, to take responsibiity for what they have done. The exhibition at Hiroshima does not exclude their responsibility. In my mind, if we are to change ourselves and to effect public policy own work is not to blame others, but to hold ourselves and others accountable.
The idea of stories is that as we tell them and as we listen to them, they have the power to change public policy at the same time that they sooth and offer us alternatives for our personal struggles.
An example from Kaethe one of the Teachers I have been writing about with a response from her friend and colleague:
A letter from Kaethe:
Dear Friends and Family:
My days are filled with rehab stuff, some reading, and napping. I have enough stamina to do my regular outdoor workout at my original pace, but the breathing and lung volume measures lag far behind and are what require work. The napping bespeaks to having much sleep to catch up on. I must continue with my IV and inhalation treatment indefinitely, at this point, so that begins and ends my day. I am multiply tethered.
Days don't "open up before me" --as some of you have written -- because there is so little stamina and so much to be done. In truth, this is a kind of blah time. But I have always found that in times of disequilibration/discontent/ dis-ease/unease/uncertainty that the kaleidoscope eventually turns and a new pattern emerges. Sometimes if you listen carefully to the little glass pieces you can hear the momentum mounting and catch the instant that change occurs, but I prefer the surprise of watching the pieces topple into a new design.
So I am letting my life turn as it must. And we shall see.
Again, thank you for being such a wonderfully supportive community during this time.
Love,
Kaethe
In response a friend and colleague wrote back:
Dear K,
I went tonite to a meeting this evening with state legislators from our area who came to meet with people about mental health concerns and funding. I listened as person after person approached the podium with concerns. Some spoke quite personally, some not, most reading their speeches, none could exceed 3 minutes.
When I went up to speak, I began with saying that a colleague, Kaethe Weingarten, in her living and writing and teaching about dealing with illness and trauma, talked about hope, about it not residing as a static trait in a person, but about it being a practice, that we practice it together, that it is a community practice. I spoke about the ways that we were doing it here tonight, all of us differently positioned in the system, in the speaking of our various concerns and in the attentive listening, the note taking, in the endurance and the listening of the audience participants to one another.
Then more speakers spoke. Then we concluded. And the legislator (my favorite one from what I have read) started to respond. And guess what he led with. Practicing hope together.
Kaethe, You should be very proud. You should remember while you do those tedious exercises at home that your work is being used, that your words are being spoken in Charlottesville.
Love,
Melissa
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