I paused on our evening walk down Moonglow, an empty street that bends like an old woman, her spine carved into a hill. It was surrounded on both sides by fields of monkey flowers and chaparral. The strong scent of coastal sage enveloped me, the outdoor aroma of my childhood. Dusk was approaching as I got down on all fours to lay against Moonglow’s rough surface. Here, I swore I could feel the earth spinning underneath me. I was as close as I could be to this magnificent, animated planet.
I was beautiful and alive; the colors of the sunset were bold behind me. I was wearing my low-hipped tan cargo pants and a red baby-t (which are now back in style, twenty years later). I felt vivacious, captivating, and sexy as I lay on the asphalt, looking up at the wide sky.
My fiance laughed at me and my audacious claim. But I was convinced I could feel movement. It was as though I could hear Nature’s pounding heart and I beat with it, full of hope for our unwritten future.
Esperanza Rising
My son's fourth grade class is reading Esperanza Rising by Pam Muñoz Ryan. I'd bought it when homeschooling years ago, but never got around to reading it. To my surprise, my only non-reader child told me, "It's good mom. You'd like it, you should read it."
So I did. It was a beautiful story about California migrants and Mexican laborers. The main character is a wealthy daughter of a ranch owner, spoiled by privilege. But through a series of traumatic and unfortunate events, she finds herself working in California's fields. She is torn between the valid need of equal rights, championed by the strikers, and her need to survive. Esperanza, on the brink of womanhood, learns to find hope as she wraps asparagus day-after-day, earning pennies and praying next to her rose clippings from home, replanted in coffee cans.
The story is poignant and also accessible for fourth graders. It also just touches on huge aspects of my Californian history I can barely comprehend.
Reparation
Through it, I learned for the first time about the Mexican Reparation, where Mexicans with legal papers, naturalized citizens, and even anyone who looked like they might be Mexican were deported to Mexico. If I lived in the 1930’s, I too could have easily been swiped up, forced to live in a country that wasn't mine.
I've walked parts of the Trail of Tears, and been to the Japanese Internment camps, both mind-blowing injustices of my American heritage. It seems the Mexican Repatriation exceeded these by far, the opposite of a “repatriation” (when something wrong is made right). I’ve since found differing accounts, but even the most conservative numbers are high and the effects negative.
“Estimates of how many were repatriated, deported, or expelled range from 300,000 to two million (40 to 60% of those were citizens of the United States, overwhelmingly children).” (via Wikipedia)
Crocheting Shades of Zig-Zags
Esperanza used to lay on the ground, too. Until I read this book, I’ve never heard of anyone else who’d press their body to the earth to feel its life, to feel as thought they were part of something bigger.
But as she experienced one trauma after another, Esperanza would crochet them as valleys into her zig-zag blanket. Her numbness, anger, and hope faded into survival—I related to these things. So do those whose families faced reparation in the 1930’s, and migrants now, whose stories I’m well-versed in. Our grief might have different shades and different zags—yours do too—but many of us bear the bruises of trauma.
My House of Life Lantern
With my "House of Life" lantern in the background, we discussed everyday discipleship in our Mentorship Circle. I believe that being an apprentice of Jesus isn't about collecting knowledge, but deepening belief. Following him is accepting a continual invitation to trust. Every day we are challenged to wonder if—and then act on—if God’s goodness and bigness is enough to rest in and on.
The candle flickered, as if it was waving its arms at me. It challenged me, can you really trust God? This week is the hardest of the year, raw from a conglomerate of trauma anniversaries.
My lantern is my proclamation: Come what may, MY HOUSE WILL NOT BE A HOUSE OF DEATH.
When death is always on the horizon, this feels like a silly sentiment to cling to. Death is a condition of humanity, our one guarantee of all who’ve been born. And yet, death is also a way of thinking, a lifestyle, a response to suffering. And when you and your family are traumatized by a series of the most unfortunate of events...
No wonder death has felt like it wants to permeate into all of the cracks of my life. This is what I fight against by carrying my candle with me, room to room. It is my statement that although death was at my door, and it might be even there again tomorrow, I choose to live courageously. I choose to trust. I choose to pursue a lifestyle of hope.
The future might be hard and it is also a gift.
Fear is a valid response. And fear is a liar.
Things might not work out how I wish. And my family can still have joy and peace however our reality looks.
This week, carrying my candle is how I follow in the way of Jesus, the path of trust in suffering. Whatever you're struggling with this week, be it deep and cavernous, or simple, but real, I hope you too can find hope.
May you have a candle of life to light your path; a home renamed a House of Life.
Trauma Anniversaries (Part Two to Part One)
Until recently, daily hope still seemed inaccessible. And for awhile, Esperanza couldn’t hear the heartbeat of the earth, either. She believed all possibility and joy might have faded away. We’ve both been conditioned by our circumstances to wait and prepare for the next traumatic thing to happen.
It was Kai's second birthday. I am feeling proud that I could call it a birthday instead of "the horrible epicenter trauma-anniversary of my body's failings." Compared to last year, when I felt insane, I survived this year much better.
Body vs. Mind
Did you know your body can be anxious without your mind thinking worried thoughts? My mind is just busy trying to sort past the barrage of everything it is flooding at me. I feel like a ping-pong ball, bouncing from anger to sadness, through countless intrusive thoughts and flashbacks. The part of my brain that stores trauma memories is clamoring. And the part that does its best to keep me safe and alert is on overdrive. It doesn’t seem to listen to my pep-talks to let go of all that flight-fight-freeze-fawn adrenaline.
All the while, I am trying to field others, trying to figure out who is safe to talk to about this and who will just think I'm crazy, or that I lost my faith. I have to translate other's prayers and Christian band-aid advice into something digestible and spiritually whole, which can also make room for a trauma perspective.
For those who haven't experienced trauma memories like this, I am sure it sounds strange. I used to think that when I’d hear others tell me about their experiences. I might have intellectually been able to grasp it (I used to practice trauma-informed work before I went through all of this). But without the experiences themselves, it almost seemed unbelievable. And now, here I am trying to explain to others what is happening, while trying to calm my body down.
If you experience traumatic anniversaries and memories like this, I’m here with you. And if you haven’t, my hope is that you’ll become more aware of other’s triggers and trauma anniversaries. You can play an important role.
You’re Doing Great!
I met a very gracious friend on Kai’s birthday. I spent most of two hours talking with her about bowl incontinence, postpartum preeclampsia, terrible hospital visits, blood clots, and hemorrhaging. Just a handful of what I went through in the months after Kai was born. I hate doing this to friends; no one wants to know all of this. I usually try to reserve these horrors for my therapist.
But my friend knew what she was getting into by meeting me on Kai’s birthday. She has the gift of shepherding and she shared it with me. As we parted ways, she touched my arm, turning me around to look at her.
"Elisa, you're doing great. You know that, right?"
“You think so?”
“Yes! It's been only two years and you're mind, physically body and spirit are healing so well."
I didn't know that. I feel anything but well—I only notice what is still wrong and messed up. And didn't she just hear me and my crazy brain tell her how I was convinced I’d be back in the hospital by Sunday? I was so discouraged this week because I haven't thought I'm doing well. But what if my self assessment wasn’t accurate. What if she was right?
Maybe you’re healing, too. Maybe you don’t think you’re doing great, either. I hope you see that you’ve come so far. You're doing better than you think you are.
As I drove away, I listened to the last chapter of Esperanza Rising on audiobook. It is the chapter where Esperanza hears the Earth's heartbeat again, down on the ground. My tears blurred the road. We are rebuilding.
Rebuilding
Beyond suffering and set backs, I’ve been healing. I've spent hours upon hours with God in prayer, bare before him. I’ve processed vulnerably with my therapist, my loved ones, and scratched through my beloved journal. On hard days, I’ve climbed out of bed. On good days, I’ve pulled on my tennis shoes, attempting the trails to regain my strength. I’ve gone to appointment after appointment. I’ve researched, changed my eating, and adjusted medication.
I’ve been doing the work. If I am honest, it is likely that healing is tougher and more brutal than living through the trauma itself. Rebuilding a broken body, mind, and life is no easy task.
California Spring
I didn't lay on the ground. It was still damp, reflecting the transition from winter to spring. It is my favorite season in Southern California, the dust tamped down by winter rains. Patches of fresh shades of green and both tropical and desert flowers are blooming everywhere.
I wanted Kai to be able to do his favorite thing for his birthday: explore. He takes after me that way. It is another sign he isn’t just “Trauma Baby”, but his own person.
I introduced him to his first ladybug. He tried dragging a stick behind him. He dug out rocks with his tiny fingers. I picked up my own stone and held it to the light. A piece of the living planet. And in the wide open spaces, I could believe that was a good future, rebuilt from ruins. I too am catching the winds of hope rising.
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Let all that I am praise the Lord;
with my whole heart, I will praise his holy name.
Let all that I am praise the Lord;
may I never forget the good things he does for me.
He forgives all my sins
and heals all my diseases.
He redeems me from death
and crowns me with love and tender mercies.
He fills my life with good things.
My youth is renewed like the eagle’s!
Psalm 103 NLT
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On Average Advocate this week: Responding to Injustices With Flight, Flight, Freeze, and Fawn