I was deeply touched by your PTSD post recently. I know from things you’ve said that your time as a groundskeeper at an abbey helped you in recovery because of the Zen of that work, and I understood ya because I’ve had several pursuits of my own that would get me to Zen mind. And they’ve been places of peace and refuge for me when shit got too crazy.
And I know you have a lot of things in yer life now that offer you that refuge, like kayaking and fishing and cooking and even housekeeping. But the one I’ve envied you is the part time job repairing and overhauling fishing reels. I get it, I really do. But I don’t do lutherie or repair horns any more, don’t have a bench for it or parts…it was my first real sanctuary back in the early seventies, even before my addictions got outta hand and before I even knew what the fuck was WRONG with me.
Not gonna write about THAT, not about the shit I did and was done to me incountry…not about the crazy shit I tried to do to cope after I got back to the World, not about how poorly it served me, and for sure not about what a train wreck I was inside. For maybe fifteen years the only sanctuary I had from it was drugs, alcohol, and the few pursuits that took me to Zen mind.
I didn’t start to get better until I got sober and clean, and then I read everything I could get my hands on from other vets, a couple of dozen books I guess. My business partner and I contributed to Scruggs for the Wall project. I started finding other vets around me, welcoming each other home, telling our stories to each other. And I had a counselor available and I stopped trying to bullshit counselors.
And in a couple of years it felt like my head was right, and I could relate to people better and even be helpful to them sometimes. Working in the crisis center was good and I realized I could be helpful to other people.
But even though my head was right and my heart had some peace, I still had a big box of emotional stuff in my guts with the lid nailed down. I saw there was a lot of sorrow and fear and pain and grief and remorse and regret in there but I couldn’t get the lid open to work on any of it. And it was scary because I didn’t know what would happen if the lid did come off and all that shit carried me away to God knows where.
So I kept looking for refuge in the activities that facilitated that Zen mind for me, and I also started looking for ways I could pry that lid open just a crack and let some emotion out of it. It turned out that music, and art and poetry, were the prybars.
And then I had to get used to the idea that I would weep at recitals and readings, get the pages wet in my books, and if I got the tears started I couldn’t be sure how long or how much it would be. And I gotta have it, like Gibran said it’s the the bitter potion by which the physician within me heals my sick self.
And that’s my balancing act, Dom. In between the Kleenex episodes, the mowing and raking, and painting a room (especially the brush work) when I get the chance, there’s room for a pretty full and very human life.
I learned from my sponsor Phil to aspire only to a life of obscure mediocrity and that is truly my aspiration. As long as I don’t get too big for my britches, there are many sublime moments in that life that come as unexpected gifts, and overall there is balance and sanity. Tears are no problem.
My practice probably looks quirky and weird to most people but what they think is none of my business.