Newsletter 2

Newsletter 2
Colin and I pick up the van at the car rental place, and await the arrival of several families in a Hawaiian barbecue place near the Oakland airport. Jeremy calls first, he and Christina have arrived. We circle around to meet their plane, then we hear from Tonia that they too have arrived. When we get to the curb with the van and car, there are Jeremy and Christina, Tonia, Ken, and their teenagers, Tasha and Alishya, Paul and his mother Jacqueline, and Stephanie with Sebastian, Paul’s son (whom I mistake for Benjamin, Stephanie’s son, arriving later with his grandmother from Houston.) New friends and old friends from the last workshops. I ask Jeremy how the flight was. “Brought up memories,” he says. I imagine the rest. Christina begins to speak with Stephanie in the backseat; within minutes they find they have something in common: each had experienced family loss due to suicide. Jeremy asks what the afternoon will be like and I tell him about media who would like to speak with some workshop participants. It’s up too him, not a precondition of participation. He wants to but says: “There’s one question they can’t ask, ‘did you kill anybody?’ I won’t answer that.” I reassure him.

During the roundtable discussion at the church, filmed by a news show, Jeremy reveals that tomorrow is his birthday. His expression conveys his anguish, “It’s not a good thing … it’s … the anniversary of my last firefight.” He begins to cry, Christina and others comfort him. When he reveals this the next day to the whole group at the workshop, we sing Happy Birthday to him. He continues to share during the weekend: his bouts with drinking, post traumatic stress, marital strife, domestic violence. During the vets breakout group at the end of the workshop he speaks from the heart about the two vivid drawings he did during the writing and drawing exercise, and reveals details of that firefight one year ago. I remember his description of the first drawing: it’s back and white, pencil and black oil pastel, the view from a building he was holed up on, a circular cut out in the wall for him to see out of and extend his rifle through. In the background is a figure he was engaged with in the firefight. He sobs, and conveys how hard it is now, adding again that it was his birthday. Rory joins in, he was injured the day before his birthday. Jeremy continues, slowly, as he describes the second drawing. It is made with color oil pastels, contains a flag with Arabic writing, a cross, a grave, an American flag, a rifle planted in the ground with a helmet on the end and a soldier’s boot at the base. It turns out that he reads, writes and speaks Arabic, as well as other languages. He represents his inner experience, verbally, emotionally, on the written page, in this safe, accepting setting; this can be healing.

Stephanie was holding Sebastian in her arms when I met their plane. He didn’t look like Ben but the way she was holding him she seemed like she was his mother, so I was momentarily confused. And they had only recently met -- already like family. After the January workshop, Stephanie had come from Houston to visit Cynthia and Tonia in Seattle and stay for a time with Tonia and Ken, building on the bond they developed in January.

Fifty people gather for the workshop at First congregational church Later in the day, in the safety of the veterans breakout group, fifteen vets gather, Stephanie, so supportive and positive, tearfully shares how she also feels like a failure: failing as a soldier, as a wife and as a mother, as a person, in every way. Mostly though, failing to appreciate the gravity of her husband Michael’s distress and failing to prevent him from killing himself. Self-blame and also deep sadness. Several vets jump in to reassure her: you have not failed. They offer good points: God, or Life, had other plans for her, she now can be of help in ways she couldn’t have before, and so on. These statements seem like true and useful reframings, building on the strengths and positives. Yet I see Stephanie’s expressiveness and emotion dry up as she seems to compliantly agree rather than let her feelings be. When a third person prefaces his remarks by saying that he will offer something to uplift the mood, I said, “Thanks, that’s okay,” and try to keep the accepting space alive and the potential for personal disclosure that reassuring and uplifting comments can sometimes unintentionally foreclose.

In the pre-workshop roundtable Rory had expressed his sense of betrayal by the government after he was injured, its lack of responsiveness and accountability, and his anger for getting us into the war in the first place. It was powerful, yet rather than being transformative and connective, it seemed to progress into a loop of escalating anger about the administration. More angry Rory got, more things intensified, circled round and round and amplified. Two people left the room. One took issue with his facts, another felt his comments were polarizing. Rory had every right to express his outrage and betrayal, and yet it became politicized and curiously did not seem helpful to Rory or the group. Later, however, and throughout the weekend, at breaks at the hotel and elsewhere, something shifted, Rory seemed to develop a different outlook. Perhaps through dialogue with other participants, including those who had reacted to what and how he spoke, or perhaps through the lengthy conversations he had with Darcy, founder of the Marine Corps' Warrior's Transition program. Something shifted. Rory seemed to become noticeably lighter, and helpful to others. I particularly noticed his openness to hearing others, and not simply taking what they said in order to make his own point. This was reflected in the sense of measure with which he shared his experiences and feelings of betrayal at the outset of the vets group, calibrating his impact on others, modulating it and bringing it to a close as he expressed his interest in also hearing others’ stories. I think Darcy’s listening deeply and recognizing and containing Rory’s feelings, was crucial, especially coming from someone within the military, by whom Rory felt so betrayed. It may also have given Rory someone in the military he could identify with and perhaps not have to repudiate everything about his military experience inside him.

Claudia is a female Iraq veteran who came with her 18 month old daughter and her sister from Tucson. She had met Tonia and Ken while on the TBI ward at the Palo Alto VA. She was friendly and sincere but vacant in a way and spoke little in the large group. During the vets breakout group she was standing around the perimeter of those gathered and seated on couches and chairs. Toward the end she began to speak, tentatively. She said she didn’t want to read what she had written but it seemed that she also did. With a little encouragement, she began to speak and chose to read what she had wrote. She began “My world has narrowed from what it was…” She described her TBI and the difficulty she had in remembering simple but important elements of her past. She felt that a crucial piece of who she was had been taken from her: she couldn’t even remember her daughter’s birth. Her sister’s help was needed while traveling and her family’s help was necessary to help her with tasks of daily living, as her short-term memory was also impaired. The aliveness of her young daughter, the shine in Claudia’s own eyes, her articulateness in writing and speaking, juxtaposed with her memory impairment, her sense of loss and vacancy, and the level of help she needed to function, were striking, poignant and sad. Her sharing had a palpable, catalytic effect.

Jessie, blinded while serving in Iraq, spoke slowly, with gravity and conviction, sharing the deep sense of betrayal that he has had to do it all himself, become his own advocate, find the services and the help he needed. And this, after all he’s endured, offered, and sacrificed -- a broken covenant.

Earlier in the day, Maurice had provided comic relief by challenging fellow injured vet Kenny in the morning big group when he said that, of the two master sergeants, he was on top of Ken. He got everyone laughing about who was on top and who on bottom. He kidded us, especially Ken, about status and rank and we all laughed more. In the vets group, however, he was quiet. But after Claudia, Maurice opened up, tentatively at first, sharing how difficult it was for him too not to be himself in body and mind. He couldn’t remember important parts of his childhood and it was a continuing blow to his esteem and to his view of himself that his functioning was not what it was before his injury, particularly given his role as Master Sgt, with his men. It wasn’t what he said as much as how he said it that made an impression. It had been hard for him to open up, and he passed on speaking at the beginning of the vets group; so when he finally did speak, his words carried a sense of weight and gravity. He spoke slowly, with an undercurrent of deep emotion, but showed few visible signs of feeling, save a slight crack in his voice.


I couldn’t help but notice the way the large group addressed Jessie, especially after he spoke to them mid-way through the day. We had just had lunch and were about to begin a period of writing and drawing. It dawned on me that Jessie, being unable to see, might have difficulty with it. I went over and asked if he might like someone to be his scribe, a vet or perhaps a family member. He preferred a vet. So he and Colin went into the library. But before the group began to write, Jessie asked if I would request that folks say their names before they spoke; it helped him orient and recognize people. I invited him to make his request. He spoke simply and with dignity. After that, after people began to speak they would stop, remember, and say, “Sgt. Major, this is _______,” addressing Jessie by his title. We are not about rank in our workshops and retreats but this was different: it was an expression of deep respect. When people forgot to identify themselves, Jessie would gently remind them. Once, later on, when he had just begun sharing something, someone said “You forgot to say your name.” Jessie laughed and, taking his lead, people broke out laughing, the role reversal incongruous, funny and poignant all at once. There were times during the day where we laughed till we cried, and laughed and cried both, sometimes not knowing which was which. Our laughter also helped us bear the pain and so was good for the soul. Everyone knew that by asking people to say their names Jessie wanted to communicate with us and feel part of the group -- to hear and recognize everyone, and in turn be recognized by us. It seemed that he did not want to feel invisible, as he felt to the institutions entrusted with his care that did not step up. It was the desire for mutual recognition that came across loud and clear. What a crucial element of healing.

Ted, Vietnam combat medic. poet, and member of our older vets cohort, spoke simply and movingly, with more emotion than I recalled from the last workshop. He was really there, a resource, both by leading the writing exercise with Sophia, and in the vets breakout group, speaking from direct experience.

Paul and Ken came in toward the end. They’d been resting in a room set up for them and Claudia upstairs. Given their brain injuries, they tended to get tired in the afternoon. Tonia awoke them, knowing they’d want to be there. Ken poured out his feelings more than I’ve seen since early December when we first met. He said he felt more accepted and cared about, more safe and trusting in this group than anywhere before. More even than he sometimes felt in his extended family. Paul seemed to be feeling things out around the edges, beginning with the roundtable on Friday. He became upset with some of the figures Rory quoted during the roundtable discussion; he felt they were inaccurate, misrepresentative and needlessly polarizing. He remained open to dialogue, however, and spoke with a number of people, resolving finally to stay open. By the time he came to the vets breakout group on Saturday, he, like Ken, was pouring out his feelings about how he was treated upon his return, and his struggle with physical, emotional and relationship challenges. When we first met, it was difficult to follow what he was saying since the injuries he sustained affected not just his appearance but also his speech. But by now I could hone in and understand the words as well as the feelings.

Mark, Marine helicopter pilot during the first Gulf War, now a priest and member of our older vets cohort, described how, in the teen break-out group, he began with some moments of silence then asked "How are you doing?" Tasha was quick to respond, "Do you really want to know?" And she immediately started crying. Alishya said she was fine and suggested Tashsa not open things up. Alishya looks to be strong like her mom, Mark said, but holding a lot inside. Jesse's daughter, Brittney, was also feeling much of the same feelings: isolation, no one could understand, no one to talk to, not wanting to burden her suffering parents with her own feelings. Mark felt like he was talking to three angels. Brittney mentioned that her father can't see her face and he doesn't know if she is sad or happy. She uses that to hide her feelings but she feels bad about it. She wants to communicate but is afraid that she will upset her father. Using Jesse's earlier request to the big group, Mark suggested that maybe the family could learn to communicate in a different way: if you are feeling sad or angry or happy, you can start the conversation with, "Dad, I'm so happy" or "Dad, I'm feeling really sad now". She said she wanted to try that with her Dad and let her Mom know about it too. Using humor, it was possible to approach the deep wounds that their father's injuries have brought into these teenagers’ lives and relationships. Mark noted how they became friends and developed a sense of trust. I could see how deeply moved he was afterward. In a message later he recounted that it was perhaps his most emotionally powerful experience in the years since leaving the Marines and becoming a priest: what impact, to see, hear and feel the impacts of war on our teenagers.

After the breakout groups, Tasha and Alishya both shared their drawings with the big circle and spoke about their feelings of isolation and difficulty in sharing their thoughts and feelings with their parents. Their parents, Tonia and Ken, were able to listen and take it all in, allowing their daughters this freedom of expression and learning from what they heard.

When the workshop ended, we began preparing for Tonia and Ken’s renewal of vows, conducted by Fred and Mary Ellen. People were circulating and moving around. Outside the room, in the hallway leading to the door that opens onto the street, Tasha began crying and Mary Ellen held her. Tasha began to sob and cry all out. What was so striking was that no one interrupted the pair; everyone recognized the outpouring of feeling and let it be.

Like the vets and teen groups, Robert mentioned that the family group could have gone on for hours, such was the outpouring and wish to connect and express their experience.

Nancy, whose husband was in treatment, felt safe enough after a while to open up in group and one to one. Nadine, there in part to support Nancy and everyone, herself began to open up.

A moment in time: Ken and Tonia renewing their vows on all channels: Tonia calls Ken “my soul mate, my best friend, my one and only love.” Her eyes reach out for Ken’s as Fred and Mary Ellen speak, while Ken is trying hard to respond visually, to make eye contact, in spite of being unable to see well. Their love and the warm support of those gathered permeates the ritual.

What good care people took of one another, how permeated with compassion was our time together. Darcy and Nadine looked out for Nancy, whose husband, in crisis, had finally entered treatment; Mary Ellen listened deeply and spoke with Tonia over dinner after the ritual. Just a few of many examples. And the aftershocks: Lisa reaching out and Darcy responding to the crises with her and Matt. Jeremy and Christine relocating from Camp Pendleton to Texas, moving, as it happened, near Stephanie and Ben. They now keep in touch, their children of similar ages, just as Stephanie did with Cynthia and Tonia on the west coast after the first weekend. Now giving, now receiving, each part of the other.

The Doubletree had become a kind of base camp for those from out of town. As we set to depart, Darcy and I coordinate vans and cars and shuttle people to the airport. How much work Colin, former Marine, now a priest, put in coordinating and juggling all the logistics. Somehow we missed picking up Mary Ellen from the hotel for the Saturday workshop. How gracefully she let me discover that we’d forgotten her. How present she nonetheless was in the ritual, and in holding and comforting Tasha beforehand. Not just grace but forgiveness abound. The whole (all of us) is so much greater than the sum of it’s parts (any one of us).

The children: At dinner on Saturday, Ben, four, looks my way; he’s restless. I suggest we trace one another’s hands with crayon. He quiets for a while. I give him the drawing of my hand and he gives me the drawing of his; we take them with us as we part. Claudia’s 18 month old girl is dancing with exuberance. As I’m driving his and another family to the airport, Paul’s son Sebastian, 3, calls my name several times. Each time I respond. He seems to want just that give and take. I enjoy the call and response, part of how we connect, part of so much music, poetry and healing ritual. Primary recognition. Two days earlier I was an as-yet-unknown quantity, not safe: I tried to join him, playing with his trains; he pulled them up from the floor, one by one. I think of the young children: Claudia’s little girl, without her father; Ben without his; Sebastian without his mother. And the teenagers, Brittney, Tasha and Alishya, with loving parents both present and yet also struggling with the dramatic and rippling impacts of their fathers’ injuries. Mothers, sisters, all of us, step up to fill the gaps. It takes a village -- we become that village. And those providing childcare, selflessly: Mary and her daughter Malia, and Maureen and her son.

Tony and Nathan, younger vets, a different feel, no evident, visible injuries, but grateful for the camaraderie and glad to offer their support. Mike and Marva, and Sandie, bringing hearts of compassion, open to learning and contributing. Jan and Ken come in late, struggling with their son with PTS who drinks himself to sleep, sometimes senseless. The group changes course, spends quite a while responding to their concerns. The rolling repartee between irrepressible combat vet Jeremy and the his combat vet-poet comrade Brian, while Brian was reading his poems during the community meeting on Friday. It’s not an interruption -- they get each other.

Jessie takes my hand as he, Connie, and Brittney prepare to head to the airport with Cynthia, Stan and Rory. He says -- with all his natural gravitas and dignity -- “Thank you, for all you do.” Without thinking I respond, “And to you, for all you are.” Brittney, eyes so wide, face so open, is sincerely grateful for being able to come. Everyone so appreciative, so demonstrative, so real. Sophia says she almost didn’t return on Saturday, such was the impact of Brian‘s poetry on Friday. Her husband is set to deploy and Brian’s vivid accounts of combat were frightening,. She was glad she did return though. Ana mentions how the meditation helped her palpably unwind, Fred too.

Everyone so appreciative for the opportunity to meet one another in safety, trust and acceptance, to be with, learn from, share with one another. Re--establishing connectivity -- inner and outer, among heart, body, mind and soul -- and among family members, friends, and new friends. Such flexibility of roles: from being the one sharing pains, journeys, triumphs, to helping another with his; now sharing, now listening, now crying, now offering support, now learning something new, now offering a fresh perspective or piece of information. And the humor, how it rises up in a flash, naturally, such a wonderful release, and fades again, sustaining us as we delve more deeply. Laughing and weeping at the same time. These qualities, flexibility, range of emotion, and overall sense of safety and trust, reflect the health and healing nature of the group. Such a group brings out the best in us, helping us develop emotionally, interpersonally and spiritually, as it offers a collective space and the tools to process and transform trauma.

It is the power of compassion that creates a field of unconditional acceptance and love -- each of us wanting to support as well as being supported. That field becomes the vehicle, the “bigger container” that holds the grief, the loss, the anger, the powerlessness, the damage. And the precious shards of hope. Everyone can feel its power: the trust, the safety, the deep care. Holding, expressing, and representing inner anguish and trauma within this setting, within this collective field of compassion – helps transform it. Helps us develop psychological capacities and the spiritual qualities necessary for transformation. Constructing a safe place with others and within oneself -- real people and real inner capacities we can access when we need them. We take in and make our own the group and it’s beneficial qualities. We enjoy being and learning together. New possibilities for being alive open up. All this is the activity of healing.