A Wrinkle in Time

As often happens when I am in the thick of things, it's been hard to write. Part of it is that I am respecting the privacy of others involved, and part of it is I struggle to identify words that match the experience. Somehow, "I helped stop a suicide" doesn't sound right, even though that is what happened. I worry that it sounds self-important, and that somehow I did something magical. But when I try to explain that further, I sound even weirder: "All I did was listen to The Universe." Like... ok, lady. Get over yourself.

I'm not overly religious anymore, but I do believe in Something. I guess what I mean is I'm not tied to calling Him God anymore; any religious name would do, but also it's bigger than that... like, well, The Universe. There is Something out there that sees the through-line, knows the story from before I was born and where it will go long after I've exited stage left. It's comforting to me, that Entity: I'm not responsible for the whole puzzle, just my pieces.  And when She (yes, I know I give God the male identity and the Universe the female-- these things don't make sense and I'm ok with that) tells me to do something, I trust her. Because she's the Universe.

When I was younger, I wanted psychic powers. My Dad tells of having a dream that his grandmother called for him in the middle of the night-- and when he went to her side, she was having a heart attack. I wanted to be able to do that for people I loved, but since it "skips a generation", I figured I was out of luck. It seemed pretty incredible, though, to know someone needed help without them needing to use words to ask.

This summer, I had some experiences that can only be described as Universe Magic. The most profound was when I told my friend that "the bridge is a portal" ...which turned out to be a very specific phrase she wrote in her suicide note to me, which I had not (consciously) known she had written that afternoon. I swear on everything good and holy, that phrase came to me in a flash. And it was enough to shock her back into her body, and agree to contract for survival. It was the second time that summer I had recognized her suicidality and helped her step away from the edge; sadly, it was not the last time I would play conduit for her. I am one, again, now.

Today is a day that has historical hurt for her. I am learning that these days are woven into her being; that even when she doesn't remember what the day is, her body does. And these days are hard--harder than anyone should have to cope with--and there are many such days. We visited her in the treatment program on one of these days, again unknowingly. It took her 3 days to recover from that memory: I hope this one is easier, but I fear it isn't.

I called her, as I've been doing, on the rough days as well as the good ones. "But how do I get over this?" she pleaded. "I don't have words to explain it, I replied.

...And then I remembered Meg and IT.

I loved A Wrinkle in Time by Madeline L'Engle. Read it, and A Wind in the Door and A Swiftly Tilting Planet over and over. Something about these books called to me. I connected with Meg as the "dumb oldest sister" in a family of brilliance: her skills as an empath and intrapersonal communicator weren't valued, but were so essential to the family's survival. My guess is it took fictional Meg many years to learn to see her value, her own brilliance... because it took me until my 30s.  

That is how to fight back. Resist the rhythm the voice in her head provides about how useless she is and how she deserves this pain with Love. 'Rachel says I am worthy of love, of happiness, of lightness'. 'I am in a place that keeps me physically safe while I learn new patterns'. 'I can do this'.

And all of a sudden, I understood why I read that series so many times. I would need to be fluent in Mrs. Whatsit, Mrs. Which, and Mrs. Who, and Aunt Beast and Charles Wallace and Father and IT. I needed to understand vicerally that Love is spoken in all languages, even ones that are not spoken here on Earth. That the Universe is real, no matter what you call it, and that Magic is all around you... even when you think it's not.

She is in the clutches of her memories, of all that has happened to her. She thinks she deserved it and still does: I am here to tell you she most certainly does not. She is kind and thoughtful, so generous with her love for others and so afraid to be loved herself. And she has been so deeply hurt that I understand why her younger self could only make sense of it by thinking she deserved this pain. I cry for her; I ache with her... and all I can do is love her, and hope she makes it through. 

Meg Murray got a storybook ending, and while I still associate so strongly with Meg, this is not a book written with the happy ending scripted out. I do hope, however, to find us in pig pile of love in my backyard, surrounded by cats and family and safety. Why else would the Universe have sent me to her after making sure I had this story woven into my soul? But this I know:

Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.

-Martin Luther King, JR

 I will continue to send love and light to her for as long as I am able. 

I'm not going home...

Guster and the Mountain Goats were playing in Western Mass. We have seen Guster pretty much since they left Tufts, and we've wanted to see the Mountain Goats; plus, it's summer, so who cares it was a 5 hour drive to get there?

... sometimes you're already there... 

We met up with my high school friend and her husband for dinner. They live in NW Mass, and we hadn't seen them in forever... but it was like we'd just seen them last month. That alone was worth the drive over.

The concert was at Mass MoCA, outdoors between buildings. We didn't get there in time to view the museum, but we will need to go back to do so. The stage is set up on tar, so it's not as comfortable as Thompson's Point or the Shelburne Museum, but it also feels more intimate because you're surrounded by buildings. 

The Mountain Goats were awesome, and Guster is one of my favorites to see live. On The Ocean wasn't in the cards this year, but this will do quite nicely. We had a really great time dancing around an singing and just generally being free. I highly recommend communal enjoyment as a coping strategy.

As a nod to our age, we got a hotel room. 15 years ago we'd have gone over and back but... that was 15 years ago. Besides, I wanted to swing into the King Arthur Bakery on our way up 91. I have some real Vermont loves: Long Trail Brewing, King Arthur, Cabot cheese, and Ben and Jerry's. Some trip I'm going to combine all 4 stops and just live my best 802 life. This wasn't the day for it though-- I actually think we need to start in Burlington and head south to make the timing right, but that's another post for another day.

... sometimes you can't go home...

We headed out from Bennington (fun fact: the 1950s hotel we stayed at had an old HoJo's orange roofed building used as storage) towards King Arthur. VT has quite a few roads closed these days; 91S was shut down for an exit yesterday, and we got detoured on 5E today. We got to the bakery at 11:45 AM-- not a recommended time on a Sunday, as everyone else was also there-- and decided adding 4 hours of driving to get to Cabot and Ben and Jerry's wasn't a wise move at this juncture. But, we could head to Danville and have lunch at the Red Barn Brewery. And, Dave thinks, we might be able to follow the Bayley Hazen Road...

... And I look at you, I'm there... 

We've been driving across VT since 2015 when we took Ben to visit Clarkson, and then to attend... Ben also raced up and down the state, and we made it to as many of those races as we could. Driving in VT feels safe. It often means we're going to see him... or it means we're remembering those past trips. We have our standard stop at the bridge (VT side, because NE > NY), favorite convenience stores, and favorite restaurants. We watched The Red Barn get built... and open in early 2020 (IYKYK). The beer is good, the food made from fresh local ingredients and spent grains, and the vibe quiet and honest.  As Dave said today, it's our spot.

But this tale is also about finding the Old Road. If you don't know, I am fascinated by old roads. I watch houses to see if they're facing the "right" way, and look for old road beds and misplaced electric poles. This old road has major history to it. The Bayley-Hazen is a Military Rd built during the Revolutionary War as part of the plans to get into/out of Canada. Dave found it after researching Hazen's Notch that the GPS wanted us to take on that first trip over and the locals had told us "Your GPS is lying to you. Turn around" which, begrudgingly we did, and went over that way when there wasn't any snow on the ground. We found a section off of Rt 15, and have kept looking since.

... when I look at you, I'm there...

Today, we found it. Dave accurately surmised that if we got off 91 in Barnet and headed for Peacham we might find it. Myrtle kept nudging us back towards 91, and we kept making her reroute us... until we landed on the North Bayley Hazen, a dirt road that wound through the back woods and rolling hills, eventually putting us on Rt 2 at the light in Danville. We swung into Marty's for a Long Trail pack and some Cabot cheese, got some lunch at The Red Barn...

...and headed home.

Are you there, Universe? It's me, Rachel.

 I don't exactly know why I stopped writing. I'm sure I could blame it on being busy, but it's more than that. Somehow, I forgot that part of how I cope with all that is going on in the world is through words: finding the right words for the perfectly crafted sentence. It is through this process of typing, deleting, revising that helps me figure out how I fit into the current puzzle. When I don't write, I don't consciously miss it, but it means I lose access to the deepest parts of me that are there to help.

I didn't grow up using a journal or a diary. I mean, I went through some phases, but nothing really stuck until blogs came about... and then when the internet changed and blogs were less common, well, I wrote less. There is a magic in the publishing for me--knowing someone might read what I write gives it more of a purpose, I guess. Because it's never been about me figuring it out (whatever 'it' we're talking about) but about me figuring it out and then sharing that with someone else. As a Capitol E extrovert, I am energized by sharing my inner thoughts with others. Keeping a journal feels helpful...but sharing one feels right.

My body has also let me know that I'm not as 'ok' as I think. Some of it is due to aging, certainly, but I have developed some specific pain over the last 3 months that tells me my self care game needs more. It took me awhile to notice that I am having multiple ocular migraines per day because I don't get headaches and I've had floaters since I had a blood vessel burst in my left eye when I was 10. It also turns out that people don't see light halos quite as often as I do (who knew)? The neck pain was more immediately recognizable for what it was; the TMJ issue, however, drove the point home. Ok. Got it. Could you please stop screaming at me now?

It took a friend writing to remind me that this modality is helpful for me to process things and get them out of my body so I don't hold onto the stress anymore. And so, dear Universe, here I am, writing again. I don't know if you're still listening (Bueller? Anyone?) but I hope you are. I don't like living in pain, and I don't like feeling lost. So, back to the blog we go.