December 2015 - Erliss, the Monkey Whisperer

Tonight is the longest night of the year.

This season can be devastating for those of us affected by the lack of daylight- like me, like Erliss.

See – look at my hands. And my insides are seeping out. I am a hot…mess.

Hopelessness and despair establish a stronghold in my psyche; while phantoms resurrect in full regalia, haunting my breath, suctioning meaning and esteem from every corner, creating a vortex of incessant silence. It crows in my ear – this silence – but not enough for me to decipher its voice; instead it awakens the despondent one, for whom all life is corpsing, a mysterious groove, a path to nothingness…

thing

ness.

Why do I awaken at all? Where is this going? It’s dying…

I want to be dead already…

Erliss, my dear, it will be OK. Remember, you go through this every year.

Every year.

It begins in September. I look out the window at 7:30 and it’s dark. Maybe the moon is there. And in a way it’s cool because I can look at the stars and wonder. (Wondering is a fabulous spiritual practice, by the way. Maybe we will write about it someday.) But it gets cold, and the sky isn’t always clear, and the moonlight gets in the way, and the beasts come out of their hiding early, the monsters of the unconscious deep, they live a life from years ago when a child crumbled into nothingness so she could survive…

This has been hard. And sad. I am sad most of the time.

Memories come up that were carefully locked away. I would like for them to stay away. I am working on practicing compassion with myself, with my memories, even with the part of me that wants to enter an eternal state of oblivion. It’s all struggle.

I am supposed to watch it – “observe it with curiosity.” I have to keep reminding myself of this – Observe, Erliss, what do you see? What do you feel? Isn’t that interesting?

I wonder how I have stayed in this world for so many years.

Ah…the light, perhaps?

This Winter Solstice I am more aware of its gift. There is a cycle – every year, we sink into darkness, deeper, deeper, drowning in the night, our lungs filled with its bleak winter…

Then the light magically reappears. It ALWAYS comes back.

Always.

Every

Year.

The darkness lessons – it becomes negotiable, reasonable.

This is how I got sober – at 16, I had experienced enough failed attempts at staying clean to know that time moves ahead anyway; that the compulsion to use or drink would move too. “This too shall pass” kept me from picking up. The urge would pass as long as I didn’t act on it, and connected with supportive people—my sponsor, friends, meetings. And then one day, months and months later, the compulsion was gone. This worked with my urges to self- harm, my eating disorders, acting out sexually, urges to jump off a bridge – everything would pass, and the light shone enough so I could follow a different path.

Yeah, the moonlight, it still feels dark… a voice in my head reminds me, the despair and depression are never gone for long. And yet there are times when I notice something different happening, a kind of haven fills my heart, singing a love song. This is why, in part, I am alive. Why I no longer try to end my life—because I don’t always long for death. It passes like the seasons. It cycles like the moon. And the longing its self is my teacher.

The longing…longing teaches…

I need a break. You probably do too. Here is a link to Ola Gjeilo’s “The Luminous Night of the Soul.” The piano especially resonates with me. I heard this last night at a church service dedicated to the longest night of the year. I wept then, and I weep now.

Take some time to listen, if you can, and notice how you react. I would love to hear your experience.

Longing is my teacher.

We have a celestial promise of new awakening. Every year. It offers a metaphor for those of us who experience deadness at other times. It is natural – nothing is stagnant. It all moves.

It creeps, sneaking up behind you before it pounces and devours your shadow – with no shadow you have no light.

Sigh. See what I have to put up with – this brain? It is interesting how one part of me tries to find hope, and another part tries to pull me down.

Listen to me – hope is not always safe.

And there is the dilemma. Hope is sometimes dangerous. Hope has blinded me from the truth, kept me in abusive relationships, made me all…Pollyanna. “Maybe he will change” or “This isn’t really happening” or “If I hide myself it will stop.”

The darkness serves a purpose – reminding me of my need for safety and connection. It helps me to focus on the little things, like feeling my feet on the ground. It slows me down, forcing me to wonder. The dark is a womb.

In my faith tradition we are about to celebrate Christmas – the birth of Love into the world. It is no coincidence that this holy season happens around the solstice. The light of the world comes in the darkest of nights, when we are ready to give up, when I am melting into the beast, the over-shadowing, when we become one with desolation…

There is no hope without despair.

I need to let this one…settle.

Hear are some words from Madeleine L’Engle’s A Ring of Endless Light:

“Maybe you have to know the darkness before you can appreciate the light.”

Thank you for your presence in this world, fellow Monkey Whisperers.

Much love,

Erliss.

A “Vocalise” is a musical form, a kind of song or exercise that focuses the singer on creating pure sound without text.

This is my voice—a song without words. There are times when I can not find language. That part of my brain shuts down, or it disappears, or it is abducted by space alien scientist monkeys for various experiments. Probably not the latter.

When I lose language, I don’t understand… Sometimes I can’t even make a sound. All the voices in my head silence the space around them. As they become soundless, I become mute. I have noticed my loss of language more often. It’s a trauma response – my body is shutting down in preparation for some impending doom.

Shame, shame, shame…when I can not speak, I feel…shame. When I search for a word—it’s like a kind of aphasia. Worse is when I say things that don’t reference anything in my mind.

“What did she say?” “ Where is the cookie?” “Mom-Mom? Mommy?” “ I’m…Not sure…what…what…find her…”

And sometimes I go so far away, words melt into an abyss, I can’t even gaze there, and I don’t really remember. It’s like I’m watching myself, and can’t get into the mind of …myself. I try to get back, but I can’t.

I have attempted writing when this happens. Here – See? I’m a hot mess:

Dissociation.

What is the beauty in losing words? Language? What does it mean that I can’t tell you what is happening? Is that because back then, when the sky was falling, when the flowers danced frenzied until they- l- their petals fell and cried, cried… who…who followed their tears to the gravening…who followed their tears and laughed…and the bleeding crocus songing, songing, falling, crawling towards the gravening…gravening…grave…

And so it goes. She goes. Or whoever it is, whatever it is inside this brain that can’t keep above water.

But here…in a vocalise…words are not valued, or necessary. It’s not a mistake, a psychological condition, or a maladaptive coping mechanism –it’s supposed to be this way. A necessary condition for a vocalise is that it be without semantics. Some kind of pre-verbal, or maybe post verbal – condition. Bringing us back to a time where mothers and fathers hummed us to sleep, or forward to the sounds of dying, or whatever comes after. Maybe it’s the only sound we can make when our mouths are forced shut. You can still sing with your face in the sand. With hands over your mouth. With…with…with…ooooooooooooooooooooo…

Music is not about words. It’s about sounds. The movement of sounds. Pure vibrations. This is what makes it live. I do not need language to live. I need a heartbeat.

Heart…Beat…Yes, Erliss, your heart is beating. You are still here.

Here is a vocalise. Rachmaninoff. I listen, and weep.

Try listening, and tell me-do you have language for this?

Much Love,

Erliss

About my art work: I know it looks like a two year old got hold of some crayons. I am a musician. That’s the kind of artist I am. But drawing is…therapy. So there you have it. My art therapy. I encourage you all to try.

Hmmm…maybe that’s my role here, to make you all feel good about drawing. Art is not only for those who can do it well–actually, doing art well is all about the doing.

So draw.

Amen.

ADDENDUM : Here is what I wrote about “Vocalise” on my Facebook page a few weeks ago. I place this here for you, the reader, and for my self.

Language can be a barrier to experiencing our inner world. Sometimes we search desperately for the right word, or even for the ability to speak. We can feel even more anxiety when we realize we can’t…find…the…words…we…want…to…say…

If that happens, my dear ones, know that you are in a place where language may not be helpful. There may be a grief or sensation too great and profound for words. There may be a memory that is working its way through your body. You may be connecting with some power, a love, God – that is beyond your comprehension.

This all can be scary–and it also can be a source of beauty and transformation.

Should you find yourself in a place where words seem futile, maybe try this.

A gentle hum, or even just listening to Kiri, may be all you need to touch into the grace that is within you, the consonance of your soul, your heartsong.

Have a beautiful day, my fellow Monkey Whisperers. Stay connected.

Month: December 2015

The Solstice: Luminous Longing

Vocalise: An Episode in Dissociation