On Healing

This week, I’m focused on healing. Hernia surgery does that to you.

Tests, doctors, being driven to and from the surgery clinic and getting an IV, all the procedures that are so routine to the wonderful healers attending to you, but new and different to me. The daily routine has changed, and I am now focused on self care, and have time to heal.

In the past week, my life has focused on pill taking regimens, taking care with painful areas of the body, and the seemingly everpresent need to close my eyes and zone out. Basic bodily care procedures take on a new importance and challenges, as I sense all the healing that my body is engaged in.

Time and patience, yet also pushing myself a little, me testing and experimenting. And, listening to my body.

While occupying myself on the couch with books, laptop, and just watching the birds outside setting up their spring housekeeping and discovering the new blossoms on the wild currants, I came across an essay in the April 16 New Yorker, by Junot Diaz. He’s a noteworthy writer, who writes about serious issues. Yet, “The Silence” reveals a story he has not shared before.

He takes me on his journey, into his wounds, exposing his pain and anguish, and the challenges he has faced in his own personal healing journey. Uncomfortable, disquieting, yet so brave of him to take on pain from his childhood, and sharing his journey, and his healing experiences.

His courage and his honesty refreshes me, and helps me in my own journey of exploration and discovery. I invite you to read what he has to share with us. https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2018/04/16/the-silence-the-legacy-of-childhood-trauma

Healing starts from experiencing many wounds; healing comes from many sources.

Old wounds, scars nearly faded, remind me of good times, good friends, how I have changed and grown, evolving into who I am.

There are other wounds and stories, too. Nightmares, tragedies, events I have buried deep and kept away from my conscious self, yet they are present in the own dark ways. As acts of self-preservation, I have buried them deep, yet they continue to shape and form who I am today, an integral part of my self.

Sometimes, I go there, deep and occasionally brave, digging and probing, rediscovering, exploring dark corners and hearing again stories that need to be told. And, sometimes, I am ready to hear their meaning.

I am not alone on such a journey. Others do this work too, this self-discovery, this journey inward, downward, this course of study on themselves.

Others have led the way, and still others are following me, opening old pain to the light, part of our learning and growing.

The pursuit of who I am is a life long journey. I need to be brave. It is when I fear what I might discovery, and don’t pursue these self-discoveries, then I am not practicing self care and self love, but only when the time is right, and this exploration is truly for the good of me.

I must be brave and ask the hard questions I am called to answer. I must open the rusty lock and oil the squeaky hinges, and bring the light to see into the darkness.

Then and only then can I see the open wounds and the thorns that must be removed before the pain can begin to end and the healing begin. When the time is right, I must act and take charge of this part of the journey, and the healing.

I find strength in the courage of others in their journeys. There are many teachers and guides in this journey. From them, I have much to learn about courage and focus, that I am not alone, and that just taking a step can offer great rewards.

When the darkness becomes the light, and the shadows reveal their secrets, the weight falls off my shoulders and I can move ahead, becoming freer, less burdened, and lighter in spirit.

Mr. Diaz is one of my new heroes, one of those people who carries the lantern of truth into the darkness, and brings light to difficult conversations.

—-Neal Lemery, April 13, 2017

Just Listen

I almost didn’t pick up the phone. We’ve had a lot of robo-calls lately, and I’ve gotten into the habit of just letting the phone ring. If it is important, or someone I know, they’ll leave a message and I’ll call them back.

The number was familiar. It was the number that called several times in the last few days, the voice familiar, from the past when I volunteered as a mentor in a nearby youth prison. Two days ago, the voice left a distraught, heartfelt message, wanting to connect with me, and alluding that he was thinking of ending his life.

No name, no return phone number. But, my phone remembered the number and I called back, getting the receptionist at another youth prison.

I explained that the voice sounded desperate, sad, alluding to self harm.

“We have 250 youth here, and I can’t track down who may have called you,” the receptionist said. “But, I’ll transfer you to the treatment manager in our mental health cottage.”

But, without a name, I was stuck, hoping he’d call back.

This time, we connected. The voice at the other end was a staff person, telling me that “Joe” wanted to talk to me. He put me on hold, and it was a long wait.

I was hesitant to take the call. Maybe “Joe” was having second thoughts, too, now that I was on the line.

My brain was trying to remember who “Joe” was. The mists of time parted and I began to remember “Joe”. I saw him every week for about a year, until he moved on, getting released to a half way house.

The staff had asked me to see him, as he was falling behind in his school work, and didn’t seem to care. He’d act indifferent and pushed me away, not letting me get close to him. But, I stuck with it, trying to tutor him in the math class that he was failing.

It wasn’t the work, and it wasn’t the level of math. I soon realized he was brilliant, and had taken the road of not doing the work, and blowing the homework and the tests, because it was too simple, too easy. And, if he passed his math class, then he’d graduate from high school. The next step was college.

But, he was a failure, a no good, not worthy of success. I soon learned that his family had abandoned him, never visiting him in prison, or even writing a letter or talking with him on the phone.

“Worthless,” “scum”, those were the words he’d last heard from his family, the day he was arrested, probably a whole childhood of that kind of talk.

I walked around the math conundrum, trying to engage with him on a different level. I learned he loved music, playing and composing songs and rhythms. He’d taken over the keyboard in the rec room and the computer that was set up to record and put together different tracks of music the kids had recorded.

I kept asking me to show me what he’d done with the recording devices, but he kept putting me off.

“It’s not very good,” or “I’m not quite ready for you to hear what I’ve done.”

One day, he let me into that world, playing a very complex rhythm track, and a long electronic music piece that was beyond words in its complexity and beauty.

“It’s nothing,” he said, when I raved about his talent and ingenuity.

“Oh, and you tell me you’re not very good at math, when you can compose this elaborate rhythm and multi-track composition?” I said.

“Well,” he said. And just shrugged.

“It’s not a big deal.”

I wanted to get up on the table and dance!

As I was leaving, I told a staff member how talented Joe was, and so gifted in music.

“I know. He’s amazing,” the staff member said. “But he thinks it’s no big deal.”

At our next visit, he actually smiled.

“I passed my math class,” he said. “I actually got an A.”

Yeah, that “Joe”. How could I forget him?

What’s he doing back in prison, after all this time, I wondered.

The phone line clicked, and a soft, deep voice said hello.

“Is this Neal?” the voice asked. The hesitancy in his voice tugged at my heart.

He said he was amazed I remembered him, that I was willing to talk with him, that I was even listening to him, that he was worthy of my time.

“Joe” had taught me an important lesson. Sometimes, good things happen when you just wait, just enjoy the silence in a conversation, and let that quiet connectedness be the conversation. Just showing up, caring, and listening, can affect fundamental change in someone’s life.

Now, years later, I listened again. His story came tumbling out. There were successes, achievements. And there were disappointments, fears, times of perceived failures and disasters. There came a time when it was all too much, too much goodness going on, and so he pulled the plug, sabotaging himself, and choosing to run away.

The old family voices of being worthless and a scum echoed around his mind. There were prophecies to fulfill, and expectations to satisfy.

There was loneliness, too. He’d had no visitors, no one to call, no one to care.

“Except you,” he said. “Thanks for talking to me.”

I didn’t say much at first, just listened a lot to this sad story, feeling him open up on the phone and share his feelings.

I responded, offering words of encouragement, hope, and concern.

I told him he was smart, creative, a nice guy. I told him I cared about him, that he was like a son to me, that he was important to me, a good part of my life.

He got quiet, and I could detect a sniffle or two, and a few sobs.

I’d come to see him, if that’s what he wanted. Oh, he did. He’d talk to his counselor and see if we could set that up.

“I don’t know if they let people here have visitors,” he said. “It’s the mental ward, you see, and I don’t know if they’d let you come.”

I told him I thought they would, if it would help him out, help him move through this rough patch in his life, help him transition to a better place, and get on with his life.

We exchanged addresses, and I gave him my cell phone number.

I promised to write to him the next day, and he said he’d write to me. We’d get together, and work on a plan for him to move on. We’d stay in touch.”

“Three years was too long, you know,” he said.

I laughed. “Yeah, I know.”

He laughed too, then, and I heard him smile finally.

I remembered his smile, the one he gave me when he played his music for me, that one special afternoon years ago, just before he aced his math class.

“Well, I’ve got to go,” he said quietly. “My phone time is up.”

“OK,” I said. It was great to talk to you. I hope you feel better. I hope you want to live.”

“Yeah, I do,” he said. “I really do. Thanks for talking to me.”

“Call again soon.”

“I will.”

I looked at the clock. Twenty minutes had passed since I’d decided to answer the call. Twenty minutes of sad stories, and sniffling, and some words of encouragement. Twenty minutes of showing up in each other’s life again, and both of us finding the good in that, each filling our hearts with that connection once again.

We all have twenty minutes a day to give to someone, to listen, to hear their story, to make a connection. We all can care about someone for twenty minutes.

That might make a big difference. It might save a life.

–Neal Lemery 10/17/2017

Simply Listening

“Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around.”

Leo Buscaglia

It is the simple things in life that are often the most meaningful.

A young man and I were working on his math. He’s been working hard and now the formulas and methodology of his algebra was making sense to him. My tutoring today consisted of listening to him explain his processes, and watch him work his problem, applying his knowledge, and seeing him find the answers.

“I think I understand this now,” he said.

Pride filled his voice, and he gave me a seldom seen smile.

“What else do you need to work on?” I said. “You’ve clearly got your math under control.

He looked down at his shoes, then out the window. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, as he pondered my question. A minute, then another passed without an answer.

He cleared his throat, finally cluing me in. His therapist needed him to make a list, a list of challenging events in his life, times when he was abused, and was abusive to others.

This would be the last barrier to complete therapy and move on with his life, to becoming free of what has burdened him, held him down.

He looked away, tears filling his eyes.

“It’s so hard,” he said. “I can’t seem to get started. I can’t write it down.”

“Hard because?” I asked.

He fell silent, still looking down. A tear ran down his cheek.

“It’s…. it’s overwhelming. There’s just so much,” he said.

We sat there, letting the heavy words fill the air. It was hard for me to breathe, the air now thick with his emotions and the weight of this task.

“Take a breath,” I said. “This is a safe place. We’ll take this on together, and work on it just like we do with math.”

“In math, one of the first steps is to write down the problem, give names to what you’re working on,” I said. “One step at a time.”

He looked at me, and I nodded. Another tear ran down his cheek. He took a deep breath, then another, re-inspecting his shoes. A few more minutes passed. He gave me a slight nod.

“I can be the writer today” I said. “I’ll be your secretary.”

He looked away, over my shoulder, and started to speak, beginning his story with the last time he was in a difficult situation, a time of chaos and pain.

I picked up my pencil and began to write on the tablet we’d used for our math, starting a fresh page.

He spoke almost in a whisper. I leaned closer, barely able to hear his words. The room was silent except for the scratchings of my pencil against the paper, and his soft words, his voice cracking and choking over them.

I gulped, feeling my own sense of revulsion, panic, horror, and angst build up in my gut, as he told one story, then another, and another.

Working backwards in his life, he moved quickly from one incident to the one before it, giving me two or three sentences, names, ages, what happened, how he reacted, how he felt. At first, it seemed jumbled, but I began to see the order, how he’d been preparing his story, rehearsing and editing it in his mind, probably for months.

He spoke fast enough that each story was only a line on my tablet, often just fragments of sentences, a first name. I wrote quickly, finding myself near the bottom of page two before he took another breath and looked down at his shoes.

Once, I had to prod, a few words of encouragement. His look told me he thought I’d be a harsh judge for this story, condemning and berating him.

“It’s OK,” I whispered. “It happened, so it needs to be on the list. No judging today.”

He took a big breath and let it out. Another long minute of silence.

The first time, I can’t remember much,” he said.

“I can’t remember,” he finally said. “I was two years old, and there was something, something with a friend of my dad’s.”

“I don’t know, but there’s something,” he said.

“It’s OK,” I said. “When you’re two, you probably don’t remember a lot, at least consciously.”

We talked about the conscious brain and the subconscious, and how different parts of the brain have different tasks, and work differently. And how we deal with trauma, and don’t deal with it very well. But, our body remembers, in ways that aren’t always clear to us.

He nodded, relating all of this to what he’d learned in therapy and his psychology classes, and in all the thinking he’d been doing.

He looked at the list, shaking his head.

“Wow, that’s a long list,” he said.

“A good list, “ I said. “You’ve done good work today,”

Our time was coming to an end, and I needed to leave.

I tore off the pages I’d written, and handed them to him.

“Here’s your list,” I said. “We’ve written it down, so you don’t have to keep it in your head any more. But, you’ll have it if you need it.”

He looked at me, penetrating deep into my eyes.

“Oh,” he said. “You mean I don’t have to keep all that inside of me, thinking about it all the time?”

“No,” I said. “You have your list, on that paper. Kind of like a grocery list, or a list of chores for the day.”

“It’s a reference, I said. “You can put it in a safe place, and refer to it if you need to.”

“And, once you’ve put words to all that, then you’ve named the problem, you’ve identified it, and you don’t have to keep thinking about it,” I said.

He nodded, and let out a big whoosh of air.

“So, the problem,” he said. “Kind of like a math problem then? Write it out, apply the formulas and work the solution, huh?”

I nodded, and he chuckled.

“Just like a math problem,” he said. “One step at a time.”

“Uh, huh,” I said. “Just like a math problem. And, you can solve it, right?”

“Yes, I can,” he said.

“Yes, I can.”

—Neal Lemery 12/19/2016

Mending the Broken Ring

Mending The Broken Ring

He was all alone. He was good at pushing other people away, and didn’t have any friends in the unit where he lived. School was a battleground, too, with him struggling with his classes and his teachers. Much of life was just a big disappointment. It always had been, I sensed, in listening to him talk about his life, as we played our games of gin rummy every week.

No one had come to see him these last several years, and family wasn’t part of his life anymore.

Several of the prison staff had asked me to start coming in to see him. I’m a volunteer. Mentor, I’m called, but my real job title is Listener.

One hard day, he was almost in tears, and even during our visit, he was shouting out insults and snarky comments to the other guys in the unit, and a staff member who stopped to say hi.

“What can I do?” I asked. “Looks like you need a little help in getting along with everyone.”

“Oh, I’m OK,” he said. He looked down at the table, and a tear rolled down his cheek.

“Just play cards with me,” he said. “That would be great.”

Just be my friend, that’s what I heard from this man child, who was trying hard not to throw down the cards and break into a long howl of misery.

I shuffled the cards and dealt a hand. He wiped his tear away and picked up his cards. He had a good hand, beating me handily. A smile crept across his face, and he looked at me.

“Thanks,” he said.

“You’re a good man,” I said. “I like to come see you.”

He nodded, his eyes glistening again. He sniffled, and took up the cards for a new game.

After that, we got along better, and he was doing better with everyone else, too. I got to see his smile again the next visit. I heard happier stories about his day at school, and what he was doing in woodshop and work crew, where he sorted trees and shrubs, getting them ready to plant along streams, helping out the young salmon.

It was good work, hard and sweaty. But, he liked it. He liked being outside, learning about plants, and helping the fish; making a difference in something bigger than himself.

We never talked much, about things other than cards. Most of my questions got one word answers, or a shoulder shrug. But, I got a big hug when I was leaving, and the cookies I brought were carefully carried away to his locker, his hand tightly clenching the box.

“I just need to show up, and be the card player, the listener,” I said to myself. “No one else comes to see Jonathan, and it’s a big deal that I’m even here.”

A few weeks ago, he greeted me at the door, the deck of cards and a score sheet in his hands.

“I can’t wait to beat you,” he said, his face lit up with a smile.

We played a few hands, and then he put the cards down, and pulled a ring off of his finger.

It was an old ring, beaten silver with a turquoise stone in the center. On the back side, the silver loop had worn through, and the silver was cracked.

He held it in his hand, with a tenderness I had never seen in him before. His eyes focused on the ring, never looking at me, as he told me its story.

It was his great grandfather’s, a present on the day he graduated from high school. When he died, his grandfather wore it, until the day he died. Jonathan remembered the ring on his grandfather’s hand, and heard him tell its story.

When Grandfather died, his father wore it on a chain around his neck. Then, when Jonathan was fifteen, just before he was arrested, his dad took it off, and was putting it into a jewelry box.

He asked his dad about the ring, and why he wasn’t going to wear it anymore.

Jonathan choked up, mumbling something about his dad not caring about the ring anymore, that it didn’t mean anything to him.

“Can I have it?” he asked his dad.

And his dad said yes, giving it to Jonathan.

There was more to that story, but I didn’t ask. I saw pain in his eyes, and it wasn’t the time or the place for me to probe.

I’m the listener, I reminded myself. Just let him talk.

After his arrest and sent to prison, his family told the prison counselor they didn’t want to see him anymore, that he didn’t exist for them now, that he wasn’t part of the family.

But Jonathan had the ring.

“It’s your only connection with your family, isn’t is?” I asked.

I teared up as his eyes glistened, and he wiped away a tear. We both nodded.

“Can you get it fixed?” he asked. “It’s broken.”

“Sure,” I said. “There’s a good jeweler in town. He’ll do a good job.”

He held on to the ring, clutching it tightly in his fist.
I pulled off my wedding ring, showing him where the jeweler had mended it, making it a little smaller, to fit my finger.

“See, he did a good job with my ring,” I said.

Jonathan nodded, then looked down.

Twenty questions later, he knew a lot more about my jeweler friend, and what it takes to mend something that’s broken. He started to hand it over to me, then pulled back, putting the ring back on his finger.

“I don’t know,” he said, finally. “I have to think about it.”

“I’ll call you tonight, after you talk to the jeweler.”

“This is all about trust, isn’t it?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said, after a pause. “Yeah.”

It was just the two of us in that room, him now alone in the world, locked up for something stupid he did when he was thirteen, and sent away to prison for four, maybe five years. And, everyone he’d ever known had walked away, leaving him to make his way, now a felon, a sex offender, the throwaway son.

I thought maybe Grandfather was there, too, the old man who let Jonathan sit on his lap, as he told him stories about great grandfather, and the ring, going to high school, and remembering good times, and a few successes in life.

When I left, the ring was still on his finger, the crack growing larger, the need to make amends and repairs still on his agenda.

A few weeks later, I showed up with some cookies, ready to play cards again. He showed me the ring again, telling me I should take it, get it repaired. After our card game, it was time for me to go. He slowly pulled the ring off of his finger, and handed it to me.

“Take good care of it,” he said. “It’s all I have of my family.”

“I know,” I said. “And, I will.”

On my way home, I stopped at the jeweler’s. Well, it was out of my way, but I was on a mission.

“It’s a beautiful old stone, real turquoise,” the jeweler said. “But, the break is beyond my talents. I’ll send it to a friend of mine. He specializes in this kind of work.”

It would take a few weeks, and he’d call me with an estimate.

Jonathan and I had talked about the cost. He was willing to spend a couple of hundred bucks. Money earned digging holes and planting trees, cutting blackberries. Hard, sweaty work, earning top prison wages, six bucks an hour.

That night, Jonathan called me, eager to hear what the jeweler said.

His voice dropped when I said it would take two weeks, and we needed an estimate.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ve had the jeweler’s friend do work on a ring. He’s a real pro.”

Jonathan’s voice was soft. I could tell he was about to cry.

“It’ll be OK,” I said. “We just have to be patient.

The next few weeks flew by, at least for me. But, every time I went out to the prison camp, Jonathan would come up to me and ask about the ring.

About a week later, the jeweler called.

“It will cost $75,” he said.

“Do it,” I said.

The price was a lot cheaper than we’d imagined. It was time to move ahead.

Jonathan was amazed at the news, and he smiled at the price.

“Oh, wow,” he said. “I really can afford that.”

A week later, the phone rang. The ring was ready. I headed into town, my mission clear.

It was beautiful, no trace of the break, the ring now complete, whole. What was a torn gash was now a shiny clean band of silver, looking new. I slipped it into my pocket, and headed off to the prison, hauling precious cargo, family treasure.

“I have the ring,” I said, as I walked through the door.

“Let’s see,” he almost shouted.

The other youths gathered around. The ring had been a topic of his for almost a month now, and we circled around for the unveiling.

Jonathan tore open the small brown envelope, then paused to slowly pull open the tissue paper that was wrapped around the ring. His ring. His great-grandfather’s ring. His treasure.

It sparkled in the light, as he held it in his palm, carefully turning it this way and that, examining its newness with an intensity deserving of its treasured status.

“It’s beautiful,” he shouted.

Everyone else agreed, nodding with relief.

The treasure was back home.

“It fits perfectly,” he exclaimed.

He held his hand up, and then thrust it in the face of anyone who was willing to take a closer look.

He smiled, again, and let out a whoosh of air.

“Ah,” he said. “I got my ring back.”

Everyone smiled, as he danced around the room, clutching his ring to his chest.

This week, we’re playing cards again. I’m sure we’ll talk about the ring, and how wonderful it is now, all mended and shiny. And how it fits perfectly on his finger.

He’ll worry about me getting the check from the prison, his hard earned money paying me back.

But, I’ve already been paid, several times over. And, so has the jeweler. I told him Jonathan’s story, about his great-grandfather, and everyone else in the family, and how the ring is the only thing left for Jonathan when it comes to family.

The jeweler choked up and shook his head. And, I did too, on my drive out to the prison, thinking about that young man and what he has left in this world to remember his family by, about being broken and mended, and the lessons we’ve all learned.

The ring is whole now, just like when Great Grandfather wore it. It’s shiny and bright, just like new, just like Jonathan’s heart.

–Neal Lemery 4/25/16

Restringing

Together, we tear open the packages of new strings, gingerly remove the old strings, and replace them with new ones, all shiny and bright. The new strings don’t come with directions, and folks who buy violin strings are probably presumed to know what they are doing. Trial and error become reliable teachers, and our first experience in restringing a violin soon brings results.

He tightens each string, checking the tuning, a smile creeping over his face as he realizes his violin now has a clearer, brand new tone. Yes, he can do this. He can restring his violin, a new task is learned, and a big accomplishment is made.

The violin has been a good teacher these last few months, offering challenges, and stretching his fingers and his fascination with making music with a bow, strings, and a centuries old design. My friend, “Jim”, is finding his voice with this violin, a place to put his emotions, and his fears. He’s getting out of prison in eight months, and there’s a lot of fear in him now, about how to live, and how to be a man on the “outside”, for the first time in his young life. Six years is a long time behind bars, especially when you are twenty three.

His grandfather’s gift of the violin has brought him some genuine excitement, and a place for his emotions, his love for creating something beautiful. He is finding a voice for his soul to spread its wings and soar.

We work quietly, offering each other suggestions, each contributing a finger to hold a string, or add a bit of tension, only a word here and there to solve a problem of a reluctant tip of a wire string, or finding the correct direction to turn a tuning peg, the right groove for that particular string.

He retunes and retightens, again and again, as the new strings stretch, now becoming part of the violin, part of the whole of what he tenderly holds in his arms and under his chin, his bow finding its place, creating new notes, clean and bright.

We were supposed to work on our weekly task, reading comprehension and vocabulary for his college entrance tests. He kept failing the tests on the computer, and was getting frustrated. He’d seen me helping other young men here with their studies, and had finally screwed up his courage enough to ask me for some help.

In the past two months, we’d been faithful to our task, making progress, but today was different. As soon as I walked into the multi-purpose room for the prison camp, and its eclectic chaos of books, videos, craft supplies, a few beat up guitars, and “Jim”’s violin, he talked excitedly about everything but our work. He was a tea kettle getting ready to boil.

Our stringing task complete, I’m thinking we could get our studying done. But, the water’s still hot and “Jim” is ready to unload on something else. We move on to a new topic, and soon he is showing me photos of his family, and telling me their stories, and the stories of his young life, stories he’s never shared with me.

There’s the grandfather who sent him the violin, smiling, picking his guitar.

“He’s real proud of me, for working so hard on the violin,” he says. “I got to talk to him on the phone the other day, first time in a year.”

As he flips through the album, he lets me deeper into his life, sharing some more sad stories, some of his pain, his worries about people he loves, and who he really might be, inside.

And, finally, the last page of the album, the real reason he’s emotional today. He lets me inside of his heart, and shares a deep, sad story, so intense and personal that the details, the intimacy, aren’t to be shared with anyone else. Yet, he trusts me to listen, to hear his story, and why he is so sad, and on edge today.

I want to find a corner and cry my eyes out, the pain in “Jim”’s voice filling me with sorrow. But, I have to keep listening, No one else is.

It’s a matter of fact tale, just part of his young life, just what he has had to experience. I lean in, and listen hard, my few questions telling him I’m really listening, really paying attention to him, and his Divine Comedy, taking me deeper and colder than Dante’s version of the deepest part of Hell.

We’ve gone so far today, from mentor and prisoner, to tutor and student, to amateur violin restringer and tuner, to spiritual surgeons, working on a broken heart. My job now becomes the listener, the friend, the other human being in the room who gives a damn about this young man and his pain.

He tells his story, letting me hear his pain, and his deep love for what he had in his arms, and then lost, and how he has gained from all of that, and become a loving, good man, at peace with God, and content in his life. Oh, there is still some bitterness and some righteous anger, but instead of poisoning his soul, he uses all that to feed his soul, and nurture his gentle, peaceful spirit, and give himself guidance and purpose in his life.

There are angels in this room now, surrounding us, and filling this space with love and a sense of serenity and comfort. I think “Jim” senses them, too, and his shoulders drop, and he is, at last, becoming at peace with his story he has just shared. In the telling, he has found some acceptance, and compassion, some support in his journey. He is not alone, now, in that story, that part of his life that nearly pulled his heart out of his chest.

I grab him and hold him close, and he holds me tight, and sobs, at last. Together, we grieve, the soothing words we both need now not spoken, but filling the room, and healing his heart, resounding loudly in our souls. What I try to give to him now comes not from me, as much as it comes from the angels in our midst, the air heavy with the unconditional love of the universe.

Our time is up, now, and I have to go. We’ve worked on our vocabulary, the words that really matter today, and we’ve restrung a violin, giving both “Jim” and his violin a new, brighter voice. We’ve put in some new heart strings, too, giving me a chance to love this young man a little harder, a little deeper today, giving him some space to play his songs, and be loved.

—Neal Lemery
4/10/2014

Healing

“Until you heal the wounds of your past, you are going to bleed. You can bandage the bleeding with food, with alcohol, with drugs, with work, with cigarettes, with sex; but eventually, it will all ooze through and stain your life. You must find the strength to open the wounds, stick your hands inside, pull out the core of the pain that is holding you in your past, the memories and make peace with them.”
—-Iyanla Vanzant

Today, I am healing from surgery, from lasers cutting eyelid skin, sutures lifting and resizing my eyelids, restoring my peripheral vision. I am healing so that I can experience the world in a richer, more complete way.

This morning, I walked down the lane, greeting the early morning sky with a new enthusiasm, with literally a new vision of the new day. I am re-experiencing the miracle of sight, and of experiencing the world.

Now, my task is to heal. I rest, I sleep, I eat healthy foods, I manage my pain, and I tend to my wounds. All of my day’s tasks is focused on my healing from my surgery. Time is on my side, as I rest and heal, and do the work that is needed to do to recover, to take care of my body, and to celebrate the precious gift of sight.

As I lay back, ice pack on my eyes, letting the cold sink into the skin, into my head, into the wounds, I let the miracle of the cold bring fresh blood to the wounds, more nutrients, more of my life force. My nature is to seek warm, to be comforted by heat, to soak up the sun and bask in the cozy comfort of my bed, reveling in the last bit of drowziness before my day begins.

Yet, it is the cold, the adversity, that brings the healing. To be tested, to be on the edge, and to have to struggle a bit, against the cold, that makes my body stronger, that brings the healing energies I need.

This process is a metaphor of my struggles as a man, to be able to see my wounds, and to take the steps I need to heal, and to be a complete, whole man.

As I grew up, and as I lived through childhood, teenage life, adolescence, and young adulthood, I was wounded. I struggled, and my questions of who I was and what I was all about were unanswered, even mocked, ridiculed. I faced violence, indifference, degradation, and falsehoods. I was led into the wilderness, and then laughed at when I became lost, uncertain as to where I should walk to find my future, my sense of place, my sense of being in this world.

Love of self, and love of others remained a mystery to me, and I was left in the cold, unsure of who I was, unsure of what my role in this world was to be. I was lost and needed to be found, and to find myself.

Those wounds did not bleed like the wounds on my eyes this week. Those wounds were not so easily treated, with sutures, and salves, and the healing powers and potions of my surgeons and nurses. Those wounds were not easily cleansed by sleep, and food, and the loving care of my family.

Yet, those wounds were the most painful, and the most dehumanizing. I was led to believe they did not exist, yet they were the most infectious, the most unnerving, the hardest to treat.

Other men embraced me, encouraging me to push my shoulders back, to open my eyes, and embrace these wounds, and to embrace the challenges of becoming a whole man, a healthy man, a man who has his place in the world, and a destiny to fulfill.

Yes, I am a good person, I am a child of God, I am healthy, and strong, and I have purpose in my life. I have a place in this planet, and I am valued. I am important, and capable of fulfilling my destiny.

I have work to do. I have missions to accomplish. I have tasks to complete, and I am called to be a citizen of the world, and to do good in my life. And, in preparing for that work, in undertaking that work, I must tend to my wounds, and I must do the healing that is needed in order to be healthy, to be strong.

Real health, and real strength comes from embracing my manhood, from seeing my wounds, and treating them. It is my task to open them, and let the pus and infection drain away, and then it is time for the healing. I have a duty to heal, and to give time to myself to be tender with myself, to clean the infection, and to medicate myself with unconditional love and understanding, with acceptance, and with a friendship with God, so that I become healed.

Others helped me. Others showed me the paths to take, and the medications to use. Others offered advice and direction, and comfort. But, most of all, they offered me unconditional love and acceptance, of who I was, and who I was becoming. They accepted me on my journey, and offered support, and kindness, and understanding. They offered patience with me, giving me time to grow, and to heal.

The real work was done deep inside of me. I needed time and confidence, I needed to find my own tools, and to learn how to use them. I needed to go deep, and to connect with God, and to find who I am really am.

I needed to be on my journey, and to take on the leadership that my soul needed to move ahead in life. I am the captain of my ship, and I needed to take the wheel, and to sail through the storms, and to plot my course to the safe harbors. Yet, I needed to be tested and to discover, for myself, that I am strong, that I am capable, that I am filled with love, and that, if I put my soul into a struggle, then I will succeed, and I will find my destiny.

Today, I heal. Today, I move on, learning, accepting, meeting the challenges of today. Today, I embrace my manhood, my humanity, my cloak of being a child of God. I am loved, and I am loving. I know my destiny.

—-Neal Lemery, 2/21/2014

Candlelight: A Story Teller Visits the Youth Prison

We gather in a circle, to hear from the story teller who has quietly appeared among us. His quiet presence is greeted with respect; admiration for his time with us six months ago, his quiet message of hope, and healing, and his wisdom.

We share an opening prayer, a sense of being at peace with the universe, and with our souls. And, a sense of coming together.

Each of us is invited to tell our names, where we had come from, and a bit about our own journeys. All of our experiences, all of who we were, and are, and are becoming, are welcomed into this circle. The chaos of our lives, our pain, our joys, are all welcomed and accepted, without limits.

In this prison, there are many stories of tragedy and pain, loss and suffering. Some of those experiences are given voice today, in this circle, and are accepted and acknowledged. There is no blame, no judgement today; only acceptance and compassion. And, in the telling, there is healing, perhaps a sense of understanding and forgiveness.

In my community, there are many prisons. But, when I come here, I can see the physical fences, and the locked doors. At least when I come here, the walls and the barriers to freedom are obvious. For so many away from here, their walls and locks take other forms, and may not even be known to those who are locked away by the prisons in their lives.

Some of the young men offer a hint of the pain in their lives, the violence, the drugs, the abandonment and anger; the absence of community. Others nod in agreement; such pain is so common in this place of acknowledgement and healing. They are here to change. And in that work, they find direction and hope. They do this together, united for a common purpose. In this place, being aware of the possibility for change, for unconditional love, is part of the air they breathe.

The storyteller’s visit is part of that change, that opening of doors to understanding, to acceptance, to personal salvation and love.

Several young men offer their gifts of song, opening their hearts, and touching our lives with the beauty of the moment and their own journeys.

Others offer a wooden staff to the leader of the drumming circles here. She comes here and leads us in prayer and song, giving the young men, and me, her unconditional love and guidance through troubled seas. The staff, adorned with beads, and feathers, and other symbols of hope and love, is a gift back to her of what she has given here. Their decorations and gifts and blessing of the staff fills the room with that sense of community. We pass the staff around the circle, each of us offering a blessing, a wish, an acknowledgement of the power of others to change our lives. The power of that sharing and healing fills all of our hearts with love.

The story teller told us of his life, and his sister’s recent death. He spoke of the tragedies in her life, and how, through all the pain and loss, she still loved people unconditionally. His loss and his pain are mirrored in the faces of the young men gathered in the circle. A sense of knowing that pain, and compassion for others grows in the room. This place is safe now, a sacred place for being in that pain, and having our own sparks of humanity accepted.

Unconditional love is his message today. In his native stories and tales, in his words about his own life, the message is repeated.

In our lives, and our experiences, and in our pain and sufferings, we are preparing ourselves for the work ahead. There will be times when our presence, and our unconditional love for others, will change lives. What we are going through now is merely preparation for the gift giving we will do in the future.

One young man offers a song in memory of the storyteller’s sister, filling us all with sadness and hope and a bit of that unconditional love.

Others give voice to their struggles, their anger, their work to become healthy men.

The storyteller leads us in a dance around the circle, holding hands, all moving to a drum beat, singing an ancient, timeless song. In movement, we become one; there are no leaders and no followers. We became community, accepting and united.

Stories are told, letting us nod and laugh together, hearing his tales, and joining together in the acknowledgment of his story. His work brings us together, to a feeling of being one, of each of us having value, of being accepted for who we are, right now. And, again, judgement is suspended. Unconditional love lights up the room.

Telling our stories is what we need to do in our lives. In our stories, and in the stories of others, we find acceptance, and we find community. As we drum together, sing together, and listen to our stories, we come together. We are one.

In my heart, I touch my own pain, my own losses, my own doubts and fears. The storyteller’s songs of love and acceptance, and of his own pain and his own journey through life brings me renewal. That spark of humanity, of the power and force of love as a healer, as a single candle that can light the entire room, is fed by his quiet presence in our lives.

In all of our eyes today, I see acceptance, reconciliation, forgiveness, and unity in all of what we experience in our humanity. We become a stronger community, telling our stories, finding acceptance and hope.

–Neal Lemery 11/4/2012