So… – Spinster Life

I was thinking about nothing in particular. Not entirely random. Just bits and pieces of musings.

One thing that came up and smacked me was the death of Alice Munro and the subsequent revelations of her daughter’s sexual assault by her stepfather. Whoa!!

First off, when I read of Munro’s passing I went and searched way up on the high shelves in the den to find four volumes of her stories. It had been years and years since I had even thought of them.

Rereading cover to cover over the coming days I discovered that the stories didn’t really speak to me any longer. I have traveled far from the more than twenty years since my first encounter. Back then they were a revelation.

Then this news of the sexual assault and the news that Alice Munro did not protect her daughter. The news triggered some old shadows. I was an unprotected daughter. I felt sick. I put the books back on the high up shelf. I took a walk.

In the ensuing days I did some gentle revisiting of my own trauma. I’m always amazed at how long the charge has lived in my body. How it can bubble up and demand my attention. Sixty years from the actual events I have traveled far.

What do I notice? That I have really learned to notice and name the old energy trying to churn. All the years of “working” myself free, all the years of self medication and extreme addiction to drama, 12 steps, therapy, yoga, more therapy then TRE and self regulation. Finally, finally an arsenal of tools!! All the years of learning to notice and sit with some discomfort have wrought freedom and comfort. You gotta stay on the path to get anywhere at all.

Today I am safe. My mother never knew what happened. I didn’t really even “know” until she had died. So, of course the story is different. But the trauma of not being safe is, I imagine, the same.

It has taken me weeks to get some of this written down. It also occurred to me in rereading a few of the stories, that Munro herself may have been abused and had channeled her trauma into the stories. It seemed to me that perhaps not only was it a way for her to cope but somehow normalize the abuse in such a way as to choose a partner that mirrored her experience. She may have felt unable to confront him and defend her daughter because it was a reliving of her own past that she hadn’t faced except in a story.? Maybe? Still. Still. Deep breath here, in through the nose, out through the mouth.

Take a break. Here’s a photo of a crazy bug that my student and I saw the other day. We were on an, “Urban Release Retreat”. It’s called, a wheel bug.

It’s a rainy morning. Sunday. I feel safe. Grateful. To be alive and sober. For a cup of strong coffee. For the park and the beach. For a bit of work. For a few students that trust the process. For the willingness to show up and be of good cheer. For the birds and all these books. For my teachers. For this apartment.