Post Traumatic Growth

Posted on by stilllearning2b

One of my husband’s “ah-ha” moments came in his early adulthood when he caught a snippet of an Oprah show. The guests that day were two brothers who had endured horrific abuse during their childhoods. One became the epitome of success, applying discipline and intentional effort to all areas of his life, which resulted in a fulfilling career and marriage. The other turned to drugs and crime to fuel his addictions. By all measures, his life was tragic and wasted.

Oprah asked each brother in turn, “Why did you make the decisions that you did?”

Both brothers answered the same, “I had no choice.”

But that’s not really true, is it? They had no choice, no agency, when it came to the abuse they suffered. The damage caused was real and significant for both of the men. Yet as they left childhood and began to make their own lives, they did have a choice –

They could allow what happened to become a limitation, using the damage as an excuse to whither and self-destruct.

Or, they could choose to view the traumatic childhood as a trial, a training ground to learn how to avoid falling into those same unhealthy patterns and instead, grow from the experience.

I highly doubt that even the successful brother looks back upon his childhood with fondness. I suspect that even while he attributes some of his fortitude and wisdom to the abuse he suffered, he still would not excuse the actions of his parents or wish the same on others. However, he probably understands that good things can come from bad situations and that, while he was helpless as a child, he is not helpless now.

I think sometimes we conflate growing from trauma with excusing the trauma. As though by finding positive change we are discounting the impact of whatever happened to us. It can be challenging to hold both things true at once – it was horrible and yet it also provides opportunity for growth – yet that is so often the case. Using trauma as a springboard for positive change doesn’t mean the actions that hurt you are okay; it means that you are determined to be okay despite the actions.

Nobody would ever choose trauma as a mechanism for growth. We all would prefer to learn to swim under the patient and kind tutelage of a coach, yet sometimes the tsunami forces us to learn before we are ready. We can allow ourselves to go under, cursing the relentless wave, or we can use it an opportunity to learn how to paddle like hell in order to keep our heads above water.

You DO have a choice.

You cannot change what happened.

But you can change how you view it.

Is it going to drown you or train you?

 

Forgiving Yourself

Posted on by stilllearning2b

I’ve done some dumb things. 

Some things I’m not proud of.

And some that I’m embarrassed about.

 

I’ve made bad decisions.

Followed by worse ones.

And held tightly to some bad assumptions.

 

I’ve inadvertently hurt those I’ve loved.

Made others feel badly.

And neglected to own up to my faults.

 

I could get mad at my former iterations; berate myself for my shortcomings and mistakes. Goodness knows, I did plenty of that when I learned that my ex husband had me completely fooled.

 

Or, I could see those earlier versions of myself as steps along the way, focusing on making minor adjustments based on previous experiences.

 

 

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We had dinner with an old friend the other night. He went through a bad breakup – after a bad relationship – several years ago. He still sees his ex periodically and he mentioned how much these encounters still impact him. Interestingly, the emotional reactions are not due to lingering feelings for her or residual sadness from the breakup.

The negative response is because she reminds him of who he was several years ago. And not only does our friend not like his old self, the fact that he was that person results in anger.

He has forgiven his ex.

He has yet to forgive himself.

 

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I loved my husband’s response to this proclamation, “Without blue belt Brock, there would be no black belt Brock. I sucked back then. I knew nothing and made stupid mistakes. But if I hadn’t been through that, I wouldn’t have been able to become a black belt.”

Wow. Truth right there.

 

We are all experiential learners.

 

No child walks with confidence the first time they stand. Adolescents endure plenty of awkward make-out sessions before they learn how to kiss. Pilots train on virtual planes so that their mistakes have little impact in the real world. Apple had to come out with some pretty clunky versions of computers before they could develop the sleeker machines they are now known for.

We learn by doing, making mistakes and trying again. And getting mad at ourselves for not getting it right the first time is as silly as yelling at a toddler for falling down on their initial attempt at walking.

That past version of you was a necessary step for this current version of you.

If we commit to punishing ourselves for what has happened in the past, we leave little energy for improvement. When we forgive ourselves for our past mistakes, we allow ourselves the opportunity to learn and improve.

 

Forgive yourself for what you have done. Don’t excuse yourself from doing better.

 

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Forest Fire

Posted on by stilllearning2b

Smokey the Bear tells us that only we can prevent forest fires.

But that’s not really true.

I mean we can avoid throwing lit cigarettes on top of dry pine needles and we can faithfully cover our campfires with dirt before retiring for the night. But those measures won’t stop the errant spark from catching a ride on a gust of wind. They won’t redirect the lightening’s path away from the dead wood that riddles a mature forest. Even the professionals, with their fire breaks and controlled burns can’t really stop forest fires. They can only hope to mitigate their damage.

Because forest fires are an inevitable part of nature and nature always has its way.

We tend to focus on the destructive properties of the fire. And certainly, when fire and civilization intersect, the results can be devastating. The loss is apparent in every charred stump, the once verdant forest transformed into an alien wasteland.

We focus on the loss because it is what we feel acutely. It is sudden and catastrophic. We cannot help but contrast the blackened skeletons with their once proud and rich forms.

But the fire is more than an ending. It is a beginning.

The conflagration clears away the dead and dying trees, making room for the seeds protected just below the soil to begin their journey to the sun. The blackened trunks enrich the soil, replacing nutrients that had been leached for centuries. Any illness that may have gripped the forest is extinguished with the flames, allowing an opportunity for new and healthy growth to emerge.

I’ve begun to see my divorce as a forest fire. Devastating. Destructive. Inevitable. Yet also cleansing, burning away all that was dead or dying or diseased. Leaving behind richer soil and brighter sun to nourish even better growth. And I’ve now gone from wandering lost through the charred stumps of the old growth to reveling in the beauty of the new.

So even though Smokey is wrong and we cannot prevent every forest fire, we can do our part and when they do happen, we can strive to see the potential hidden just beneath the newly exposed earth.

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Are You Pot Bound In Your Life?

Posted on by stilllearning2b

When I first started gardening, I was timid with my new plants. I would very gently ease them out of their nursery pots, cutting away at any plastic that was bound too tightly. I would carefully tease apart the roots, unwinding them from their circular pot-shaped path and tenderly place the new acquisition in its meticulously prepared hole. Then I would water and wait, assured that the foliage would soon attain the glorious heights featured in the magazines.

Sometimes I lucked out and the plant survived.

But, more often than not, those early attempts at gardening failed. The plants would appear to thrive for a period of time and then they would begin to wither and die.

I didn’t understand. After all, I had selected the right plants for the conditions. I prepared the soil. I watered judiciously. I babied the plant.

I thought I was doing everything right.

But still they failed to thrive.

Throughout this time, I kept trying. New plants. New locations. And finally, a new nursery. I discovered a discount seller that offered small plants at amazing prices. I made a shopping list, covered the interior of my car in blue tarps and came home with over 100 individual plants. It was impossible to baby them all. There was no way I could gently tease the overgrown roots from the plastic pots without damage. My new strategy was to squeeze or thump the pot to release the soil and then to slide the new plant on its side on the bare soil. Then, instead of carefully unwinding the roots, I would use my trowel to quickly make four clean, vertical cuts along the root ball before placing the plant in its new home. The tender loving care was replaced with a quick message that the plant was no longer bound to its pot. The roots were told to spread. To explore. To anchor and find sustenance from the surrounding soil.

I watered and I waited. And the plants grew. And grew. Not one fell victim to the precedent of early growth followed by slow death. Just to be sure that the results were not due to some factor related to the nursery, I applied that same planting technique to plants acquired from other sources and the results were equally as positive.

I came to realize that my early attempts were misguided; the gentle unwinding of the roots was not a strong enough message to the plant. When I pulled up the struggling foliage, I found that the roots had resumed their former pot bound growth pattern, becoming a congested gnarled cylindrical knot, incapable of providing the plant with the nourishment it needed. The boundary was no longer present, yet the plants acted as though they were still constrained.

Do you ever feel stuck?

Do you feel constrained by perceived boundaries?

Do you ever feel like you’re growing in circles?

Are you pot bound in your own life?

In retrospect, I can see this pattern in my former marriage. My world became too small, too constrained. I was looking for nourishment and support within a small space. The divorce was more battle axe than trowel upon my exposed roots, but it certainly served to send me the message that it was okay to spread. To grow. To leave the perceived security of the known.

We are only pot bound when we believe that we are limited by our perceptions and beliefs. When we are afraid of growing too far and too fast. Sometimes it takes a strong message to release our roots from their accustomed path. Sometimes it takes some injury and pain to shock the system into a new way of being.

Don’t fear the cut of the trowel; it’s just the universe sending you the message that it’s okay to grow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Garden

Posted on by stilllearning2b
English: Rhododendron in The Roughs These purp...
Image via Wikipedia

In my old life I had a garden.

When we first moved into our home, the 1 acre yard was a motley medley of scraggly grass and tenacious weeds; too wet to mow and too shady for grass to thrive.  It was a blank canvas.  Slowly, I began to paint, using the medium of small starter plants, tree seedlings obtained from the forestry department, and cuttings and divisions nurtured from friends and neighbors.

I had a vision of a magical woodland retreat, filled with the soft haze of ferns and the subtle flowers of the understory.  For years, this image existed only in my head, the reality of small, young plants planted in a vast, weed-strewn yard looked nothing like a garden.  I spent hours on the weekends and after work attacking weeds and planting replacements.  On days when the weather was prohibitive, I would research plants and growing conditions.  I made annual treks to a budget nursery in a nearby town, filling my car to the bursting points with dreams held in the bright green folds of new growth.

But slowly, it emerged.  I watched 2 foot bald cypress saplings grow to 30 foot trees.  Ferns and hostas spread their roots far and wide under the protective shade of the understory.  Hydrangea proudly held their blooms high, as though no longer ashamed of their companions.  Colors would come and go throughout the weeks: daylilies, Lenten rose, iris, geraniums, azaleas.  Their spectacular shows provided endless variety and interest.

From February through November, I would begin most every day with a walk along the stone path, through the pergolas, and over the boardwalk.  Examining the new growth,watching the wildlife, reveling in the beauty of the plants.  On the weekends, I would bring my papers to grade out to one of the hammocks to enjoy the breezes through the leaves and the interplay of light and shadow.

In my old life I had a garden.

It was painful to walk away from my plants, nurtured for so many years.  I found myself staring at plants around town wistfully, thinking of their counterparts in my yard.  As with much of my transition, it was painful, but also freeing.  I no longer had to worry about the assaults of deer, the dangers of a last freeze, or the effects of a flood.  My weekends were not filled with weeding.  My hands no longer frozen from the cold February soil.

But still, I mourned my plants.  I purchased a pass to the botanical gardens and promised myself a monthly visit.  Now, I walk their perfectly manicured paths and appreciate the beauty created by teams of professionals.  The gardens are stunning, but it’s not the same as one created by my own labor.  My own dreams.

In my old life I had a garden.

The last few years, my nurturing energies have been turned inwards, helping myself to grow and thrive.  I have tried to eliminate the weeds, start new plantings, and encourage growth.  I have become my own garden.

And, now, with home ownership again on the horizon, I look forward to creating a new garden, filled with both familiar and untried plants. A testament to the persistence of life and the beauty of growth.

American Eastern Redbud Tree (Cercis canadensis)
Image via Wikipedia