Panic Attacks and Unexpected Grace

 

I’m sitting on the couch when it comes, cycling through my usual websites with a growing sense of dread.  I feel frozen, unable to move on to something else even though I know I need to. 

A wave of heat washes over my body, rising up my back, my neck, engulfing my head and then searing with an intensity I find hard to believe.  Is this what a hot flash feels like?  My heart rate jumps and the heat is followed by fear; fear of panic, a fear so dark it’s like the fear of fear itself.  

“Maybe nothing has changed, maybe it will never get better,” these are the words the darkness whispers. 

This is the beginning of my first full-on panic attack since leaving the psychiatric hospital. 

I sit frozen, afraid to move, trying to stay calm, afraid I won’t be able to move.  My children are upstairs resting in their daily “quiet time” and the time I have to deal with this is limited. 

I shut the computer, place it on its shelf.  I get up and head to the kitchen to busy myself washing dishes or moving laundry from washer to dryer.  

Passing a window I see the vegetable garden, nearly spent, a riot of decay sitting at the bottom of the yard’s gentle slope.  Waves of squash beetles tore through our zucchini and cucumber plants then moved on to the winter squash and watermelons, their destruction leaving me furious and overwhelmed.  The tomato plants, poorly staked, lean and sprawl, hap-hazard yet clinging to their heavy fruit. 

The garden draws me through the kitchen, past the laundry and out into the wide open green laid out beneath a sky of blue.  I walk among the tomatoes picking their luscious fruit, some over-ripe, some not yet fully red.  The plants are broken and bent, but bearing still and moving among them I’m surprised by the yield.  A pile of red grows in the green grass as I work my way around the garden, the picked fruit creating a border to the chaos and decay. 

Bending, breaking vines, I feel the shadows of anxiety moving still around the edges of me, like wisps of a spider’s web.  

The sky is blue, the sun is warm and there are too many tomatoes to carry, so I fetch the red metal wagon, pulling it down to the garden’s edge.  It fills with tomatoes like the disciples nets were filled with fish, unexpectedly.  God is there with me in the garden, in the abundance of the soft red fruit, in the overflow of sunlight and sky, this much is easy to see. 

But I cling to the truth that God is also with me on the dark leather sofa, in the heat and darkness, in the fear and the fear of fear itself; God’s love displacing the fear.  

This vine will not be cut down despite whatever decimation may come.  Though broken and bent, I will cling to the fruit that this season also may bear witness to the One who planted me, who tends my life through seasons of both abundance and decay.  And when this season also passes, I will be surprised by the fruit that comes, like always, as unexpectedly as grace. 

This post is linked with Unforced Rhythms and Playdates with God. 

 

Even More Undignified (a Poem and a Playdate)

What is serious to men is often trivial in the sight of God. What in God might appear to us as "play" is perhaps what He Himself takes most seriously. At any rate, the Lord plays and diverts himself in the garden of His creation, and if we could let go of our own obsession with what we think is the meaning of it all, we might be able to hear His call and follow Him in His mysterious, cosmic dance. . . . we are invited to forget ourselves on purpose, cast our awful solemnity to the winds, and join in the general dance." - Thomas Merton in New Seeds of Contemplation

“I will become even more undignified than this.” - King David regarding his dancing half-naked in the streets (2 Samuel 6:22).  

You ride in large loops circling 

the L-shaped curve of the driveway. 
Perched on your tall, blue bike,
it's pedal, pedal, pedal, coast and turn 
in that small space under the Indian-summer 
sky.  There’s a kitten zipped into your hoodie, 
black face and whiskers peaking out as you 
pedal, pedal, pedal, coast and turn. 

Right there, between the green grass 
and ceiling of blue, you feel the freedom 
and joy that has been missing for too long.  
Not only do you feel it but, for once, 
you value it, holding it as a prize, 
a pearl of great price.  The Day Care parents 
come and go next door, moving from work 
to work and you – soaring under the golden 
sky, the soft fur of a sweet being warm 
against your chest – you don’t care who sees.   

Laura Boggess' new book Playdates with God: Hvaing a Childlike Faith in a Grownup World was released this week.  Are you ready to meet God with the heart of a child?  Visit her blog where she is blogging 31 Days of Playdates  for the month of October.

 This is our other kitten, all zipped up happy and snug in my hoodie while I work on cooking dinner.  The other night she sat on my shoulder for a long time watching me peel potatoes.  The joy of kittens is restoring, for me, some of the joy of my childhood and for that I'm deeply grateful. 

Playdates With God (Book Review)

Laura Boggess' weekly link-up, Playdates With God was one of the first I discovered when I started blogging back in 2012.  Since then I've been a devoted follower of both her writing and her community.  I'm very excited to share with you the much anticipated release of her book, Playdates with God.

Here's what I had to say about Playdates in my review on Amazon:

Laura tells the story of the invitation she received to become "like a little child." Drawn by God, she explores and opens herself to a world of wonder, presence and deep joy and, in her telling, we find ourselves also invited, led and drawn into the depths. Laura's prose is poetic and her experiences of care-free play are balanced by deep and broad research into the bible, science, and psychology. Scripture says, "a little child shall lead them," Laura is one of those little ones, leading us all into deeper presence and joy as followers of a playful, loving God.  

Laura's heart is that of a poet, a mystic and, above all, a devoted follower of God.  If you find yourself lost and numb in your faith, hoping to rediscover a sense of wonder and belovedness, maybe the answer isn't more work, more striving, more sacrifice, but actually more play.  

I want to invite you to check out what others are saying about this book at Amazon and to consider ordering it NOW as I'm hoping it will be the next book discussed in our Field of Wild Flowers Book Club
beginning in January. 

Laura is also blogging daily Playdates over at her blog for the entire month of October.  Visit her there to get a taste of her wonder and deep ability to sense and communicate the presence of God in daily life.  

Every New Arrival (Lazarus)

 

In mid August I spent some time in a local Behavioral Health Hospital due to the sudden onset of severe panic attacks.  I continue to write about it as a way of processing the experience.

 

Every new arrival receives the same tour – 

here's your room, your room mate.

This is the nurses’ station, the meds window; 

here's the bathroom and shower,

a towel and washcloth, a blanket, 

all bleached white.  

The newest is heavyset, balding, 

with stringy dark hair.  He wears jeans

and hospital-issue paper top, 

the kind they hand out in the ER

when the clothes you wore upon arrival 

were torn or bloodstained. 

He carries the rest of his belongings 

in a brown paper bag tucked under one arm. 

A shower is the first order of business 

for every new arrival, then meds. 

Standing behind him at the window 

I notice the band aids on his wrists.

No one is ready for eye contact 

on their first day, each one jittery 

like a wild animal, trapped and wary. 

But on the day I will be discharged

he shows up in Group and tells us all his name.   

His words come slow like his voice has gotten lost 

somewhere deep within his body, a small sound that fell 

deep into a chasm of fear or pain or despair, but now 

he speaks, sitting at the end of the table, 

every syllable a step toward resurrection.

He is Lazarus, we all are, here in this tomb 

of dying and learning to live again,

and the therapist at the opposite end 

of the table calls us out each by name. 

This post is linked with Playdates With God  and Unforced Rhythms.

The Woods (a poem)

Within you dwells a wood - 
there are trails, some old and overgrown,
others fresh-cut and, between them, wide
open spaces filled with untamed growth.

In those woods you are every age
you have ever been, every age you will be.
Those woods walk up the mountain and over 
the other side; those woods go on forever.  

In them stand ancient trees, sturdy, scarred
and thick.  Those woods whisper
your name, "Be who you are,"
they sigh, "this is all that was ever needed."

Photo source: Here.
Inspired by the woods and mountains at God's Whisper Farm.

Dear Anxiety (A Conversation with Anxiety)

      

In mid-August, the sudden onset of severe panic attacks landed me in the hospital for several days.  Since then I've continued to struggle with generalized anxiety, although medication is helping.  Walking through this experience I continue to reflect and wonder about the roll of anxiety in my life.  This post is a result of some of that work. 
 
        After the hours of careful listening, my therapist offered 

        an image that helped me, eventually to reclaim my life. 

        "You seem to look upon depression as the hand of an 

        enemy trying to crush you,” he said.  “Do you think you 

        could see it instead as the hand of a friend, pressing you 

        down to ground on which it is safe to stand?”

        Amid the assaults I was suffering, the suggestion that 

        depression was my friend seemed impossibly romantic, 

        even insulting. But something in me knew that down, to 

        the ground, was the direction of wholeness for me, and 

        something in me allowed that image to begin its slow 

        work of healing. - Parker Palmer in "Let Your Life Speak: 

        Listening for the Voice of Vocation"

Dear Anxiety:

I don’t want to talk to you, deal with you, or look you directly in the eye.  The fact is, at this point, I’m scared of you.

But I also realize that you are nothing.  You are absence, the open, empty space between.  Or maybe that’s just where you dwell, like a dark shadow creeping through cracks, the chill winter wind finding its way in, always.  

That’s where we’ve met most often – as I step from one thing to the next, you rise up in the pause between inhale and exhale, in the moment between departure and arrival.  I learned a long time ago to watch for you, warily, in times of transition.  On occasion I’ve fended you off, outwitted you and though you stalked, I felt no fear. 

Maybe that’s because, in those times, I know the game’s afoot and I accept you as part of the process, the way shadows and deepening night are not their own phenomena, but are only an indication of the earth's movement in relation to the sun.   

Enough, though, you’re here and you know how you work, I don’t need to explain it to you.  Have your piece, will you?  What is it you’re trying to say?

//

Anxiety's Reply: 
 
I saw you, dear one, hanging like a spider on its silken thread, blown by the slightest wind as you journeyed.  Hang on!  I wanted to shout.  Be careful!  Take ease! Your soul is in transition.  Though your outward life is settled, your soul is undergoing a transformation.  

It was as though the ground shook and you did not notice, as though the sun was blinded and you continued walking, unaware. 

 

I became afraid for you.  I saw the chasm between what was and the destination – what will be – seemed but a blurr.  I tried to wake you up to the danger, but you shut me out, pushed me down, so I cried out louder, Be careful!  Take care!  Your soul is in transition!

Forgive me, please, I only wanted your attention.  

I only wanted you to slow down, to rest.  

I was afraid for you. 

I did not mean to frighten you.

//

My reply:

I see.

You're here because I'm again passing through the valley of the shadow of death on my way to new life, but I was unaware.     

I hear you.  I will listen.

Let us both lay down now, here in the grass, here where the earth beneath us is solid or there on the living room floor where the old oak holds steady.  

Let us sit awhile in silence . . . 

Yes, my friend, my soul is in transition and you are here with me as I cross the great divide.  Let us hold hands, shall we?  And lying here, let us remember that we are held, for though you creep in through cracks and empty spaces, so also does the light.  

I was afraid because I thought you were the voice of darkness and behind you I sensed the deepening night of fear itself.  Maybe you also thought the same.  I can see now that you are but a mist, a fog, and behind you also dwells the light.   

Darkness is nothing but the absence of light, fear is nothing but the absence of love. But love endures forever, there is no absence, only waxing and waning in our awareness as we travel.  

Love endures forever.

Don’t worry, I will remind you of that.  

I hear you.  I will rest, let us lay here together for awhile as we rest in love.  

I will not miss you when you depart, anxiety, but while you are here, let us be friends.  Let us converse about our fears, about the shadows and spaces between, but let us rest also in the love that is always, always breaking through.  

This post is linked with Playdates with God hosted by Laura Boggess who's lovely book Playdates With God: Having Childlike Faith in a Grown-up World is now available for pre-order on Amazon.  Also linking with Unforced Rhythms.