Seattle Striding, or Toenails are for Sissies

Took a bit o' time off from blogging (and training) in order to...

well, I'm not really sure what I did. The living room is painted, and the work is largely complete, but beyond that?

Oh yeah, I walked the dog. Much dog walking in the last week or so.

So, the marathon. The image below captures the finish line and the view of the Viaduct on which we ran the latter half of the marathon. Oh, and the lovely skyline and port too (see how lovely the day turned out to be??).

It was wonderful, in a word. I was relatively confidant that I could finish it from fairly early in the race, which was a most excellent feeling. And I did finish, not only upright (the stated goal) but running. I even ran the SOB final hill at mile 25 (race planners--you are all cruel, evil humans, aren't you?).

The Flight to Seattle
As per normal, Delta hosed the day by delaying our flight by three and a half hours. Saw yet more of Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport. Was not pleased, but we did finally arrive in Seattle at about 9:00 pm local time, at which point we settled for dinner at the hotel. Had a veggie Philly-cheesesteak. Yum.

We spent Friday touring Seattle, trying to make sure I didn't walk too much, but that I did get to at least stretch the ole legs, which had been crammed into the minuscule space for the "average size person" (um, yeah, if you mean an eight-year-old. Sure.) in the economy section the day before. We went to the Marathon Exhibition, picked up the race packet and some trinkets, and, because I refused to fly across the country with them, several GU packets. Saw the Sci-Fi museum (you had to know we'd go there) and the Music museum that inhabits the same building (excellent Seattle music room, there. Loved it.). Ate at a tiny cafe next to the museum and drove around Seattle a bit, checking out some of the race course, making the pilgrimage to the REI mothership, and hunting down a grocery store. We had dinner at the Pink Door at the Public Market--good pasta, EXCELLENT coffee. Also found Elliot Bay Bookstore, which is the very stuff of my dreams, and I wandered about its wonderfulness, finally selecting a Tom Robbins novel (Still Life with Woodpecker--love it. Always love my Robbins) and the first Sookie Stackhouse novel, which I cannot recall the name of and refuse to look up because I already wasted enough time on that book, thank you. At least she's honest in her vampire porn pretensions.

The Race Run (not racing, really, after all):

Saturday dawned, well, frankly, my day dawned before dawn, as I got up at 4 am to wolf down the requisite bagel and peanut butter and banana (yum), so we'll go with "Saturday dawned dark" or "Saturday finally dawned about an hour after I got on the shuttle". I wandered out of the hotel, appropriately dressed (surprising at that hour), and headed for the shuttle bus pickup site, which was on the other side of Safeco Field from my hotel. The line of school buses would have made a teen quiver in fear. Said shuttle took us to Tukwila, which is where the marathon was due to begin....in two hours. I met some interesting folk, including Elmer from Panama, who was running in the 7th corral (I was in the 27th of 30 some odd corrals, for reference) and for whom this was the 40th or so marathon. He immediately pegged me as a newbie and gave me a great pep talk. Thanks, Elmer!! One gentleman behind me was also running his first (in his case, the half marathon) and the other was on his 125th. Yes, you read that correctly. 1-2-5. He's 65 and has been running for 19 years. Do the math--that's a holy hell bunch o'marathons in 19 years. Needless to say, I was impressed.

We arrived at the gathering area at about 5 am. Did I mention yet that it was farking cold that morning? No? Well, it was. Farking, I tell you. Farking.

Only a few organizational glitches, nothing serious, and scores of Porta-pots (company name: Honey Pot) made for a pleasant wait in Tukwila. The sun finally deigning to rise made it even more pleasant and reduced the general shivering, which was so great with 25,000 runners that it threatened to generate an earthquake in the area. They called for people to line up in the corrals at 6:30 am. We listened to the music and waited (and waited and waited and waited). The drummer of Presidents of the United States of America was running, as was a guy who had recently run a half marathon in 64 minutes.

Yeah. That was 64.

My corral started about 45 minutes after the gun (see here for an explanation of wave starts, which are a good thing with 25,000 folks). I was more excited to see the start than I would have imagined being; finally, after all that work...it's here. And, as one of the DJs pointed out (rightly, I think), this was not the finish line, this was the party after all the training. For some reason, that totally resonated with me and kept going through my head during the run.

The course was far flatter than one might imagine for Seattle; it seemed to be a good one (sayeth the newbie) . The hills were few, and while steep, they were totally manageable. I was treated to some gorgeous scenery too, such as the turn into Seward Park, which almost made me stop running just to look. The weather turned out to be absolutely perfect--low 70s and sunny (the pictures here were taken over the next day, so they don't reflect all the beauty of the day's run--oh, and the shot of Rainer is from the Tacoma side here, not the Seattle side). Saw a bald eagle in the park (very cool) and, because it was sunny and clear, Rainer was quite visible from the bridge we ran across on Lake Washington. That is one incredible piece of mountain volcano, there. Very beautiful. Though, it did give me pause...people climb that sucker on purpose. Awe. Complete and total awe.

Saw some very interesting folks and phrases along the way. One woman had affixed to her shirt that she was celebrating 10 years of remission from cancer (woohoo!); I congratulated her as I ran by--she was awe-inspiring. A young fellow, about 70 or so, had a sign pinned to his shirt that read "Expected Finish Time: Tuesday. About noon." Loved that. Also loved, as is mentioned in the post title, the hat that read "Toenails are for Sissies." Having donated two (and possibly three) to the cause, I totally agree. Thank you to the LA Racer who wore that and made me giggle.

Returning to Safeco field, we lost the half marathoners and continued on to the Alaskan Way Viaduct, which we ran out to the bridge over Union Lake and then returned on. Miles 18 through 22 were, as expected tough, but I was greeted by such kindly smiling faces (yes, I know they were thinking something along the lines of "oh, that poor fool," but let me live in this one a bit), that I did pull myself through those and onwards to the last mile, where I found a hill. I grew up around sailors and never have I heard the colorful language that decorated that hill before...again, I'd have to call it awe inspiring. I did, however, run the hill (go me and the local hill training). Upon cresting the hill, what did I find but the band playing Faster Pussycat's "Bathroom Wall." Yes, yes, my life is good.

And, I finished the race--5:36:21, about what I expected. So, *grin*. Here's me in all my race completion glory (and all the associated stuff--I look like I'm ready for a day's hike with all the gear--the medal, however, is groovy). Please ignore how incredibly awful I look--remember: post-marathon. Dragged my exhausted tail back to the hotel, cleaned up and read for a while, then wandered off to dinner at Etta's (crabcakes, yet more yum). In short, I had a blast that day. My new marathon goal (and never did I imagine saying anything like that) is to complete one in under 5 hours. Since this is getting a tad long, I'll break the post here and post the rest, which will cover what I have learned in this process, on Thursday. I will let the cat out of the bag that I enjoyed this adventure so much that I'm doing it again--sort of. On the Friday before the marathon, I signed up for the Rock N' Roll Half Marathon in Virginia Beach, so I get to run in my hometown two days after I turn 34. Woohoo! Started training again yesterday...here we go!

Sanctuary III

The most oft associated image with the term sanctuary is, probably, a house of worship. In my case, that house is called church, though architecturally, it looks more like what Americans tend to associate with a mosque, mostly because of the domed roof. Atop the roof sits a cross, and not just any cross--a lighted cross. Not exterior lights, mind you; the cross itself lights up. It's not quite the solar-powered grave bible, but it's clearly a distant cousin.

Such kitsch features are terribly attractive to me.

The windows on this house of worship are made of granite, which probably sounds a bit odd at first, but realize that granite is something Georgia has a great deal of, then realize that you can cut granite very, very thin and, presto--granite windows. The church across the street also has the granite windows, so it's not an altogether unusual design feature locally (not that I can drum up an iota of proof from the internetz to share with you today, *sigh*).

The church is a modification of the Akron-plan, which appears to be more common in the Northern regions of the U.S., as is true of our denomination in general. The plan theoretically allows the sanctuary to be more flexible; the Sunday school classrooms can be opened via a rolling panel, allowing them to become part of the sanctuary. The architectural plan encourages eye-contact--you can see damn near everyone and, in theory, community, though in practice I've yet to see us function any differently than any other congregation. The sanctuary is gorgeous, filled with wooden beams, (occasionally) bright brass, and huge stained-glass windows, which are particularly beautiful at about 8:30 am, when the sun's rays begin to warm the glass.

If aesthetics were everything for a church, this one would have it. The space is undeniably beautiful, and it seems to offer a certain tranquility to all comers.

But, aesthetics are not everything. The particular modifications of the layout (and I think these choices were largely based on the land available, which is on a fairly small corner) placed the sanctuary level at the second floor, and many of the school classrooms, the nursery, the kitchen, and the fellowship hall area are below. The floors are connected by three narrow (seriously--two people of minimal girth cannot pass beside one another) stairwells, which, because of the "roundness" of the design, twist and turn and lead visitors to unexpected places. Often overheard: how did I end up here?

The design does not lend itself well to serving the community, as the bathrooms are tiny and while we "have" a handicapped stall, it's not especially large--no wheelchairs would fit in the one downstairs (which can only be accessed via stairs--irrespective of which floor you begin on) and the one at sanctuary level is difficult to navigate into. The rooms are often oddly shaped; we have old stairwells than no longer lead anywhere, etc. The space is excellent for a congregation who wishes to meet once a week on Sundays, but it is less useful to a congregation who wishes to serve the community.

This should not be taken to suggest that the church does not serve--we do. Three AA meetings are hosted there, covering 7 days a week. The space serves as a shelter to homeless families in concert with other local congregations, once a quarter. The Red Cross uses the space for training, and so forth. Over the past two or so years, the level of activity at the building has increased probably ten-fold. My favorite example of this occurred on Maundy Thursday this year, as I set up for the Maundy Thursday communion service, while an AA meeting was held, and a Seder supper began.

The building was, for a few hours, alive...filled with an energy that nearly brought me to my knees. THIS. This right here is what we are meant to be...a place and a space of energy and, yes, sanctuary--even if the "sanctuary" is not immediately in use.

For alcoholics and addicts, the places willing to house the meetings can very much be sanctuary; the meetings themselves certainly are for many of them. A community opens its arms to another in need. What better use for a house of worship than to feed the needs of its community.

The denomination I joined, the Disciples of Christ, appeared to be a sanctuary to me when I first joined, having fled the Episcopal church and its then burgeoning crisis over gay membership (the moment someone in my home congregation told me "they" were not welcome, I was done, and I wasn't sure I'd go back to an Episcopal church again, though I do miss parts of the service and mission of that denomination). DoC, as a denomination, celebrates diversity of opinion and education, and I was drawn to these notions.

One of the catch phrases for DoC is "In Essentials, Unity; in Non-essentials, Liberty; in All Things, Charity," which precedes the Restoration Movement (which birthed DoC), but is nevertheless important to it. The quotation, for all of its positivity, can, and does, become trite, all too easily. What, for instance, are the "essentials" and "non-essentials"? Our congregation, for instance, has at least two rather distinct theologies (and myriad vines grow from each of these), one of which is rather Baptist in flavor and one that seems fairly traditionally DoC (at least this is what Rev. Dean tells me; since I am, as he often reminds me, an Episcopalian at heart, I can't really say one way or the other. But, since he's the professional here, we'll give him his due). I see the two theologies play off one another, and I don't see any chance that they will reconcile or be able to live together in harmony or charity.

This divide was made clear, in part, by the building several years ago, and the drama continues to play itself out. Yesterday we met with another dwindling DoC community, to discuss coming together, and somehow or another it turned (at least at my table) into a discussion of the building, and whether or not it was adequate to the cause. Its adequacy, of course, depends on your vision of the church mission: for those for whom Sunday attendance is central, the beautiful space is precisely what it should be--a gorgeous celebration of God and Christ. For those who believe that service is central to faith, the location is excellent, but the space itself is both inadequate and, at times, foreboding, given the demands made by a nearly century-old wooden building with poor wiring.

We come together to discuss mutual faith and survival and we get a discussion about a fucking building. Fabulous. Small wonder young families aren't coming in droves.

Once upon a time, this space was a sanctuary to me. I could find respite from the world there, even as the world was invited in. As the last few years of drama have progressed, it has become something else-a place that is decidedly not safe. I came to the denomination seeking solace and growth, seeking to learn and to learn to share. I have learned, however, silence in these walls. Speak not of possibility lest you be attacked. Speak not of change lest you unintentionally accuse.

Speak not.

I did not speak at the meeting yesterday, choosing to listen to the expanded forum (I've spoken on the subject of unification a number of times; I wanted to know what those being brought in for the first time had to say). I was unfortunate in my table choice, for I was treated to diatribes on lack of care and "some people" and bitterness wrapped in a facade of hope, rather than searches for possibility. Yesterday was another confirmation of my fears for the church--it is destined, like the building in which we worship, to fall.

But, I went into the meeting feeling like that. I go to service every week feeling like that (it's better in the early service, which is modeled on conversation, but I have had to serve as Elder for several weeks recently, which demands that I be at the late service). I hear fellow elders question why we should discuss theology. Seriously? Elders can't talk about theological difference? Fuck--what's the point, then?

Several months ago, I wondered idly why it was easier to tell stories of addiction than faith. I know why I don't at church--the level of judgment involved eradicates any feelings of safety there. I'm less sure why I don't here...though I suppose I fear a certain amount of judgment, though there's no good reason. I wonder if this is the lesson I need to draw here, that sanctuary is a space created, not one provided and that such sanctuaries will always be challenged. How, then, to protect sanctuary, which is so central to my sanity and survival?

Since February, I have run some 425 miles and will pass 450 (obviously) later this week, all in preparation for a marathon that was at first intended to keep me focused on something other than drinking (it works, most of the time) and has evolved into another addiction of sorts; I know I need another race to plan for, announce, and train for (and I guess I better choose one fast!). Running is my sanctuary because I have created it and insisted that it be protected, much as I insisted that my home be protected in the aftermath of the panic attack. So what of spiritual sanctuary-- how to protect it? How, in other words, to live in the world and protect faith from fellow congregants?

Not speaking is clearly not getting me anywhere on this.

Here's my dream: a safe space where worship and service work together for the betterment of the community, not just to draw people into faith, but to support local needs. To be green. To be faithful. To be curious and to be respectful. To promote a conversation about safe spaces and what it means to protect one, because it is no simple task. To be able to own up to violations of that safe space contract, learn from them, and move on together, even if our theologies remain apart.

My faith story is not much longer than that; there was never an ah-ha! moment, though I have been brought to my knees by the wonders of humanity and the world on more than one occasion. Faith is, to me, about the awe--the magic of reaching for a better world and figuring our how the holy hell to get there. Faith is about falling to my knees in awe, sometimes, of a world that is more vast than my understanding, but will nevertheless allow me to study and read and try to understand, all without judgment of my abilities and worth.

Faith is not a building or a place or a space. Faith can be an action of people. Faith can be service. Faith can be gratitude and pleas for understanding or help. Faith can be listening and learning and healing and serving.

I just wish I knew where to go from here. I know where my heart and prayer lead me, but I don't know if I'm that brave, and I don't know if I trust my own discernment that much (ah, the wonders of self-judgment, yes?). I want to be free from the bitterness that pervades that space, and I want to both find and create opportunity. I keep telling myself that if I do this one last thing, I'll have done all that I can do.

I'm on number 5 of that list right now.

Sanctuary II

This posting, and those that follow under the heading “Sanctuary,” was written over the course of two weeks, beginning shortly after the panic attack.

In keeping with my overall geekiness, I am going to move away from the moodier parts of this posting group and insert a bit of practical and amateur etymology, because it is way more fun than should be allowed by law and it is keeping me from the most painful parts.

So, the first use of sanctuary as a noun, according to the OED, occurred in 1340, referring to the most common meaning of the term: "A building or place set apart for the worship of God or of one or more divinities: applied, e.g., to a Christian church, the Jewish temple and the Mosaic tabernacle, a heathen temple or site of local worship, and the like; also fig. to the church or body of believers." I suppose that when people use the term, they probably use it to mean this or it's most recent colloquial meaning, which is suggestive of something like "a safe place."

As it happens, none of the OED meanings actually points specifically to "safe place"; unsurprisingly, most of the meanings are religious, such as the first one above. Other definitions include "an especially holy place within a temple or church" or within the Jewish temple, specifically, the location of the "Holy of Holies." Sanctuary can refer to "the part of the church around the altar" or to a box containing Holy relics. The term can also refer to earth; often it is applied to describe consecrated ground, but a protected land can also be a sanctuary, with no religious connotation associated, such as a bird or flora sanctuary (often the protected land hold endangered species of one variation or another). This final usage is the one most similar to the "safe place" colloquialism, it seems.

Chances are the last two uses stemmed from the final significant definition of sanctuary, which comes straight out of medieval law (a favorite stomping ground for yours truly):
A church or other sacred place in which, by the law of the mediæval church, a fugitive from justice, or a debtor, was entitled to immunity from arrest. Hence, in wider sense, applied to any place in which by law or established custom a similar immunity is secured to fugitives.
Probably the most memorable popular culture application of this definition (at least for me) appears in Rodgers & Hammerstein's The Sound of Music, when Maria von Trapp and family, buy now fugitives from the Nazi government, are given sanctuary at the church where Maria had previously been a novitiate. Of course, in this instance, the government did not abide by medieval law governing sanctuary for fugitives, but the film rather assumes that the viewer will recognize* what a violation of custom the intrusion is (I can't find a clip of it, but the scene to which I am referring occurs after the rendition of "Edelweiss," which I now have running through my head. Drat.).

As is true of "redemption," sanctuary has both religious and secular meanings, though the intent intersects, as all of the uses seem to identify a space that is special for one reason or another, be it in the protection of religious artifacts or in the protection of animals and/or plants. The medieval law, of course, signifies protection for the fugitive (this being a time and place wherein the notion of "innocent until proven guilty" did not exist), and in Christendom, I think this is particularly important, as Christians are called to witness and love, not to judge.

You know, I was about to write that acts which deliberately push others out of the church are then a violation of that call, but I'm not sure that is entirely apt, because the church (building) is not the most important of features, the community and communal spirit are. The violation of the call would be to leave someone feeling outside the love of God by choosing to abandon someone because their life or beliefs don't mirror our own or we generally make life difficult for people we are supposed to be in communion with, then we have most certainly violated that call. In so doing, we violate both the religious and secular notions of sanctuary.

For many of us, and I know this is true for me, home is the primary secular sanctuary. There are, of course, scores of other possibilities; for me, those other spaces are the areas in which I run (well, some of them--some are not exactly hospitable or sanctuary in their nature), Arches National Park (itself literally a sanctuary by the above definitions), KunstHausWein**, and other places and spaces that provide me with solace and protection. Now, most of my sanctuaries are also solitary (this should surprise no one, given the blog address and my email address are solitarykitsch), but that is not because I necessarily reject community. I also find great solace at certain rock concerts--they become sanctuaries where I can freely express and move, breaking the static mold that I too often find myself needing to hold onto in order to preserve the appearance of sanity. When my sanctuaries are violated, I find myself in immense trouble, such as was true during the panic attack, which was triggered by a perceived violation of my primary sanctuary.

The aftermath of that (perceived) violation was, of course, the panic attack and its attendant aftershocks, which lasted more than a week, as well as an obsessive bout of cleaning that found me scrubbing baseboards and bribing TG to do the same (that right there is a big ole sign that I've been severely triggered. Baseboards???). By the time the cleaning was complete, I felt marginally safe again. The cleaning was ritualistic, and while it was a wholly secular scouring of the house, the ritual description remains apt, as the cleaning was very much intended to rid the house of (perceived***) demons, as it were.

I was fortunate in that there was something to be done, because in some cases the violation of the sanctuary renders the space hostile permanently, and this is true of one of my other sanctuaries. I realized as I worked through the idea of sanctuary that I had attempted to rid that space of its demons by cleansing it too (I think I might have even described the attempt as such at least once), but the space is no longer a sanctuary (as in "safe space") for me, even though, strictly speaking, it is a "sanctuary," since it is a church.

Part III of ? to follow.

---

*Granted, Nazis have become shorthand for "really bad guy" in film, so one needs to do very little to prove the inherent badness in the course of the plot--the viewers will generally fill in the blanks on behalf of the filmmakers. This tendency, incidentally, is why the original version of Brooks' The Producers works so damn well--it defies our expectations by turning the Nazis into buffoons, which was, after all, Brooks' stated intent. I'm particularly fond of the "beer and pretzel" girls in this clip. Really, if you've never seen the film or never seen this version, check it out:



**Explanations may not be required here, but I never pass up a chance to talk about Hundertwasser, who really and truly rocked my world. When I went to Vienna in 2000, I was seeking solace after a breast lumpectomy (which had turned out fine, but had caused much anxiety for months) and a failed attempt to finish my Master's thesis. I was stuck on the theory and Adorno had stolen too much of my brain. While I was in Vienna, I visted the KunstHaus and saw Hundertwasser's work for the first time, as well as the quotation at the right of this blog, which translates to "The straight line is Godless" (the remainder of the quote renders straight lines also immoral"), meaning that God doesn't work in straight lines and that art and architecture need to be reflective of creation, which tends toward the wavy and gentle, rather than the straight and rigid. He also believed that evil could not exist in nature, only in man, but that communities could work against this evil not by "correcting nature," but by protecting the natural world (sanctuary!). As I stood in KunstHaus, looking over his work, I was finally inspired; I couldn't tell you now what finally triggered, but I saw vividly what the thesis needed to work itself out as I stood in that room, surrounded by his art. I went back to KunstHaus many times in my weeks in Vienna; even now, I am comforted by the thought of the art and the space and, in particular, the floors.

***I should quit undermining my own thoughts on the matter. To me, the incident was very much a violation of my space, even if many wouldn't or do not understand why; that it was my perception does not render the reality of what happened as false, even if the demons remained metaphorical.

Sanctuary

This posting, and those that follow under the heading “Sanctuary,” was written over the course of two weeks, beginning shortly after the panic attack. As I have mentioned before, when I am battling depression, I typically find myself unable to write or to accept what I do manage to write, so I wrote in fits and spurts until what follows was finally completed. The darkness of the past two weeks (and last week in particular) has been unusually bleak, even for me, though I can’t completely account for why. The darkness comes and goes right now—I feel passably normal as I write this paragraph.

And so it goes…thoughts on Sanctuary…cue The Cult, please….

I was reading (at Rev. Dean's suggestion, and, as it turns out, this book is a favorite of just about every person I know) Anne Lamott's Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith on Friday during lunch. In the particular chapter I was weaving my way through, Lamott examines ways in which we can examine the world through new eyes--by witnessing all of the mercies we encounter, even if they don't look like mercies at the time (her example of the convertible is brilliant). She defines travelling mercies as “Love the journey. God is with you, come home safe and sound” (106). The examples she uses, though, deal with the journey of life and all of its brokenness. She recounts an exchange between a man who worked for the Dalai Lama and Carolyn Myss, when Myss was complaining about difficulties; he told her “they believe that when a lot of things start going wrong all at once, it is to protect something big and lovely that is trying to get itself born—and that this something needs for you to be distracted so that it can be born as perfectly as possible” (107).

The notion of paying attention to the journey and not just the destination is a significant one, as you might imagine, in long distance running. I mean, the end is only a blip of a moment; the journey is loooooong and far more interesting. And that notion has been popping up in other places, rather like road sign posts in a poorly-planned city (you know, the ones that if you fail to pay attention to them you end up nowhere near where you need to be? Yeah, those. I was about to end up in Patterson, NJ instead of Paramus.*) that I’ve been attempting to ignore. A friend of mine has been posting “Enjoy the Journey” as a reminder on her Tweets…it’s just everywhere right now.

On Saturday, I was granted the opportunity to live those mercies and disruptions, when an adorable beagle followed me home.

No, he really did.

When I first ran across him during my run, I was at about mile four, and when he joined me for a spell, I assumed he would be like the other local canines who have graced me with their presence, and he would give up on me in short order. He did not. He followed me for much of the next nine miles, save for the places I carried him, fearing that he would be hit by a car (he almost did, twice, before I began carrying him on really bad sections) on the busy roads we traveled, but knowing by that point that he wasn't giving up on me. Dog was just there to begin with, a pleasant distraction; then he was a nuisance, forcing me to pay more attention to him than to the good run I was having; finally, he grew on me (carrying a 20lb dog for 2 miles tends to do that). In the midst of the run/walk/carry, I recalled Lamott's chapter. Was this dog one of those mercies?

Sure, he distracted me from what had been good training, but he also woke me up to the road and world around me, causing me to rethink each step, to notice more than I usually do, since I was in loco parentis of this particular dog. I got to see TG holding Dog, as Dog fell asleep in his lap, the perfect image of boy and dog. TG and I walked with Dog around the area I had found him, only to discover that no one knew him and that the particular area is notorious as a dog dump. I could not provide the sanctuary of a home on Saturday, but I could provide him with food, love, and, eventually, a place to stay until his owner could be located or a new family found. I hope he finds a good family (new or old).

I'm not sure what lessons I am meant to draw from his encounter (or what might be trying to be born, given the multitude of misdirections in my life right now), but he left my eyes open, far enough that when I was driving home on the highway Tuesday night, I spotted a kitten in the middle of the lane. I pulled to the side and realized there were two, one in front of me and one behind; fortunately, a gentleman in a white truck stopped in front of the first kitten (thank you, thank you, thank you), stopping traffic behind him so that he could grab her and hand her to me; he then drove up to the second and did the same. The second kitty had already been hit and was in great distress, sadly. I drove both kitties, wrapped in my jacket (must put towel back in car. And a leash.) to my vet's office; boy kitty had to be euthanized, as his injuries were extensive.** Miss Thing, on the other hand, was in good shape, only a cut on the lip and lots of fleas. So, I took her home last night. She's hanging out in the bathroom, getting acquainted with this new-fangled contraption called a litter box.

So, Mr. Beagle opens my eyes, and Miss Thing gets a home. Traveling mercies, indeed.

We are all gifted with various sanctuaries, whether someone scoops us up and takes us home or we find a space that has meaning and comfort for us. Home may be sanctuary; work may be; a religiously-affiliated building is often referred to as such. We may find sanctuary in the mountains or at the ocean, and we may locate sanctuary in the midst of the most unlikely of places--a concert, a thunderstorm, a race, but each of us need a sanctuary of some sort. And what I am realizing is that one of the ones I had come to value most in sobriety is no longer a safe place for me.
________________________________________
*I think only one person on earth is destined to understand why those two cities are mentioned, and she doesn’t read this blog, so I think I am safe. Suffice to say that I’ve driven through WAY too much of NJ in the middle of the night.

**It seems worth noting that one of the reasons I go to this vet is that he has a standing agreement with the local police to bring injured cats to him; he euthanizes ones he cannot save and operates/treats to save the others. My cat, Mo, is one of those cats. He was probably a frat cat, got away, was hit by a car and left to die. The police brought Mo to the vet, who diagnosed a dislocated hip. He treated Mo and placed him up for adoption, which is how we ended up with our nutty furbaby. And Miss Thing has been named: she's Agnes now, because she looks like a pre-Vatican II nun. She is learning what a litter box is for and how to aggravate the grown cats very quickly. Dog, yet to be named due to some consternation in the family, comes home today. If you care to vote for a dog name, please feel free to post suggestions below.

Anatomy of a Panic Attack

I haven't had a panic attack in about two years, so I suppose I was due for the one that occurred last night. I won't rehash the trigger points--they really aren't that entertaining--but as I got the hamster wheel I loosely call my mind to slow down, I started thinking through the construction of a panic attack. Mind you, this will follow my attack, and each individual is likely to have any manner of different experiences in the umbrella of what we call panic attacks, so please take this for what it is.

In reflecting on last night and the attacks of the past, I can safely say that I don't see them coming, though there are always signs of impending doom. Generally, I'm depressed beforehand; perhaps not significantly, but enough to notice. Since depression doesn't always signal an impending attack, it doesn't make for much of a harbinger. The last two times, though, I was rapid-cycling, for lack of a better phrase. I am not bipolar, though, as I have pointed out, I have experienced extensive periods of hypomania and depression, and I tend to move very quickly between them (often in as little as 72 hours). Since my mother is bipolar, this terminology is familiar to me and, as a layman's phrase at any rate, a fairly apt description of what happens.

On Saturday, I awoke to a significant depressive mood; I could even feel it in my legs, which hurt lamf for that whole 25 miles run. Yes, I did complete the run, figuring there was nothing better to be doing than to try to short circuit the depression with an influx of endorphins. It was not precisely a good run, but the mood seemed to lift a bit. The low-mania came back on Sunday, triggered largely by my failure to eat properly, but, again, I managed it reasonably well. I went a bit pogo-stick for a while on Monday then crashed yesterday evening as the anxiety took hold.

Part of the problem is my failure to recognize my symptoms of increasing anxiety. I *thought* that I had handled several incidents of late and the above-described moods fairly well; in reality, I had mostly buried them or not dealt with them in an appropriate way, largely in an attempt handle anger in ways that are more conducive to sharing habitats with other human beings than I am often accustomed to. In other words, I was being dishonest with myself. This is not altogether unsurprising in an addict*; we are masters of dishonesty--especially when it comes to ourselves. The pattern of dishonesty and vacillating emotions should have been a clue, and are pretty clear now that I glance back upon them**; I was reeling toward a break.

The attack came on, as they often do, with little warning and with an outwardly irrational cause. My very first panic attack, when I was 16 or 17, occurred on the campus of Duke University, when I became overwhelmed by what I would never be and where I would never attend and who I would never live up to. These thoughts, which might have been merely annoying for some, became locked in an obsessive loop for me on the campus (it was the cathedral, specifically, and it's vast space that set me off). I could not stop the hamster wheel, and, eventually, it got moving so fast that there was little more to do that break down.

Such is typical for me in a panic attack: Some event or place triggers an obsessive loop (the hamster wheel); the trigger is, outwardly, likely to be relatively innocuous. To know the path my brain takes would require having resided in my head for years (which, incidentally, I don't recommend for the faint of heart). The obsessive loop becomes faster, particularly as I try to derail the wheel. My heart rate increases. I cry and hyperventilate. I don't want to be touched, and will run away if someone tries to do so. Until the anxiety subsides sufficiently, the attack will continue, sometimes for more than an hour. I cannot stop the wheel or the tears once they begin until I can slow my heart rate and remove myself from the trigger. For hours afterward, though I will be emotionally and physically spent, it takes little to set me toward panic again, though I am usually able to self-calm more quickly during the aftershocks.

I've heard people describe their first panic attacks in terms of heart attacks--not knowing what was happening. This did not happen to me the first time, I knew I was breaking down (the benefit of familial mental illness, I guess), even if I didn't have terminology for it, and these days, I know exactly what I am dealing with, almost from the outset (though, oddly, it often takes an hour or more after it ends for me to be able to articulate the phrase "panic attack." No clue why that is.)

I was fortunate last night to have the care, concern, and support of far flung friends, without whom I am certain I would not have been able to settle down, think, and go for the peppermint tea and Oreos (an excellent post-panic attack remedy, incidentally). As Anne Lamott has noted about herself, one of my most common prayers is "thank you, thank you, thank you" (the other being "help me, help me, help me"---there were plenty of both last night). I sent up the flag online that I had triggered, and I want to thank, again, Hooch, Soonie, Z, and Blue, as well as Rip, Avarweth, and Silly (I love handles, don't you?) for jumping in immediately to console and advise and commiserate. And a thank you, too, to rhyte, who saw my remark, recognized it for what it was, and sent excellent reminders to help calm the anxiety, including a favorite duffism: "Be Still and Pray." What a fabulous group of women you are; thank you, thank you, thank you.

So, my mantra for the week (typed weeks at first, but rhyte is right (*grin*) with her other reminders to take life in small chunks) to come will simply be that duffism: Be still and pray. The aftershocks are still here, though they are faded to the point that they are noticable to no one but me. I wish you all well, whereever and whoever you all. Be still. Be calm. Reach out-->you are not alone.

---

*A clarification of terminology: in these pages, I tend to use alcoholic and addict somewhat interchangeably, though, in the main, the former refers to alcoholism (duh) and the latter to drug addiction. I do this as a reminder to myself--in order to be honest with myself, really. Alcohol was my primary drug of choice, but I craved depressants & opiates of any variation--I maintained a profoundly tight grip on my pill popping desires (because, you know, THAT is sign of a "real" problem <--note sarcasm) to the extent that I don't take anything--even Motrin, very often (and I never take acetaminophen, because it knocks me right the fuck out. Seriously. Give me a bottle of Jameson, and I am the life of the party. Tylenol in any amount--out for hours). I've popped depressants from time to time, stayed away from the drug of my dreams--heroin (along with most other opiates)--because I knew even without taking it I'd sell my soul for a good nod. I'm all about shutting the brain down, so cocaine and speed never interested me, nor anything else (uh, well, except Sir Caffeine) that would replicate my "up" moods.

**Saw the best explanation of Benjamin's Angel of History (Thesis IX in On the Concept of History) recently, in Steven Johnson's fabulous book The Ghost Map, which chronicles the events surrounding the cholera outbreak of 1854 in London and how that outbreak shaped the modern understanding of "city." He notes at the outset, that Benjamin's Angel can be understood in terms of such an outbreak, where we see the piles of bodies of those killed by pestilence overtime, but the "Angel of History" sees their stories and connections. Addiction works similarly; we can see the chains of catastrophes of our past, though it takes "hitting bottom" or some other traipsing into sobriety for us to assume the vision of the Angel of History, who can see us for who we are, rather than just for our series of wreckages.