Danceless

Today I missed dance class for the first time since I began taking lessons, and I feel bereft, as if I misplaced something I can never get back. I can go back to class, of course, but today’s classes were special in the way that all moments are special — each is a treasure, a singular occasion, that will never happen in exactly the same way twice.

More than that, dance is currently my savior, helping me get through the daily traumas of my life, and there have been more traumas than usual lately, especially the past 22 hours, so I needed those classes more than ever.

And yet, here I sit . . . danceless. Even if I wanted to practice the dances I’ve learned, I couldn’t. I’m exhausted.

tugofwarI know you’re dying to know what this is all about, so I’ll tell you — it’s just life.

More specifically, my car stopped running as I started out on my way to meet up for the Sierra Club walk last night. No gas seemed to be getting to the engine, which leads me to assume the fuel pump broke down. Not a problem, really, since I have emergency road insurance, and they will tow the car to be fixed.

What was a problem is that a few minutes after I coasted back down the hill and into the garage (how resourceful am I!), my father went through a minor medical emergency. I was up all night dealing with both him and my brother who seemed to sense the chaos. Early this morning my father decided he needed to go to the hospital via ambulence. I spent hours at the emergency room with him, but they didn’t want to admit him, so the rest of the day was spent begging rides from the hospital for both of us, rides to the pharmacy for his antibiotics, and then to another pharmacy because the first had no pharmacist on duty. (How can a major pharmacy not have a pharmacist on duty? Strange, that.) And to top it off, I had to forgo a treat I was looking forward to.

I sound selfish, don’t I? Well, that’s life, too.

Temporarily, all is quiet. Both men seem to be resting, and me . . . I’m here on this blog, trying to make sense of it all.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of the suspense novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.” Connect with Pat on Google+. Like Pat on Facebook.

My Polarized Life — The Profound and the Profane

I’m sitting here trying to think of something uplifting to say. It’s not that today is a bad day, it’s just that like all my days, it’s too polarized — from the profound experience of learning to dance to the profane experience of life in my father’s house.

My father is 97 years old and is doing well — he gets up and can walk around by himself, can even take off the oxygen for a few minutes if he needs to go beyond the tether of the tubing. He mostly looks after himself, but the every day aspects of life are beginning to defeat him. He has a hard time concentrating and remembering, though these lacks are due to congestive heart failure and age, not Alzheimer’s. (He recently took and passed an Alzheimer’s test.) Still, there are always personal things that he needs me to take care of, such as shopping and cooking what few cooked foods he eats. There are frequent house matters for me to take care of such as bad television, phone, and computer reception. And there is my dysfunctional homeless brother who is currently camping out in the garage.

For some reason — perhaps because I am here — my brother delights in tormenting me, calling me childish names such as “Porky” and “Lard Ass” as well as more adult-rated names. He is obviously suffering, and I am trying to be kind to him, even when he graffities car and bangs on my windows for hours at a time, but I have no idea what he really wants. Even if I did know, I’m not sure I could do anything for him. His problems are way out of my ability to comprehend. His relationship with his problems is even harder to fathom. He likes his “evil” side. He thinks it’s the best part of him, and perhaps it is. His core personality seems to be humble and self-effacing, helpless, even, like a bewildered little boy stuck inside a grown man’s decaying body. For sure, he has no interest in getting help to balance himself out.

danceI sometimes think of moving on and leaving my father and brother to fend for themselves, but I’m not sure I want to be the sort of person who can walk out on her aged, increasingly confused father and leave him to care for himself. (My brother sure couldn’t do anything to help. He doesn’t seem to be able to recognize that anyone but himself needs help.)

Besides, if I moved on, I’d have to give up dancing. The irony is that by being here in this bizarre household, I have the freedom to indulge my newfound love of dancing. If I left, I’d have to get a job, which would leave me no time or energy for dance classes, and for now, dancing is important to me. It feels like a pilgrimage, a spiritual journey. It has lessons to teach me beyond the discipline of the basic steps and the joy of the choreographed dances I am learning, though I’m not sure what those lessons are. I might never know since much of dance is subliminal, needing the focus of both the body’s mind as well as the mind’s mind and perhaps even the soul.

As Shirley MacLaine said, “Dance is an art that impends on the soul. It is with you every moment, it expresses itself in everything you do.”

Whatever lessons I learn from dance will be with me long after the memories of this household have faded. Dance is that important. And so I continue this polarized existence, paying for the profound privilege of dancing with the profanity in the rest of my life.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of the suspense novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.” Connect with Pat on Google+. Like Pat on Facebook.

Requiem for Online Dating

Six months ago, a married friend urged me to join a dating site, more, I think, to fulfill her own fantasy of going out with a lot of different men than because of any perceived need of mine. She promised to help me weed through the site to find men who might be compatible, but still it took one entire sleepless night for me to make the decision to play her game. I’m not sure what I was afraid of — moving even further beyond my deceased life mate/soul mate perhaps. Or maybe accidentally falling in love again and tying my future to another person.

Although I wasn’t looking for a serious relationship, I was lonely. Thinking it would be fun to meet people, maybe go on a few dates, I signed up for a dating site and paid for a six-month subscription. I originally planned to pay for one month, but I didn’t want to sabotage myself by counting the cost.

At the beginning, I wrote charming messages to all the men my friend thought might be suitable, and even some the site found for me, though the site’s computers seemed to think I was looking for an inarticulate, overweight, tattooed smoker who rides a motorcycle. Um, no.

I suppose it’s understandable I got not a single response to my notes. Inadvertantly, I’d created a profile that guaranteed I wouldn’t catch any man’s attention — I told the truth about myself, used more than 95 words, didn’t downplay my intelligence, didn’t show cleavage, didn’t use words like “fun-loving” that could connote an eagerness for mattress games, and most of all, I didn’t lop years off my age. Eek. I must have seemed like their worst nightmare!

I eventually joined two free sites besides that first fee-based site, but the free ones garnered me no attention either. (In fact, those sites matched me with many of the same unsuitable men the first site did.)

Last night, my paid subscription ended, so I laid my profile to rest. I deleted my photos, deleted the description of myself, deleted my thoughts about what I was looking for in a man. Then I went through the whole rigmarole of deleting the profile. They promised that the profile would be permanently deleted from their site, but a while later, when I tried to sign in to make sure the profile really was gone, there it was along with a welcome back note. So I deleted it again.

The truth is, I am glad I didn’t find anyone to go out with. I am finding my wings, waiting to see if I can fly, and I don’t want to be held earthbound by anyone else’s expectations of me, no matter how potentially rewarding the relationship might be.

Goodbye, online dating. Goodbye, romance.

Hello to . . . whatever might come next.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of the suspense novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.” Follow Pat on Google+. Like Pat on Facebook.

Four Years and Two Months of Grief

In two days it will be four years and two months since Jeff — my life mate/soul mate — died, and even now I can feel the effects of his goneness. I still have occasional grief surges that bring a quiet bout of tears and a great yearning to see him once more. Chances are, I will have will have such upsurges for the rest of my life, though perhaps at a continually diminishing rate.

I keep busy, so I’m not subjected as often to the desperate loneliness and aloneness that plagued me for the first three and a half years of my grief, but holiday weekends, when everyone else is involved with family, brings the loneliness home to me. (I’m not strictly alone, but my 97-year-old father is involved with his personal end-of-life rituals, and my dysfunctional brother is . . . well, let’s just say I am much better off when he leaves me alone. Neither man sees me as real, so although I am not strictly alone, I am actually more alone than if I were truly alone.) Sometimes I wish I had someone for my own, but I’m desert knollsnot interested in getting involved. Not only is it too soon for another connection, but a connection would pull at me, keeping me from doing what I want/need to do — whatever that might be. So I deal with the loneliness as best as I can.

For thirty-four years, I was connected to another human being on such a profound level that when he died, it felt as if half of me went with him, as if I were straddling the line between here and eternity. I don’t feel the nearness of eternity any more, don’t feel the awesome gap between life and death — in that respect, my life has gone back to “normal.” But even after all this time, something in me yawns wide and cries out to be filled. Sometimes I try to fill the emptiness with physical activity. Sometimes I try to fill it with chocolate and other treats. Sometimes I try to fill it with reaching out to others. But it is always there, an itch beneath the surface of my consciousness.

Despite Jeff’s absence, despite my brother’s presence, I am happier than I ever thought possible, and yet . . . Jeff is still gone. Still dead. Still, strangely, a part of my life.

I went walking in the desert today. I haven’t been out there for a while, keeping my ambulation more as a means of transportation than recreation, but it felt right. I used to talk to him in the desert, used to feel close to him in the vastness the open land, used to show him the steps and positions I learned in my various exercise classes, but today I just walked. Felt the ground beneath my shoes, felt the heat on my shoulders. Just . . . felt.

(I did ask Jeff if he’d watch over me when I took my epic walk, but he didn’t respond.)

I know he couldn’t have stayed. I know I couldn’t have gone with him (except for the part of me that died when he did). I know I’ve had and will continue to have many adventures I never could have had if we were still together. I know, though I seldom admit it, that when I am finished with my responsibilities here and head out on my own, my life will be better without him and the demands of his illness.

And yet. And yet . . .

***

Pat Bertram is the author of the suspense novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.” Connect with Pat on Google+. Like Pat on Facebook.

Maybe I’m Not as Sane as I Think I Am

For the past few months, I’ve been researching mental disorders, trying to find a classification for my dysfunctional homeless brother to see if there would be some indication of how I could get him out of my life. I thought he was bi-polar since he does suffer from depression, manic episodes of anger, and grandiosity, but he exhibits too many strange, sometimes terrifying, and often irrational behaviors to have a simple mood disorder.

A good indication of his problems has been the names he calls me, and the disorders he accuses me of having. So often people — even so-called normal people — project their problems onto others. And I seem to be my brother’s projection screen. He tells me I have a dissociative personality disorder. He tells me I’m a paranoid schizophrenic. He tells me I don’t care about anyone but myself.

mindSounds like a good place to start looking for what ails him. The closest thing I’ve found to describe him is schizoaffective disorder with some OCD mixed in. Or a paranoid schizophrenic with bipolar disorders and OCD. One of the indications that he’s had a break from reality is his spitting. Such a simple thing to create chills — that ptoo-ptoo-ptoo makes me want to run far, far away. I’ve had a hard time tracking down the symptom since it doesn’t seem to be all that common except in certain cases of bipolar disorder and narcissistic rage (and wow, does he have rage!), but recently I’ve found instances where some paranoid schizophrenics spit for the same reason my brother does, to “get rid of the poison.”

I’ve learned a lot through my researches, especially how prevalent mental disorders are, which makes me feel so very lucky, but finding some sort of name for what is wrong with my brother helps not at all. He’s still swinging from one mood, one personality, one delusion to another. (Though oddly, he seems to save his invectives and delusions for me. He seems to react normally — normally for him, that is — with other people.)

I’ve been taking my blog readers’ advice into consideration and researching various options, but there aren’t many. Current laws say that the most you can institutionalize someone without his consent is 72 hours. Perhaps they could keep him longer, but once the episode passed, they would probably let him go with a prescription for drugs he would not take. And after all the hassle, I’d be back where I started. I could also call the cops, but here they just warehouse the mentally ill and do nothing to get them help. And again, after all my efforts I’d be back where I started because they’d just let him out since he hasn’t really committed a crime except harassing me. In addition, someone who used to be a chaplain for correctional institutes told me the other inmates tend to beat up those with mental problems, so the jails try to get rid of them as quickly as possible. I can understand that — I have my own times of wanting to beat my brother just to get him to shut up and leave me alone, though I’ve been channeling my frustrations into less violent activities such as researching.

As inhumane as it might be to consign him to the garage (it’s not much different than confining the insane to an attic), it’s the only way I can live with the situation. It gives me comfort knowing he is locked out. He won’t break into the house because even at his most psychotic, he is careful not to do anything to anger our 97-year-old father. (He seems oddly protective of the old man, but that is probably just another of his delusions since he thinks I’m trying to strangle our father and inherit this house. But I don’t inherit the house. In fact, once father is gone, I will be temporarily homeless. Well, without a home base. That’s a better way to phrase it.)

I can see, though, that there could come a day when I do run away. He’s starting to get demanding and threatening. Right now it’s “get me a beer, bitch, or I’ll let all the air out of your tires.” I’m not getting him a beer, of course, instead I’m researching portable air compressors. (Most of the cheap ones plug into the car’s cigarette lighter, and I don’t have one in my car.) I’d get a room for the night to give me some respite, but then there’s my father to consider. If I leave him alone, and something happens to him, I could be arrested for elder abuse. Cripes. The situations I get myself into. Maybe I’m not as sane as I think I am.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of the suspense novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.” Connect with Pat on Google+. Like Pat on Facebook.

Grief’s Strange Blessing

We think we know who/what we are, but that image of ourselves is often at odds with what other people think. For example, if I disagree with some people, they call me negative. If I say no when someone asks me to do something, I risk being called contrary. If I want to do things my own way, I’m accused of being manipulative. If I try to set boundaries, I am called a vindictive, vengeful bitch.

Actually, only one person in my life ever dared called me a bitch. If anyone else did, he would not be in my life. It’s not that I want such a person in my life, of course, but my father allows my homeless brother to camp out in the garage, and it is my father’s house. (I don’t want to get into the morality of the situation, or how I am “enabling” my brother by not calling the cops, or how I should leave and let my 97-year-old father fend for himself. I’ve heard it all before, and anyway, that’s not what this post is about.)

When you live with someone with mental problems who insists that it is you who are out of touch with reality, it’s even harder at times to know the truth. Perhaps I am vindictive and vengeful as he says. Perhaps I’m negative, manipulative, and contrary as others say. I don’t think I am, but if I were, would I know?

A friend’s mother is going blind. One day this friend wore a pair of mismatched socks (they were part of a fun set of puposely mismatched socks, not mismatched by accident). The mother looked at the one purple sock and the one pink sock and said, “I love your red sSayingocks.” No amount of talking could convince the woman the socks were anything but a matched pair of red socks. It’s what she saw, and since she believed her eyes, what she saw must be the truth. And in a way, it was the truth — her truth. She did see red socks even though everyone else saw pink and purple.

Besides all the other nastiness my brother spews, he claims I have a dissociative personality disorder. If I did, would I know? I think I would — there should be gaps in memory, strange looks from friends, questions about things I have said — but my brother is the only one who insists I said things I don’t remember saying, who says I did things I don’t remember doing.

There was a time in my younger years where I would have worried about the truth of his allegations because I did feel unbalanced, as if one mental step to either side would send me over a cliff to insanity, but now I know the truth. I am sane. (It’s possible, of course, we are all insane, that life is a form of insanity, but that’s a path I don’t want to explore.)

So, what gives me the confidence to believe I am sane when others allege the opposite? The profound grief I experienced after the death of my life mate/soul mate.

Grief is a totally insane situation, with hormones of all kinds on overdrive, brain chemistry out of whack, emotions out of control, pain so deep it makes it impossible to breathe, tears that flow like open faucets without your volition, dizziness and nausea and a loss of equilibrium that make the world seem totally alien. And yet, somehow, through it all, I could feel the truth of grief, that whatever I experienced was normal. It’s this belief in the normality of grief’s insanity that gave me the courage to write about grief and connect with others going through the same thing. It’s what gave me the ability to explain grief to my fellow bereft, and to assure them that despite what they were feeling, they were not crazy.

And neither was I.

Grief brings strange blessings, and this was my blessing, the thing that is now helping me through a bizarre situation — the utter belief in my sanity.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of the suspense novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.” Connect with Pat on Google+. Like Pat on Facebook.

Bad Luck?

I’ve never considered myself especially lucky. I don’t win contests, though occasionally I do come in second or third. (Most recently, I was a runner-up for the Sharp Writ Book awards in the category of science fiction for my novel Light Bringer.) In group gift exchanges, I always get the gift that no one quite seems to be able to identify or figure out what it does. I seldom win a door prize, and I’ve never won a raffle of any kind.

Today I attended a fundraiser witluckh friends. There were a couple of dozen gift baskets being raffled, and we got to choose which basket(s) we would like to win. I found one basket that only one other person had chosen, so I used all of my raffle tickets for that basket, thinking to up the odds. When I didn’t win, I laughed with my friend about my bad luck, but then on the way home I reconsidered.

Bad luck?

I’d driven to the event center in a 42-year-old car that still runs well, spent the day with good friends and other congenial people, shared smiles and laughter, ate a nice lunch, danced a bit, enjoyed playing with the raffle tickets, and on top of all that, got to help support a good cause.

Seems to me as if I’m very lucky!

***

Pat Bertram is the author of the suspense novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.” Connect with Pat on Google+. Like Pat on Facebook.

The Problem With Writing About People You Know

A few weeks ago when I was having lunch with friends from my exercise class, someone suggested that I write a book about the class. One lovely woman even volunteered to be a murder victim, and the teacher offered to be the murderer (or rather, she offered a motive for the crime that indicated she was the one who did the dire deed).

I thought it would be fun — write a chapter now and again, print it out, and let everyone read it. If they had suggestions about what they wanted their character to do, I could incorporate their ideas in subsequent chapters.

The more I got to thinking about it, though, the more impossible it seemed. The idiosyncrasies that make people unique, interesting, lovable are not necessarily traits they are proud of. In fact, they might not know they have the traits or if they do know, they might not realize that others see those traits. We always hope people see us as better than we see ourselves, and we certainly don’t want to know that someone might see what we wish no one saw. And even when we do know our floozyshortcomings, such as being overweight, I’m not sure we would take kindly to being immortalized in such a way. (Not that my books are immortal, but you know what I mean.)

Although the characters would be written without judgment, just a simple swish of a literary brush, these women might feel hurt, and I am not interested in hurting anyone, especially not people I’ve grown fond of. Now, if one of them had done me wrong, I would gladly put her in a book and kill her off, but so far the worst offense was . . . hmmm. Can’t think of anything except for perhaps a brief touch of cattiness.

Yesterday one of the women asked me about the project, and when I told her my dilemma, she suggested writing the book but using a different setting for the group. A rowing crew, for example. That way I could write the people as I saw them, and no one would be the wiser. “Except me, of course,” she said, “but you wouldn’t say anything bad about me.” The problem with her scenario is that I know nothing about rowing, and anyway, what is a rowing crew of no-longer-young women doing in the middle of the desert? (Though that could be a story in itself!)

I suppose I could hand out a questionnaire, asking the women if they would like to be part of the project, if I could use their real name and if not what name they would like me to use, and most importantly, how they would like to be described. I’d end up with a cast of wonderfully graceful, talented, brilliant, and beautiful characters of course, but there is truth in that. Despite their idiosyncrasies (or maybe because of them), despite their aging bodies and physical limitations, they are all in their own way, wonderfully graceful, talented, brilliant, and beautiful.

One problem is that each of these wonderfully graceful, talented, brilliant, and beautiful women would have to have larceny in her heart since each would be a suspect with a dark secret she is trying to hide, and that could lead to confusion about how I actually perceived each of them.

The main problem, of course, is that if I figure a way around all the other problems, I might actually have to write the dang thing.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of the suspense novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.” Connect with Pat on Google+. Like Pat on Facebook.

Are We Responsible for Responsiblity?

I’ve been thinking a lot about responsibility lately. Well, no wonder — I’m looking after my 97-year-old father and doing the best I can for my dysfunctional brother. I’ve always had an enormous sense of responsibility but now I’m wondering if perhaps that isn’t a good thing.

I was the oldest girl in a large family, and as such, I had responsibility thrust on me at an early age. (I never used to admit I was from a large family. I felt ashamed, as if I had been the one to choose to have a large family in overpopulated times. It took me half a lifetime to realize I had no blame in the matter. No responsibility.)

Responsibility means: 1) the state or fact of having a duty to deal with something or of having control over someone. 2) the state or fact of being accountable or to blame for something. 3) the opportunity or ability to act independently and make decisions without authorization. 4) a thing that one is required to do as part of a job, role, or legal obligation. 5) a moral obligation to behave correctly toward or in respect of.

It’s unusual for all the definitions of a word to apply in one of my ramheavenbling discussions with myself, but in this case, all of them do. Well, except for perhaps #3. I often have a hard time making decisions when all things are equal and it doesn’t make any difference to me what I decide. For example, I can never decide where to go to lunch if I’m out with friends. It’s being with the friends that matters to me, not the food that accompanies the conversation.

I’ve never liked having control over anyone, another leftover from childhood when I would be left in charge, yet I do often feel as if I have a duty to certain people, or perhaps a moral obligation to them. I also sometimes feel responsible for situations that have nothing to do with me, other than that I am there and I care. For example, if I express an opinion or preference, no matter how casual, and another person acts on that opinion with bad results, I blame myself, though I’m learning not to.

Some of my youthful research into spirituality added to this sense of responsibility. If life is created by thoughts, including ours, then everything we do affects the whole. I don’t believe, as many people do, that we create our own illnesses, or that we remain sick because our belief isn’t strong enough to make us well. Nor do I believe we create our problematic situations. I do know that sometimes (maybe most times) things simply happen, and all we can do is deal with them, and yet, the idea still lingers that somehow, somewhere, we are the authors of our lives, the ones responsible for putting ourselves in crises.

I once liked the saying: “No snowflake in an avalanche ever thinks it’s responsible.” It wasn’t until just now that it dawned on me that no snowflake is responsible. The snowflake didn’t create the weather, didn’t create the snowfall, didn’t create the conditions for an avalanche. It didn’t even choose where it was to land.

I’m not much of a snowflake in our society. I’ve only owned one car, and that still-running 42-year-old vehicle has but 153,000 miles on it. I recycle the old-fashioned way — wear out, use up, make do. I trod as lightly as I can, and yet, I am still a snowflake, however unwittingly, causing the avalanche of human destruction on this earth.

So, where does responsibility begin and end? Am I responsible for the earth, for our society’s problems, for my family, my father, my brother?

Am I responsible for the death of my life mate/soul mate? Now that I know the answer to. Of course I am not responsible, and yet there is something deep in me, something beyond consciousness, that believes perhaps I didn’t do enough, didn’t hold on to him tightly enough, didn’t love enough.

See? An enormous sense of misplaced responsibility.

So, are we responsible for responsibility? If things go wrong in the world (or in a family or community), how much of the accountability or the blame belongs to us? Do we in fact have control over anything, or do things just happen — will we, nill we?

Research into the mind shows that often a decision is made before we become aware we made the decision. One test had people choose which light to light up, but often the light lit up before it was chosen, which led researchers to wonder if the people chose the light in the millisecond after it lit up. Perhaps, as this research might indicate, we have no real choice in what happens. In which case, how can there be responsibility?

I suppose it’s also possible that no matter what we do, we’d get the same results. Although that idea wasn’t formulated when I wrote the first chapter of Break Time, the soon-to-be-published steampunk anthology, it’s how the story progressed. Every time Al went back to the past to save his wife and child from death, they ended up dying in another accident. If the end is the same no matter what we do, how can there be responsibility?

And is it possible (or even acceptable) to unshoulder a lifetime of responsibility?

Just wondering.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of the suspense novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.” Connect with Pat on Google+. Like Pat on Facebook.

Gyro Thinking

A gyro ball is a piece of exercise equipment used for strengthening the wrist, fingers, and forearm. It’s about the size of a tennis ball, and is composed of an outer covering and a free-spinning inner gyroscope. The faster the inner ball spins, the more strength you need to hold on to the device, and yet, all you need to keep the gyro going is a gentle circular motion of the wrist.

It seems to me that sometimes we can get caught up in gryo thinking where our thoughts spin and spin, and all it takes to keep those thoughts accelerating with ever increasing strength is to nudge ourselves with reminders of those thoughts. Sometimes the gryo gains such strength that it seems impossible to ever break the cycle.

In my case, what winds up my gyro are affronts. Pure hurts I can deal with face on. Pure anger generally burns itself out Ferris wheelwithin a few hours or maybe a couple of days at most. But affronts — being disregarded or deliberately disrespected — go deep, probably because they touch on ancient hurts and ancient angers.

This is a game two can play. If another person also experiences a similar slight or an offense from the same source, you can really rev each other up. You start out by talking things out, but so often what you are really doing is keeping each other’s wheels spinning.

I’ve never heard of gyro thinking, though I’m sure there is another, more technical name for it. It’s just something I have recently become aware of. (Which makes me wonder — did my having a name for such thinking make way for the concept itself? I only made the correlation after hearing about a gyro ball exerciser and learning how it works.)

I’m not subject to such spinning thoughts very often any more, but when I do feel affronted, I am learning not to feed the gyro. Learning to let the thoughts pass through my mind without holding on to them. Learning to let the spinning wheel turn on its own until it comes to a peaceful stop.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of the suspense novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.” Connect with Pat on Google+. Like Pat on Facebook.