Suicide: Getting to Resilient

                        Suicide: Getting to Resilient

            Five percent.  One out of twenty.  That’s the reality of our community, our country.  Within the last year, one out of twenty adults seriously considered ending their life.

            Suicide.  It is an epidemic, and we don’t talk about it much.  Suicide talk is taboo.  Don’t go there.  But, we must.   

            Every person needs to be connected to at least one other person, and to be able to reach out, talk about depression, sadness, and hopelessness.  We all need hope, an expectation that there is a tomorrow, there is opportunity for change, that our lives make a difference, and that life is worth living. Life’s problems can’t be only on our own shoulders. 

            Last week, I was part of a workshop, getting trained with skills to take on this intensely personal problem, to be a first responder in addressing suicide in our culture.  Applied Suicide Intervention Skills Training (ASIST) is a national movement to develop a first response model in our communities.  Evidence based models and techniques gave us the tools and the confidence to reach out and connect with someone who is possibly contemplating ending their life. 

            Invite a conversation, and plunge into the “perfect storm” that is roaring through their lives, and make connection.  When the signs are there, find the courage to “ask the question” and begin talking about suicide, and options for change, connecting them with you and connecting them with resources to be able to move ahead with their lives, and regain hope. 

            Suicidal thoughts have stormed through my own life, sometimes ending lives far too early, or paralyzing people with deep depression and isolation.  Surviving family and friends are wracked with uncertainly and chaos, leaving profound questions unanswered and lives thrown off track. 

            Making connections is what changes lives and saves lives.  What I’ve learned in life, and relearned at the ASIST training, is that you do connect.  You do reach out, engage people, and show your genuine concern for them and their well-being.  You connect with your own humanity and your fellows, and make that vital one to one connection. 

            Showing concern and empathy, and making that connection often saves lives and gives people a new sense of hope and possibility in their lives. 

            Help make them safe now, and help them develop their plan to be safe now.

            When you have that conversation, make those connections, one to one.  And, help them connect with others; not only with friends and family, but professional care givers and health care providers.  Be the gatekeeper for them and help them find their way. 

            The National Suicide Prevention Hot Line, 1-800-243-8255(TALK) is a  valuable resource. I’ve added it to my phone contacts.  Other resources: http://suicidepreventionlifeline.org, Youthline (1-877-YOUTH-911) and their text: TEEN2TEEN@839863.

            Connect with your local mental health services provider.  In my hometown, Tillamook, their crisis line is 800-962-2851.

            All of these services operate 24 hours a day, because suicide is a 24 hour a day issue of community wide concern. 

            Help build a resilient, safe community.

            ----Neal Lemery 9/1/2016 

Really Listening

                                                Really Listening

I listen to the quiet between the words.  In that interval between the sounds of us talking, the true, deep meaning is to be found, if only I am gentle with myself, and the speaker, moving into the space of the depth of true understanding.

If I listen to myself and to you, truly listen, then I will hear your true voice, and mine.  I will hear the message that I need to listen, deeply, intentionally, and with love and understanding.  In that lies my intention. I will connect with the heart of our true conversation.

Yes, the words have meaning, and stories are told from the words, and then some.  More.  I listen to the sentences, the rhythm of the speaker, inflections, the rising and falling of the cadence of the words.  I am led gently down the path of the storyteller, and shown the meaning of the words.

What is really being told here, I wonder.  There is more, there is always more.  My task is that of the explorer, the miner digging for the gold in the midst of the rubble, the ordinary chit-chat that often passes for conversation. Herein lies something even greater. So, truly listen.

Go deeper, I am sensing.  There is more to this than just what I am hearing, what is being said.

Underneath this, there is more.  I can feel it deep within me.

There are many layers to this tale, and I listen harder, taking in the silence, strewn among the spoken words, wanting everything that is revealed. I am seeking the message of the silence, exploring its vocabulary, its nuances.  What are you really saying here? And, what am I being called to really hear?

We feel the silence now; the spoken words uttered.  There is tension, the tension of the anticipated, the expected, the comforting patter of more words, more sounds. 

I am on edge; we both are.  This space between these words is new, irritating, literally dis-quieting.  I find myself yearning for a word, a phrase, to keep the banter going.  Part of me is reticent, to not really listen.  Do I prefer banality? Being on the surface, and not going deep.  Can’t I stay here, gliding on the mere surface of our conversation? Then, I won’t have to ponder the silences, and hear in my heart the real meaning of what your heart is saying.

Now I hear your breath, and mine.  There are other sounds, too.  Clothes, papers rustling, air moving, the ordinary background noises of whatever kind of place we are in, the place of normal, everyday conversations, the detritus of our daily lives. 

Yet, when I go deeper, beyond this ordinary sound clutter, my mind literally opens up, expands, so that I can take in all that you are expressing to me, the stuff beyond conversation, beyond the plain words of everyday conversation.

My senses broaden  ---  feeling, seeing, hearing, touching, and yes, even smelling all that you are offering me, in this near vacuum of experience between us. Yet, it is rich and full, and not vacuous, a contradiction.  Or is it? This is rich territory, and, so often, new to me.

If I would only truly sense what you are offering me, I would understand so much more.  You have so much information, so many ideas to express to me, if only I would be open to you, truly open. If I do this right, my senses, my intuition, the entirety of my entire array of sensory neurons would be on fire, overloaded with all that you are telling me.

You share with me in so many ways, ways that we both would agree would be of such enormity that neither of us would be deemed to be competent to assess, even measure.

Henri Nouwen wrote: “Somewhere, we know that without silence words lose their meaning, that without listening, speaking no longer heals; that without distance, closeness cannot cure.

He calls us to visit that “somewhere”, which is beyond our daily, mundane experience, and open ourselves as far as we believe we can go, into new territory of our existence, our humanity. 

He calls us to embrace the silence, and truly listen, to stake out that space between us, and let us be able to reach out to each other within that emptiness, and finally grow.

Now, I can’t reach any further out and listen harder, for the harder I work at this, the more difficult it becomes.  Another conundrum.  But isn’t that life?

The more I try, the less I succeed. No, I need to be now, just be, in all my humanity.  I must listen more gently, easier, more fully with all of my senses, with all of my feelings, on the edges of my soul, my very being.  On the rim of my existence, I must stretch further, letting the experience become in and of itself, beyond mere thought.

In that, I will truly listen to what you are telling me, and I will, at last, hear you, in all of your wonderful mystery and beauty.

                                                --Neal Lemery

                                                11/11/15

Healing, Listening, A Morning's Task

Healing, Listening, A Morning’s Task

“As healers we have to receive the story of our fellow human beings with a compassionate heart, a heart that does not judge or condemn but recognizes how the stranger’s story connects with our own…. Our most important question as healers is not, “What to say or to do?” but, “How to develop enough inner space where the story can be received?”

—Henri J. M. Nouwen

A Morning’s Task

He overflows, and I try to empty my self, making space,

opening to the geyser of his soul, 

him sharing, his story, his 

lifetime of pain, terror, loneliness,

now becoming words spoken,

feelings finally heard, honored

through his voice, my listening.

Listening, without judgement, without my views,

my biases, my edits, just

listening, letting him share his story,

and all its agonies, twists, and turns.

Him, finding his voice, now, sorting it out,

making some sense to it, seeing himself

the hero in this tale,

the good soul he really is

becoming.

An hour, then another, and into the third,

and he speaks on, now finding the words, 

and the order in the telling, seeing his life 

as his own story, of survival, achievement,

yes, even success and good coming from all that chaos and pain.

I listen, hard not to judge, not to be the commentator, 

just simply being there, ears and heart 

open

accepting, present in his life.

And, in that, a gift to him, 

in my humanity, my soul’s journey, Everyman’s

need for someone to listen, to hear 

for the very first time—

this becoming my gift to him, his first time

being heard, hearing his

truth.

—Neal Lemery, July, 2014

Restringing

Restringing

Together, we tear open the packages of new strings, gingerly remove the old strings, and replace them with new ones, all shiny and bright. The new strings don’t come with directions, and folks who buy violin strings are probably presumed to know what they are doing. Trial and error become reliable teachers, and our first experience in restringing a violin soon brings results. 

He tightens each string, checking the tuning, a smile creeping over his face as he realizes his violin now has a clearer, brand new tone. Yes, he can do this. He can restring his violin, a new task is learned, and a big accomplishment is made.

The violin has been a good teacher these last few months, offering challenges, and stretching his fingers and his fascination with making music with a bow, strings, and a centuries old design. My friend, "Jim", is finding his voice with this violin, a place to put his emotions, and his fears. He’s getting out of prison in eight months, and there’s a lot of fear in him now, about how to live, and how to be a man on the “outside”, for the first time in his young life. Six years is a long time behind bars, especially when you are twenty three.

His grandfather’s gift of the violin has brought him some genuine excitement, and a place for his emotions, his love for creating something beautiful. He is finding a voice for his soul to spread its wings and soar. 

We work quietly, offering each other suggestions, each contributing a finger to hold a string, or add a bit of tension, only a word here and there to solve a problem of a reluctant tip of a wire string, or finding the correct direction to turn a tuning peg, the right groove for that particular string. 

He retunes and retightens, again and again, as the new strings stretch, now becoming part of the violin, part of the whole of what he tenderly holds in his arms and under his chin, his bow finding its place, creating new notes, clean and bright.

We were supposed to work on our weekly task, reading comprehension and vocabulary for his college entrance tests. He kept failing the tests on the computer, and was getting frustrated. He’d seen me helping other young men here with their studies, and had finally screwed up his courage enough to ask me for some help.

In the past two months, we’d been faithful to our task, making progress, but today was different. As soon as I walked into the multi-purpose room for the prison camp, and its eclectic chaos of books, videos, craft supplies, a few beat up guitars, and "Jim"’s violin, he talked excitedly about everything but our work. He was a tea kettle getting ready to boil.

Our stringing task complete, I’m thinking we could get our studying done. But, the water’s still hot and "Jim" is ready to unload on something else. We move on to a new topic, and soon he is showing me photos of his family, and telling me their stories, and the stories of his young life, stories he’s never shared with me.

There’s the grandfather who sent him the violin, smiling, picking his guitar. 

“He’s real proud of me, for working so hard on the violin,” he says. “I got to talk to him on the phone the other day, first time in a year.”

As he flips through the album, he lets me deeper into his life, sharing some more sad stories, some of his pain, his worries about people he loves, and who he really might be, inside. 

And, finally, the last page of the album, the real reason he’s emotional today.  He lets me inside of his heart, and shares a deep, sad story, so intense and personal that the details, the intimacy, aren’t to be shared with anyone else.  Yet, he trusts me to listen, to hear his story, and why he is so sad, and on edge today.

I want to find a corner and cry my eyes out, the pain in "Jim"’s voice filling me with sorrow. But, I have to keep listening,  No one else is. 

It’s a matter of fact tale, just part of his young life, just what he has had to experience.  I lean in, and listen hard, my few questions telling him I’m really listening, really paying attention to him, and his Divine Comedy, taking me deeper and colder than Dante’s version of the deepest part of Hell.  

We’ve gone so far today, from mentor and prisoner, to tutor and student, to amateur violin restringer and tuner, to spiritual surgeons, working on a broken heart.   My job now becomes the listener, the friend, the other human being in the room who gives a damn about this young man and his pain.  

He tells his story, letting me hear his pain, and his deep love for what he had in his arms, and then lost, and how he has gained from all of that, and become a loving, good man, at peace with God, and content in his life.  Oh, there is still some bitterness and some righteous anger, but instead of poisoning his soul, he uses all that to feed his soul, and nurture his gentle, peaceful spirit, and give himself guidance and purpose in his life.

There are angels in this room now, surrounding us, and filling this space with love and a sense of serenity and comfort.  I think “Jim” senses them, too, and his shoulders drop, and he is, at last, becoming at peace with his story he has just shared.  In the telling, he has found some acceptance, and compassion, some support in his journey. He is not alone, now, in that story, that part of his life that nearly pulled his heart out of his chest.  

I grab him and hold him close, and he holds me tight, and sobs, at last. Together, we grieve, the soothing words we both need now not spoken, but filling the room, and healing his heart, resounding loudly in our souls.  What I try to give to him now comes not from me, as much as it comes from the angels in our midst, the air heavy with the unconditional love of the universe. 

Our time is up, now, and I have to go. We’ve worked on our vocabulary,  the words that really matter today, and we’ve restrung a violin, giving both "Jim" and his violin a new, brighter voice. We’ve put in some new heart strings, too, giving me a chance to love this young man a little harder, a little deeper today, giving him some space to play his songs, and be loved.

—Neal Lemery

4/10/2014