What's in a name

I remember, in University, I had a Bible class in which the professor discussed the importance of names in scripture. Oftentimes a particular individual would be given a name in hopes of future calling or their name would end up significant in some part of their lives (or, in several cases, their name was changed to reflect a milestone). So, in light of what has happened, I have decided to change my name to Pauline Epistle The Road Less Travelled Sidhartha Quaker Friend IV. (Or—I might give that some further thought.)
In one of my favourite novels, Dune, names play an important role that the central characters don’t often understand until a particular event comes to pass or the importance of their name is revealed by an awakening of some sort. It is, of course, a literary convention to give characters emblematic names or names which denote the inner nature of the person. (See Dickens especially for this; I always wondered if Master Bates in Oliver Twist was intentional. Did Dickens know this would be the cause of much adolescent snickering in high school education for aeons to come?)

Jason means The one who brings healing. That has, at various times, given me pause; what is one’s responsibility to one’s name? How much power does a name have and what kind of energy comes from it? Recently, I’ve been reading the works of C.G. Jung (well, on and off over the past year since the Human Ecology program and more intently in the last few months). Last month, on my flight from France to the States, I listened to a biography of Jung. There was a particular statement that he made concerning the difficulties he faced in life and how that contributed to his practice, Only the wounded physician heals. This statement predates Jung but is particularly suited to psychology. One, in many cases, must experience something in order to empathise with another person.

I have, by no measure, lived a difficult life. However, I have passed through a number of significant experiences of physical, spiritual and psychological pain. How did these things wound the healer and what ability do I have to heal the wounded? I cannot claim I am entirely an adept listener (ask any woman who has known me for longer than, say, five months); but people generally open up to me. They talk out what has wounded them. I’m beginning to wonder how these events in my life, my naming events, may alter how I respond. Perhaps not even how they alter what I have to say; how will these events alter the way I listen? What healing may come from my wounds?

A week past

...and all the future ahead. A week ago, at about this time, I was pinned in underneath a semi-trailer. For a moment, I thought I was about to die—but then I didn’t. The question I have to sort now is whether that life from before continued—or if this is something different. There is a significant difference in the shades between. I think some part of me may have passed on and, perhaps, something new was brought out bright and living.

Going on with purpose

First: Yes, still sore (will look into therapy this week after getting more of the insurance sorted).
Several people have asked how I’m doing psychologically; I think I’m okay considering everything that’s happened. I’m getting a little weary of talking about it (however, at least I can talk about it; that’s supposedly a good sign). It was a little difficult the other night here in my parent’s annual neighbourhood block party. I felt obliged to relate the story over and again; it’s just difficult to discuss what happened casually over a beer and roast pork. Also, people don’t quite know how to respond. The usual route is to relate either their own or another accident story. This is an attempt at empathy, which I appreciate; however, it doesn’t really do much to relieve the stress or trauma of my own situation. I mentioned this difficulty to a friend and she said, “You can always say you’d rather not talk about it.” This is a power I think I’ll need to invoke in the incoming weeks.

I’m sitting on the back deck; there is a deer strolling by about ten metres away.

I’m having a little difficulty sleeping; last night I had some Sleepytime tea and took Melatonin then slept straight through the night. The difficulty I had was just getting to sleep in the first place as I was—well, just thinking. A couple nights ago I was looking for support groups for this kind of accident (I’ve since learned it is called a “side underride” accident). There are apparently groups for victims families; however, there don’t seem to be any for victims—as they usually don’t survive.

I will be giving this a lot of thought; again, this is going to be a difficult thing to relate to people. Someone was asking me later in the week how my job search was going. I had to tell them that I’m not really thinking about that at the moment…I’ve got life to re-assess.

I already have a fairly wicked sense of humour—and an experience like this sort of gives one licence to step it up a notch; one of the BuildaBridge Institute participants e-mailed this to me last evening:

I am reminded of David Livingston’s words, “I am immortal until the will of God for my life is accomplished.” (Or something along those lines.) Clearly God is willing something more for you…

To which I responded:

That would have been a great statement to make right after the accident; if only I had know/thought of that at the time! When the truck driver came in underneath the trailer afterward to see about me…“Man! Oh, God! Are you all right?” I could have responded, “I am Immortal!...” Would have been great…probably would have completely freaked out everyone on the scene and they would have assumed I had a head injury, but great nonetheless.

Awareness of the now

I will attempt to not become the stereotypical “near death experience” person, but I was just waking in the forest and was so aware of every little leaf and branch. My parents live next to a nature reserve; I have a feeling I will be spending a lot of time walking there in the incoming weeks.
Today was devoted to sorting out the mess of my personal space (moving back here from Scotland…unpacking boxes and finding places for everything). This and sleeping; though I am sleeping fairly well at night, I’m just very tired…which, I suppose, is understandable. I am still a bit sore and my bruises are turning an awful pale yellow colour—but, again, to be expected.

Several people have asked how I am psychologically; I’m okay for the moment. I did have, as I was falling asleep, a sudden memory of part of the accident—just a split second of the time. It was like, as one falls asleep and has a waking dream that one is physically falling—and then comes to with a start. As I keep saying, it’s going to be a lot to process.

One of my parent’s neighbours brought over an Elvis fridge magnet to cheer my mother; I said it’s a good thing she is not a James Dean fan.

Beginning the Change

A few weeks ago I spotted this sign whilst walking in Glasgow; at the time it was humorously applicable to my situation—now it seems prophetic.

I’ve received a lot of email wishing me well and asking further questions.

I am very sore; however, I used to practice Aikido and I’m not so much more sore than if someone had devised a particularly unpleasant technique that involved getting thrown down in a really wrong way…and then taken the mat away…and that was the technique we practised for several hours. I will probably seek out some therapy in the incoming weeks.

There is some pain; my left arm hit against something and it’s tender. However, I was saying to Mom yesterday that everything prepares one for something else. If you’ll remember, I once had a fourteen inch steel bar underneath my ribcage—I know something about pain so a bump on the arm isn’t really an issue (I’m not trying to sound macho there I just have some perspective—and a bottle of Motrin. I wish I still had Vioxx; if only it had not been banned).

I’m at my parents house where I will stay for the moment to recover; for those of you who have not been following my visa woes, I just returned to the States from Scotland about a week and a half ago.

There were a couple unfortunate comments posted on other websites concerning the driver of the truck. He, as is often the case in accidents like this, had no physical injury. A few people noted that, “this was a shame.” I do not at all think so; regardless of legal fault for the accident, the man is a human being who has value in himself and to others. There is no need to belittle him as a person because of the situation we found ourselves joined in; he was the first to me after the accident and, I think, he was more agitated than I (of course, I was covered in blood from a cut on my head, pinned inside underneath his trailer and the car looked like…well, see the pictures). I knew I was okay but he was probably thinking that he had caused someone’s death; that’s going to be a heavy burden to process. I hardly got to see anything on the scene (the paramedics had me immobilised and would not let me look around at all). My whole experience was very “localised”; he got to walk around and consider more what could have been. I know this must have shaken him as he was taken away with chest pains—so give the man his own space to deal with this.

When the initial impact happened and I began to spin around I relaxed (I consciously thought, “relax”). I went limp and (instinctively or from some momentum) bent over into the passenger seat. If I had not done this—the top of the car was torn off and then, as you can see in a couple of the pictures, the pylon that supports the roof went right into the driver’s headrest. Also, when I opened my eyes, there were pipes and hoses from the undercarriage of the trailer in front of me between the seat and where the windshield used to be (the firemen were contemplating having to cut them off to get to me). So, again, had anything not happened exactly as it did, this would have ended very differently.

Someone asked last night, “what did it sound like?” I attempted to describe it but, thinking about it now, that sound may be something that only people who experience it should hear—and then not relate to others. That sound is now imprinted into my mind and will never go away. That sound is something I may need to recall at times to keep me on track. That sound is mine alone; it would do no service to others. That sound was almost my end. One can offer one’s life to others, but only I can experience my death; I know now what that might sound like.

As a side note, for the past couple weeks, I’ve been reading Judith Hermann’s Trauma and Recovery which covers PTSD. This was in preparation for discussions at the BuildaBridge Institute (as we deal with traumatised children); however, once again, it’s another synchronicity of my life.

Trauma T1571

For a short time yesterday I did not have a name; I was Trauma T1571 at the Cumberland Memorial Hospital in Cumberland, Maryland. Before that, I was flown by helicopter off of Highway 68 Westbound. Before that, I was strapped to a backboard and given an IV. Before that, I was cut out of a car with giant pneumatic pincers. Before that, I had a man holding me immobile and shielding my face and legs from the tools the firemen were using to extract me. Before that, a bystander reached his hand through the smashed window just to hold mine and speak with me. Before that I was in the worst car accident I can imagine. By all apparent rights, I should not be typing this right now.

This past week I was at the BuildaBridge Institute in Philadelphia (which was superb, by the way—amazing people and conversations). Yesterday afternoon I drove back from Philly to Morgantown, West Virginia where my parents live…or at least that is what I was attempting to do. Somewhere east of Cumberland, MD, I was going down a grade (there is a long hill there that trucks tend to barrel through). My cruse control was on; I was just going along in the right hand lane (which, for my friends in the UK, remember to switch this…I was in the “slow” lane). I caught a glimpse of something very large in my driver’s mirror and then was suddenly spinning around and all hell broke loose.

I was hit in the rear driver’s side corner by an eighteen wheel truck that came into my lane as he passed me (apparently rather quickly). This spun me around several times and I then became lodged in underneath the trailer of the truck and dragged along the freeway for some distance. Of course, there is not a lot of room underneath a cargo trailer; fortunately, I was driving one of the smallest cars in existence. I was in a Mazda MX-5 (a Miata); the top of the car was shorn right off as I went under. The firemen who cut me out (they had to extract me through the side as there was no way for me to come out upward) said that, had I been in any other kind of vehicle, I would be dead. Actually, everyone that spoke with me could not figure out how I survived. One of the paramedics said he had never seen anyone come out of an accident like that alive (when they arrived on the scene, they immediately called for a helicopter before seeing me); I have some lacerations on my face and arms from all the glass and a sore shoulder and arm. I was not even kept in the hospital overnight. The medic on the flight took some pictures of the scene with his mobile and shared them around the emergency room; I just kept hearing “Damn…dayyymn!” and then people would just come over and look at me (and then say something like “...damn?”). I felt I was playing out the hospital scene in Unbreakable.

As they pulled me out of the wreckage, one of the firemen looked at me and said, “Man, there must be some kind of plan for you.” I have always valued my life and appreciate the blessings of it—but this is a new life. I remember thinking one thing during the accident, “Let me Live!” and I’ve lived—and that means something very special now. I hope to discover more fully what life is—because I’ve been given a chance to continue anew with living.

Also, a news clip here

Update 10 June: my father and uncle went to look at the scene yesterday; from the skid marks, it looks like we may have travelled as much as several hundred feet together before coming to a stop. Thank goodness the truck driver had the presence of mind to keep us both on the road with my car lodged in underneath the carriage.

Update 25 June: I’ve had several hundreds of hits on this post since I put up more pictures of the accident scene yesterday; someone asked to explain further the physics of what happened after I was hit. Apparently, from the description the investigating trooper gave, the truck drifted over into my lane and hit me from behind, this launched me out in front of the semi into the passing lane’s median barrier, my car then ricocheted off the barrier, spun round and went in rear first under the trailer in the passing lane (or wherever it was at this point). Then we all travelled together several hundred feet before coming to a stop. There were more saving graces there; had we gone much further, there is a chance my car would have flipped under the rear tyres and the trailer would have run over me; I could have gone straight through under the trailer, in which case I probably would have flipped over and again down the freeway; the car could have severed the brake hoses under the carriage, this apparently might have caused the brakes to lock down on the wheels—doing who knows what. Again, it happened exactly how it had to happen.

Bitching (abroad and at home)

I flew back from Glasgow to Pittsburgh last evening; I want to bitch for a moment about people bitching about…everything. Americans seem to complain a lot about non-essential matters. I know that these are a limited selection of people I’m observing and, no doubt, I’ve witlessly overheard the same things in other languages around the world—but I’m continually nonplussed with the reactions American travellers have concerning the places they visit. It’s as if everything is not America, then it’s all wrong; excuse me, the point of travel is to go someplace that is not like your home—that’s the point!
I overheard (or was trapped near) several bitching sessions yesterday. Whilst waiting for my connecting flight in Philadelphia, I sat across a middle-aged couple on their way back from holiday (in the Caribbean, I believe; there was mention of islands and they were both browned to a crisp). The woman spoke loudly into her mobile explaining all the woes of the journey; the man sat stone-faced staring off into the distance. She went on about how it rained, things were too expensive, the food was different, there were people speaking languages she didn’t understand, the beach was filled with skinny people (they were both grossly overweight), they should have gone on a cruse instead, there was nothing to do at the resort but sit around, there weren’t enough places to shop, it was hot, on and on and on! Madam, I have a solution for you: Stay At Home! Do Not Leave the Country! If you honestly cannot gain anything from even this limited cross-cultural experience, just don’t attempt it; you are re-enforcing the Ugly American stereotype and we don’t need that at the moment. (The best part was after she hung up, she turned to her husband and said that the person she was speaking with didn’t even ask how the trip was…she just had to tell it all without prompting. Did you consider that this other person might not have wanted to hear your whining?)

There is so much we can learn whilst travelling; yes, it is different and yes there are often difficulties and trials on the journey. Go, see the world and realise you are not the centre of it; realise that the difficulties you face as a traveller are nothing compared to the everyday matters faced by many of the people you are visiting. But, if you are going to have a mental hernia if there is no ketchup on the table or if you feel you must be rude to the locals as a matter of course, don’t go. Stay on your sofa. Watch television. Get fatter. Your carbon footprint for travel is too high in this case.

Okay, I now have that out of my system…onward.

The Revolution

I was just searching for something else…and came across this reply I made concerning a post by Alex Steffen on WorldChanging. (There was also a good discussion on small arms trade that’s worth revisiting as well.) I walked past a Tamil protest in the city today and, once again, am considering the effects of revolutions on revolutionaries and—especially—on people caught in the middle. The comment below concerned The Green Revolution; however, as I think that political and environmental revolutions are closely entwined, the discussion is parallel. The comment:
“Revolutions are rarely bloodless (in the quite literal sense); you and I would have it so. We all discuss ways of positive change; we begin a thousand incremental movements toward a sustainable place for all living things. But as Jonathan mentions above, there are billions of people who are not necessarily thinking about this right now. They are not taking those steps. Our revolution may be velvet; though we must consider all the clouded rhetoric that surround these issues, at least we have the power to discern and determine our futures through “lifestyle choices.” We have in our hands a spectrum of paths that point to any number of futures. But, I fear, there are so many in the world who face a starker and much bloodier tomorrow.

If we are to have any future, the revolution (and I’m using that term without a solid definition here) will come. But, nothing dealing with ideas at such a large scale comes overnight; nothing comes to all of us at once. We’ve begin in the Global North, we take [those] steps (though more slowly that some of us would like to see); we are hopeful these will negate the damages done. We are hopeful that it’s not too late to heal. But, while we change, we ride on a cache of social order and wealth. Most of the South has no such buffer; the revolution will hit them hard and suddenly (we can already see this happening in places with scarce water resources and where food supply is endangered by global warming; the knock-on social effects are apparent).

I say all the above to consider this: You and I know that radical change is needed; we have good hopes of determining what this is and living it out. Though I’m not completely living it now, I hope to do so in the incoming years so that all is well and I am not detrimental to society or the planet. All of “us” commit to this; we manage to become a positive encouragement in our society and change it for the better. Millions of “us” change; however, there are still billions of people on the planet who were not part of this initial revolution. There are still billions operating under “the old systems.” How do we bring the revolution to them?

Alex, you are right, we have the responsibility to dream a new future for the world; it’s not enough to sit tidy at home. I do not think it grandiose to say that we must now think ideas that are better than what humanity has ever thought. All action springs from ideas, we must have the best ideas and inspire people with them.

What ideal world do we advocate? I think we do not yet have anything that would unify humanity to change in the radical way needed. We don’t have, for lack of a better metaphor, a scripture for the future of the world. (Or, perhaps, we haven’t properly interpreted the text written in nature all around us.) I can make the changes needed to save my world; that decision is relatively painless (though it require a complete restructuring of all my thought and action). The difficult part of a revolution is not changing me; the difficulty is generating and disseminating the ideas that change others. How do we shape the ideas of all the people in the world in the short time we have to do so? How do we make the green revolution velvet for us all?”