The first of these anniversaries is Dixie Lee's upcoming 13th birthday -- a celebratory occasion -- which will be on August 1st if she is able to stay the course for the next four weeks. For a dog her large size (Rhodesian Ridgeback), 13 is very old. She has been at varying degrees of deafness for the past couple of years (sometimes her hearing briefly seems to partially return); she has cataracts that are quite progressed; she has small bumpy growths on various body parts that her vet and I are reluctant to tamper with because giving her anesthesia at this stage of her life would be risky. I know that sounds perversely comical as she could slip away at any moment during a nap.
She sleeps a lot; she loves to eat; she has maintained the utmost ladylike hygiene. Always an "aloof" dog (her breed description very accurately uses the word "aloof"), she has never been aggressive ... until now. I think she has become fearful. When people come to the house now, I need to put her in my/her bedroom where she remains quiet and content.
The other anniversary that I will privately observe, is the upcoming 7th anniversary of the church shooting at TVUUC. At five years, the church (perhaps rightfully) decided that there would be no future observances. For me, there is so much that permanently affected me -- emotionally of course. And physically -- the residuals are rather constant reminders. Most importantly, spiritually ... in the months and years that followed the event, a part of me awakened and helps me live my life, has helped open the door for beauty and appreciation and gratitude.
So the day is one that is meaningful for me. Last year on the sixth anniversary, I walked in my favorite local park where there are lots of trees. Trees, I find, are so able and willing to absorb human sorrows and to reflect human joys ... and to offer strengthening energies. My walk was one of meditation and gratitude; then I visited with my dear friend and we talked of gentle and beautiful things and had tea.
Showing posts with label TVUUC. Show all posts
Showing posts with label TVUUC. Show all posts
Thursday, July 2, 2015
Friday, July 24, 2009
Quiet Miracles –
It is a bit after 5 p.m. on Friday, July 24th and I’m sitting in the sanctuary of TVUUC. There is an exquisite labyrinth set up in the sanctuary. If I felt more steady on my feet at the moment, I would walk it. Well, it’s good to sit here and just breathe ... in: "Peace", out: "Yes". "Peace – Yes." That is my personal meditation and it works well for me; I even use it to ease my asthma.
It feels quietly exciting to sit here – I’m in the seat I always used until that morning last July 27th when I got up and changed seats and sat in the one directly behind it. I’ve said before that I did that "for some inexplicable reason", but that’s not quite true. That morning, something ("the small voice"), had made me edgy and told me to change seats; actually, it had almost shouted that instruction. And because I listened and heeded, I am able to be here this evening. But that is not what inspired this post's title.
There are many activities, a special service, and a guitar concert scheduled for this weekend and Monday. They are intended to celebrate the church’s spiritual triumph over the intent of the man who wanted to kill us all – the triumph of love over hate. They are intended, also, to pour out our thanks to the community of Knoxville churches and individuals that gave us so much support in the days and weeks following the shootings. My own personal preference is the reverent, centering approach we have this evening. It seems certain that the media will be here on Sunday and Monday. There will be a lot of people, maybe even throngs, as was the case one year ago. I’ve wondered, worried about how the events may affect the families of those who were slain.
I was injured. I was able to walk ... no, crawl, out of the sanctuary that morning, deafened; I was able to shakily stand on my feet, and able to put myself on auto-pilot to drive myself home ... after which I collapsed and found myself in a crescendo of almost indescribable physical and emotional pain, the ramifications of which evolved over several months. How I resisted it. How I hated to be a victim – I hated it. When the migrating pellets caused my eye to hemorrhage on election day morning, that happening brought me to my emotional knees. I wondered if I was losing my eye (my good eye). I learned that I would need to stay behind dark glasses and/or dodge people for a month. It was frightening to look at myself in the mirror, so I certainly didn't want to frighten others. But a miracle happened. Two miracles (or a two-part miracle)!
One beautiful afternoon when the neighborhood was quiet and no one else was around, I was sitting in my backyard on the old wrought iron bench, situated under a very old (and wise) maple tree. I had my dog with me. I became aware of a peaceful feeling – it felt almost alien ... and so calming. In that moment, a perfectly shaped, golden leaf fluttered down from the maple tree and gently brushed my arm as it came to rest on my left hand. I understood this leaf to be a very special gift. The moment was a time of enlightenment and communion.
After a while, I got up and went into the house, where I stood in front of my full-length mirror, looked into the reflection of my face, and heard myself saying aloud "I love you – no matter how you look. I treasure every part of you and the miracle that you are still functioning as a living unit." I remember those as my exact words. From that moment, I’ve had a new regard and respect for myself ... and for my music and general imprint on the world.
I became gentle with myself and used (my own) healing touch on my forehead and eye. I made peace with my pellets, which responded by quietly settling down. Of course, during that month away from church (while my eye recovered), the other congregants had moved on in their own individual and communal ways of healing. When I did return in mid-December, there was a sea of new faces; there were throngs of people. For a while, I felt like a stranger, out of cadence with everyone else. My drama has been and is amazing.
Meanwhile, my quiet, miracle messenger maple leaf is in a picture frame, pressed under glass for all time to come, and hanging on my bedroom wall. The memory of its gentle stroke upon my hand reminds me that my life ... and life itself (in the continuum) will go on ... yes, changed, but ever vital and precious.
It feels quietly exciting to sit here – I’m in the seat I always used until that morning last July 27th when I got up and changed seats and sat in the one directly behind it. I’ve said before that I did that "for some inexplicable reason", but that’s not quite true. That morning, something ("the small voice"), had made me edgy and told me to change seats; actually, it had almost shouted that instruction. And because I listened and heeded, I am able to be here this evening. But that is not what inspired this post's title.
There are many activities, a special service, and a guitar concert scheduled for this weekend and Monday. They are intended to celebrate the church’s spiritual triumph over the intent of the man who wanted to kill us all – the triumph of love over hate. They are intended, also, to pour out our thanks to the community of Knoxville churches and individuals that gave us so much support in the days and weeks following the shootings. My own personal preference is the reverent, centering approach we have this evening. It seems certain that the media will be here on Sunday and Monday. There will be a lot of people, maybe even throngs, as was the case one year ago. I’ve wondered, worried about how the events may affect the families of those who were slain.
I was injured. I was able to walk ... no, crawl, out of the sanctuary that morning, deafened; I was able to shakily stand on my feet, and able to put myself on auto-pilot to drive myself home ... after which I collapsed and found myself in a crescendo of almost indescribable physical and emotional pain, the ramifications of which evolved over several months. How I resisted it. How I hated to be a victim – I hated it. When the migrating pellets caused my eye to hemorrhage on election day morning, that happening brought me to my emotional knees. I wondered if I was losing my eye (my good eye). I learned that I would need to stay behind dark glasses and/or dodge people for a month. It was frightening to look at myself in the mirror, so I certainly didn't want to frighten others. But a miracle happened. Two miracles (or a two-part miracle)!
One beautiful afternoon when the neighborhood was quiet and no one else was around, I was sitting in my backyard on the old wrought iron bench, situated under a very old (and wise) maple tree. I had my dog with me. I became aware of a peaceful feeling – it felt almost alien ... and so calming. In that moment, a perfectly shaped, golden leaf fluttered down from the maple tree and gently brushed my arm as it came to rest on my left hand. I understood this leaf to be a very special gift. The moment was a time of enlightenment and communion.
After a while, I got up and went into the house, where I stood in front of my full-length mirror, looked into the reflection of my face, and heard myself saying aloud "I love you – no matter how you look. I treasure every part of you and the miracle that you are still functioning as a living unit." I remember those as my exact words. From that moment, I’ve had a new regard and respect for myself ... and for my music and general imprint on the world.
I became gentle with myself and used (my own) healing touch on my forehead and eye. I made peace with my pellets, which responded by quietly settling down. Of course, during that month away from church (while my eye recovered), the other congregants had moved on in their own individual and communal ways of healing. When I did return in mid-December, there was a sea of new faces; there were throngs of people. For a while, I felt like a stranger, out of cadence with everyone else. My drama has been and is amazing.
Meanwhile, my quiet, miracle messenger maple leaf is in a picture frame, pressed under glass for all time to come, and hanging on my bedroom wall. The memory of its gentle stroke upon my hand reminds me that my life ... and life itself (in the continuum) will go on ... yes, changed, but ever vital and precious.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Angels, Heroes, & Upcoming Anniversary of July 27th...
Somehow the upcoming first anniversary of the shootings at my church suggests to me that this would be a good time for me to acknowledge and honor my life's heroes ...
My mother, who had an amazingly giving and generous spirit and who was my cheerleader and promoter.
My paternal grandmother, who was my childhood playmate and talented mentor.
The men at TVUUC who saved my life on July 27, 2008.
The people who work as advocates for and rescuers of animals and our earth.
The musicial artists who write, sing, and play about truth in their music; the visual artists who state truth in their drawings and paintings.
Philip, my multi-talented friend who was also my ardent and steadfast fan.
Gerald, who has humor and a generous heart.
Harry, who I'll always remember for his vision, sensitivity, and honesty.
Dr. Griffith and Dr. Stewart, who are very kind and very wise.
Diana, who has integrity, courage, and strength.
My guardian angel(s) who come to my rescue every time I call.
My beautiful Dixie Lee.
Myself, for my fortitude and (what I believe is) a gentle heart.
~To all that is good, thanks be for the breath of life~
And my heartfelt thanks to my circle of friends for their love, loyalty, and encouragement.
My mother, who had an amazingly giving and generous spirit and who was my cheerleader and promoter.
My paternal grandmother, who was my childhood playmate and talented mentor.
The men at TVUUC who saved my life on July 27, 2008.
The people who work as advocates for and rescuers of animals and our earth.
The musicial artists who write, sing, and play about truth in their music; the visual artists who state truth in their drawings and paintings.
Philip, my multi-talented friend who was also my ardent and steadfast fan.
Gerald, who has humor and a generous heart.
Harry, who I'll always remember for his vision, sensitivity, and honesty.
Dr. Griffith and Dr. Stewart, who are very kind and very wise.
Diana, who has integrity, courage, and strength.
My guardian angel(s) who come to my rescue every time I call.
My beautiful Dixie Lee.
Myself, for my fortitude and (what I believe is) a gentle heart.
~To all that is good, thanks be for the breath of life~
And my heartfelt thanks to my circle of friends for their love, loyalty, and encouragement.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Bumper Stickers, Messages, and the Quality of “Wild” –
Today I saw a truck in the shopping center parking lot that was loaded (as is mine, though at the opposite side of the spectrum) with bumper stickers. I did not want to stick around until the truck’s owner showed up – to see his/her face and eyes and countenance.
The messages were pregnant with blatant and bold hate and intolerance. The one that hit me first and hardest was "Liberals are terrorists". Others included a little rhyme, "I won’t hide my white pride", "Seal our borders", and a message that was nastily directed (in a racial sense) at those who voted for President Obama. It saddened me to read them, so I made a conscious effort to re-direct my attention and thoughts to the quest for positive and longed-for solutions to this kind of blind hatred and intolerance. What a wonderful world we could have if we were to replace all hatred with compassion. Picture it!
Bumper stickers are the one way we can and do "advertise" what matters to us, what we believe, the way we think, where our spirit resides. Bumper stickers do affect people who see them. How often have you giggled when you found yourself waiting in traffic in back of a vehicle with humorous bumper stickers? Or shifted your thinking while viewing profoundly inspiring bumper stickers? Seen any political bumper stickers that were either to your liking or kind of got your hackles up?
Most of my bumper stickers are about kindness to animals, compassion in general, love, and beauty. One of them has an inviting message about Tennessee Valley Unitarian Universalist Church. Another of them (one of my oldest and original bumper stickers that I’ve had to shellac to help preserve it from the elements) says "Wild Women Don’t Get The Blues" (though I assure you they definitely do get the blues). Women tend to like that bumper sticker and view it with humor, sort of in a way that is equal to a wink. During the first couple of years my truck wore the message, I had two incidents involving gentlemen who were incensed by it. One shouted to me in traffic on the Kingston Pike, "You will burn in hell!" The other said something equally harsh about damnation. Another time, in front of the post office on Sutherland, a young man asked, in a very sincere tone, "Is it true that wild women don’t get the blues?" I replied, "It’s not true". He responded in a thoughtful tone and with downcast eyes, "I didn’t think so...wild men get the blues, too". Poor kid, I thought – he must be going through something.
Those zealots of judgement (I like the "e" in the word "judgement") among us who see things totally in polarized black and white – superior and inferior – bad and good – those who put disparaging labels on others for the sake of elevating themselves, apparently equate the word "wild" with "immoral" or "wicked". No! "Wild" means wild – untamed, free, natural, able to make one’s own decisions and travel on one’s own path, able to respect, honor and be at one with nature, able to be humane and human, able to recognize one’s interconnectedness with the rest of creation, able to err and forgive oneself (and others). I will strive to live out my days as a wild woman in all those ways.
The messages were pregnant with blatant and bold hate and intolerance. The one that hit me first and hardest was "Liberals are terrorists". Others included a little rhyme, "I won’t hide my white pride", "Seal our borders", and a message that was nastily directed (in a racial sense) at those who voted for President Obama. It saddened me to read them, so I made a conscious effort to re-direct my attention and thoughts to the quest for positive and longed-for solutions to this kind of blind hatred and intolerance. What a wonderful world we could have if we were to replace all hatred with compassion. Picture it!
Bumper stickers are the one way we can and do "advertise" what matters to us, what we believe, the way we think, where our spirit resides. Bumper stickers do affect people who see them. How often have you giggled when you found yourself waiting in traffic in back of a vehicle with humorous bumper stickers? Or shifted your thinking while viewing profoundly inspiring bumper stickers? Seen any political bumper stickers that were either to your liking or kind of got your hackles up?
Most of my bumper stickers are about kindness to animals, compassion in general, love, and beauty. One of them has an inviting message about Tennessee Valley Unitarian Universalist Church. Another of them (one of my oldest and original bumper stickers that I’ve had to shellac to help preserve it from the elements) says "Wild Women Don’t Get The Blues" (though I assure you they definitely do get the blues). Women tend to like that bumper sticker and view it with humor, sort of in a way that is equal to a wink. During the first couple of years my truck wore the message, I had two incidents involving gentlemen who were incensed by it. One shouted to me in traffic on the Kingston Pike, "You will burn in hell!" The other said something equally harsh about damnation. Another time, in front of the post office on Sutherland, a young man asked, in a very sincere tone, "Is it true that wild women don’t get the blues?" I replied, "It’s not true". He responded in a thoughtful tone and with downcast eyes, "I didn’t think so...wild men get the blues, too". Poor kid, I thought – he must be going through something.
Those zealots of judgement (I like the "e" in the word "judgement") among us who see things totally in polarized black and white – superior and inferior – bad and good – those who put disparaging labels on others for the sake of elevating themselves, apparently equate the word "wild" with "immoral" or "wicked". No! "Wild" means wild – untamed, free, natural, able to make one’s own decisions and travel on one’s own path, able to respect, honor and be at one with nature, able to be humane and human, able to recognize one’s interconnectedness with the rest of creation, able to err and forgive oneself (and others). I will strive to live out my days as a wild woman in all those ways.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
The Road Back --
"It’s a strange and rocky trail" is the way a lyric line goes, in the song I wrote during the week following the July 27th shotgun assault on TVUUC. I think I wrote it a day or two after the writing of my July 29th blog post. The song’s title is "Give Me A Warm Shoulder To Lean On". It will be on my playlist at my next gig. The song came from that place where my innermost feelings reside.
All in all, the aftermath of the tragic events of that Sunday truly is a roller-coaster. In the beginning I cried a lot; sometimes nothing at all would trigger the tears. Rather, they seemed like a safety valve letting loose. Some days I could convince myself that things felt normal again, but not for long; the scene would re-play itself in my mind and the reality of it sank in.
Lately, I’ve been experiencing a disturbing struggle with my (normally very keen) ability to focus. Often now, my thoughts seem to be on a conveyor belt, moving very fast. I find myself trying to grab my thoughts off that belt as they whiz by.
I’m reminded now of an old episode of the "I Love Lucy" television show, where Lucy had gotten herself a job on a production line in a candy factory. Does anyone beside me remember her standing there trying to pick up each piece of candy as it rode along on the conveyer? At first it was easy for her, but then the belt picked up increasing amounts of speed and she couldn’t keep up with it, and all the pieces of candy escaped whatever process she was supposed to be doing to them. I’ve been seeing that comical image in my mind over the past week or so.
Thankfully, trauma counselors have been and will again be at church. It’s helpful to be able to talk about the many turns and guide posts on this "road back".
All in all, the aftermath of the tragic events of that Sunday truly is a roller-coaster. In the beginning I cried a lot; sometimes nothing at all would trigger the tears. Rather, they seemed like a safety valve letting loose. Some days I could convince myself that things felt normal again, but not for long; the scene would re-play itself in my mind and the reality of it sank in.
Lately, I’ve been experiencing a disturbing struggle with my (normally very keen) ability to focus. Often now, my thoughts seem to be on a conveyor belt, moving very fast. I find myself trying to grab my thoughts off that belt as they whiz by.
I’m reminded now of an old episode of the "I Love Lucy" television show, where Lucy had gotten herself a job on a production line in a candy factory. Does anyone beside me remember her standing there trying to pick up each piece of candy as it rode along on the conveyer? At first it was easy for her, but then the belt picked up increasing amounts of speed and she couldn’t keep up with it, and all the pieces of candy escaped whatever process she was supposed to be doing to them. I’ve been seeing that comical image in my mind over the past week or so.
Thankfully, trauma counselors have been and will again be at church. It’s helpful to be able to talk about the many turns and guide posts on this "road back".
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
My Notes & Mind-Talk; July 27 Tragedy --
The following relates my personal experience on the morning of July 27, 2008, with every facet I saw, heard, thought, and felt (written in the days following the shooting):
"Annie Jr., the Summer Musical Theatre Workshop Production! A musical ... good ... that will re-energize me" and I feel a sense of excitement. I’ve been going through some personal reinvention recently and, you know how sometimes when you have a time of introspection, the process can seem to bog down; also I’d just handled a major mishap when my truck got contaminated gas and needed a huge repair. I usually turn to my own music as my comfort and meditation. I’m thinking: "I need a musical infusion. This will be good for me – this will be good! We have a lot of talent in our church family." I haven’t been to church in three weeks and today it is time.
It is July 27th and I am going to church today. I am wearing, for the first time, the new, green baby-doll style top my daughter gave me a week ago and a pair of carefully coordinated capri pants. I enter through the right side of the sanctuary (there are entry doors on both sides) as I have done every time I’ve ever attended TVUUC. I’m sitting on the very end seat of the first pew (as I always do); this seat gives me an easy exit if I feel claustrophobic or drink an extra cup of tea that morning and need to use the restroom; it guarantees me a hasty retreat, if need be. I’m always thinking of "if need be" in terms of almost anything. I’m working on that but I think it goes back to survival issues of my teens. This morning I again choose this seat. I feel fidgety. Moments later, for some inexplicable reason, I move back one row, to the seat directly behind my first choice. I soon hear the woman in back of me coughing, something I notice immediately as I'm wary about catching a cold. Well, all is well – I identify her cough as allergy-related ... so I don’t return to the front seat. I try to relax and settle in.
The sanctuary has filled completely...every seat appears to be occupied. I get out my writing pad, so I can make notes to send to my UUA-sponsored prison ministry prisoner pen-pal with whom I exchange letters, spiritual energy, and frivolous chit-chat. He’s a musician and he loves to talk about songs.
I always arrive at church and get seated a few minutes before most of the people populate the sanctuary. It gives me time to screw my head on, get on a spiritual plane, and glance around at the church that gives me so much. I’ve been missing minister Chris for months now (as he’s been on sabbatical); I’m sure everybody has been missing him, and I sit here and think about how wonderful it will be when he returns to the pulpit on August 10th. I feel good.
Greg is standing there a few feet away from me – an impressive-looking man, very large and with a friendly demeanor. He’s almost always standing there with his "order of service" church programs in hand, doling them out one by one as people enter his side of the sanctuary (there is another person doing the same thing on the opposite entranceway).
I can’t help but notice Greg’s beautiful shirt. Usually, I recall, he wears a plain, short-sleeved shirt. Today he has a handsome, festive dark green shirt (it looks sort of silky and flowing) with pictures of soda cans and food items on it (probably to be in party mode for the reception scheduled to take place right after the children’s performance.)
The congregation has heard the church announcements and Greg hands me the collection basket; I put my check in it and pass the basket to the next person in my row. The church is full but more people are straggling in now, looking for a place to sit. Greg hands each of them an order of service.
The actual play is about to begin and its introduction includes mention of several examples of the types of 1930s depression-days situations we will be seeing portrayed ... abandoned children, all kinds of extreme circumstances that we, in 2008, wouldn’t expect to occur. "OK, I think -- expect to see stuff about serious issues". I see parents with their cameras.
The actors march in through the door which is immediately to my left, walk past me and continue on to the front of the sanctuary. Their costumes and makeup are magnificent, perfect! This is no small potatoes production ... these kids really look and act professional. The characters of "Annie" begin to come to life! It is enthralling. I’m very glad I came to church this morning.
The kids do their first scene and song ... it is great! Now they’re doing their second song. Their stage presence is awesome. I do find myself wishing that the music sound track volume would be turned down a bit, as portions of the actors’ voices and words get drowned out by the music. Of course, in the sanctuary where the acoustics create a lot of reverb, perception of the sound quality depends on where you are sitting. Anyway, I’m concentrating on hearing the kids’ words and am sitting sort of twisted toward the right in order to get the best view of the performance.
Suddenly, a horrific bomb-like blast somewhere near and alongside me on the left blows out my hearing; my head is banging inside and has whistling, ringing sounds in it, then nothing. I lose momentary consciousness. "Ooh, here I am again and I’m staring straight ahead. My God ... Greg is on the floor in front of me. He’s lying too still". I'm scared and immobilized.
The play (or something) still seems to be going on, though I can’t really hear. I look to my right towards the performance area, but don’t see anything. Wait, there is a scuffle in front of the door immediately to my left. This is the door the kids had come through moments earlier. This is the door I always use to come and go. I see a man bending over Greg and touching him, then moving away. My head is ringing. Greg is really there. As a second blast takes place, I see a man with a gun and big streaks, like long orange tongues, shoot out about four or five feet in front of where I'm sitting, sort of semi-slumped in the pew. The noise of the 2nd blast accompanies a hard, concentrated feeling of blunt impact on my mid forehead, an inch or so above my eye (on that rounded part of the forehead bone). My head and ear are now majorly hurting and spinning and ringing. The loudness of the blasts is intensified by mics that are set up for the performance. "Please turn it off". My head and ears ache. This isn’t the play.
"What has become of Bill (my former guitar player who is the church’s sound engineer)? He's usually in what he calls "the cave", the sound room, located on one side of the rear of the sanctuary; that thought momentarily flashes across my mind.
My consciousness weaving, I remain immobilized and deafened, though struggling to focus. Suddenly, a male voice comes through loudly and clearly from somewhere that sounds like it's inside my head, "Get down! Get down!" At that moment, it seems weird to me that I am alive and able to move. There is a strong smell of gun powder. Around the time of the 3rd blast, I crouch behind the pew bench that's in front of me (remember I had moved from the original seat?) and make my way along the length of the sanctuary to that inviting sight – the wide open back door. I expect to feel another shot before I make it to the door. The rest of my pew which was jam-packed moments before, is completely empty ... no one is there. It is so weird and I'm really scared. I fly through the door and take a deep breath of the outdoor air; it is heavy, humid, smoggy, and hot, and I thankfully gulp it in! I climb up the grassy hillside toward the woods. I want to run into the woods and hide, but I see one man standing on the grassy hill and I go to him.
*********************************************************
In retrospect: I spent the next two days in tearful, humble gratitude to those who protected me with their heroism; I’d been in very close proximity to the gunman. It is amazing that I am alive. A number of times, I pinched my arm to reassure myself that I was actually alive. I will be eternally grateful to Greg for giving me and others our initial chance to continue living, to the men of the congregation who subdued the gunman and further enabled me to escape, and to the mysterious male voice that told me to "get down" even when I couldn't hear.
My sincere gratitude, always, to the dear man who held me in his arms after I reached the grassy hill outside of the back door.
The source of my head pain was the middle of my forehead slightly to the left; the doctor said that it looked like pellets, "projectiles" had hit me and penetrated ... I had a red, bruised, diveted bump there and, when I could gingerly wash the area, the odd little markings of blood near my hairline washed off. The hospital staff did not lift the bangs of my hair to look at my forehead and, instead, concentrated on my ear and fragmented emotional state. While waiting in the hospital's treatment room, I overheard an EMT loudly and graphically announce to the nurses at the desk, the details of the victims' injuries that he had seen while transporting the two fatally- wounded people to another hospital. It made me even more upset to hear this and I was eager to get out of that emergency room and go home to heal myself. I did not want to be a victim. I absolutely did not want to be named as a victim. I wanted my wound to go away. Thankfully, my hearing returned within the second week and I was able to play my music. During subsequent months, the pellet fragments migrated to the soft tissue of my right sinus cavity and I had an eye hemorrhage that took a month to clear up. At that point, I had a C-T scan, which documented the reality of what had happened. I took earnest measures to heal myself.
The news of the shootings had been carried around the world and much love and support was shown to the TVUUC and Westside UUC congregations.
"Annie Jr., the Summer Musical Theatre Workshop Production! A musical ... good ... that will re-energize me" and I feel a sense of excitement. I’ve been going through some personal reinvention recently and, you know how sometimes when you have a time of introspection, the process can seem to bog down; also I’d just handled a major mishap when my truck got contaminated gas and needed a huge repair. I usually turn to my own music as my comfort and meditation. I’m thinking: "I need a musical infusion. This will be good for me – this will be good! We have a lot of talent in our church family." I haven’t been to church in three weeks and today it is time.
It is July 27th and I am going to church today. I am wearing, for the first time, the new, green baby-doll style top my daughter gave me a week ago and a pair of carefully coordinated capri pants. I enter through the right side of the sanctuary (there are entry doors on both sides) as I have done every time I’ve ever attended TVUUC. I’m sitting on the very end seat of the first pew (as I always do); this seat gives me an easy exit if I feel claustrophobic or drink an extra cup of tea that morning and need to use the restroom; it guarantees me a hasty retreat, if need be. I’m always thinking of "if need be" in terms of almost anything. I’m working on that but I think it goes back to survival issues of my teens. This morning I again choose this seat. I feel fidgety. Moments later, for some inexplicable reason, I move back one row, to the seat directly behind my first choice. I soon hear the woman in back of me coughing, something I notice immediately as I'm wary about catching a cold. Well, all is well – I identify her cough as allergy-related ... so I don’t return to the front seat. I try to relax and settle in.
The sanctuary has filled completely...every seat appears to be occupied. I get out my writing pad, so I can make notes to send to my UUA-sponsored prison ministry prisoner pen-pal with whom I exchange letters, spiritual energy, and frivolous chit-chat. He’s a musician and he loves to talk about songs.
I always arrive at church and get seated a few minutes before most of the people populate the sanctuary. It gives me time to screw my head on, get on a spiritual plane, and glance around at the church that gives me so much. I’ve been missing minister Chris for months now (as he’s been on sabbatical); I’m sure everybody has been missing him, and I sit here and think about how wonderful it will be when he returns to the pulpit on August 10th. I feel good.
Greg is standing there a few feet away from me – an impressive-looking man, very large and with a friendly demeanor. He’s almost always standing there with his "order of service" church programs in hand, doling them out one by one as people enter his side of the sanctuary (there is another person doing the same thing on the opposite entranceway).
I can’t help but notice Greg’s beautiful shirt. Usually, I recall, he wears a plain, short-sleeved shirt. Today he has a handsome, festive dark green shirt (it looks sort of silky and flowing) with pictures of soda cans and food items on it (probably to be in party mode for the reception scheduled to take place right after the children’s performance.)
The congregation has heard the church announcements and Greg hands me the collection basket; I put my check in it and pass the basket to the next person in my row. The church is full but more people are straggling in now, looking for a place to sit. Greg hands each of them an order of service.
The actual play is about to begin and its introduction includes mention of several examples of the types of 1930s depression-days situations we will be seeing portrayed ... abandoned children, all kinds of extreme circumstances that we, in 2008, wouldn’t expect to occur. "OK, I think -- expect to see stuff about serious issues". I see parents with their cameras.
The actors march in through the door which is immediately to my left, walk past me and continue on to the front of the sanctuary. Their costumes and makeup are magnificent, perfect! This is no small potatoes production ... these kids really look and act professional. The characters of "Annie" begin to come to life! It is enthralling. I’m very glad I came to church this morning.
The kids do their first scene and song ... it is great! Now they’re doing their second song. Their stage presence is awesome. I do find myself wishing that the music sound track volume would be turned down a bit, as portions of the actors’ voices and words get drowned out by the music. Of course, in the sanctuary where the acoustics create a lot of reverb, perception of the sound quality depends on where you are sitting. Anyway, I’m concentrating on hearing the kids’ words and am sitting sort of twisted toward the right in order to get the best view of the performance.
Suddenly, a horrific bomb-like blast somewhere near and alongside me on the left blows out my hearing; my head is banging inside and has whistling, ringing sounds in it, then nothing. I lose momentary consciousness. "Ooh, here I am again and I’m staring straight ahead. My God ... Greg is on the floor in front of me. He’s lying too still". I'm scared and immobilized.
The play (or something) still seems to be going on, though I can’t really hear. I look to my right towards the performance area, but don’t see anything. Wait, there is a scuffle in front of the door immediately to my left. This is the door the kids had come through moments earlier. This is the door I always use to come and go. I see a man bending over Greg and touching him, then moving away. My head is ringing. Greg is really there. As a second blast takes place, I see a man with a gun and big streaks, like long orange tongues, shoot out about four or five feet in front of where I'm sitting, sort of semi-slumped in the pew. The noise of the 2nd blast accompanies a hard, concentrated feeling of blunt impact on my mid forehead, an inch or so above my eye (on that rounded part of the forehead bone). My head and ear are now majorly hurting and spinning and ringing. The loudness of the blasts is intensified by mics that are set up for the performance. "Please turn it off". My head and ears ache. This isn’t the play.
"What has become of Bill (my former guitar player who is the church’s sound engineer)? He's usually in what he calls "the cave", the sound room, located on one side of the rear of the sanctuary; that thought momentarily flashes across my mind.
My consciousness weaving, I remain immobilized and deafened, though struggling to focus. Suddenly, a male voice comes through loudly and clearly from somewhere that sounds like it's inside my head, "Get down! Get down!" At that moment, it seems weird to me that I am alive and able to move. There is a strong smell of gun powder. Around the time of the 3rd blast, I crouch behind the pew bench that's in front of me (remember I had moved from the original seat?) and make my way along the length of the sanctuary to that inviting sight – the wide open back door. I expect to feel another shot before I make it to the door. The rest of my pew which was jam-packed moments before, is completely empty ... no one is there. It is so weird and I'm really scared. I fly through the door and take a deep breath of the outdoor air; it is heavy, humid, smoggy, and hot, and I thankfully gulp it in! I climb up the grassy hillside toward the woods. I want to run into the woods and hide, but I see one man standing on the grassy hill and I go to him.
*********************************************************
In retrospect: I spent the next two days in tearful, humble gratitude to those who protected me with their heroism; I’d been in very close proximity to the gunman. It is amazing that I am alive. A number of times, I pinched my arm to reassure myself that I was actually alive. I will be eternally grateful to Greg for giving me and others our initial chance to continue living, to the men of the congregation who subdued the gunman and further enabled me to escape, and to the mysterious male voice that told me to "get down" even when I couldn't hear.
My sincere gratitude, always, to the dear man who held me in his arms after I reached the grassy hill outside of the back door.
The source of my head pain was the middle of my forehead slightly to the left; the doctor said that it looked like pellets, "projectiles" had hit me and penetrated ... I had a red, bruised, diveted bump there and, when I could gingerly wash the area, the odd little markings of blood near my hairline washed off. The hospital staff did not lift the bangs of my hair to look at my forehead and, instead, concentrated on my ear and fragmented emotional state. While waiting in the hospital's treatment room, I overheard an EMT loudly and graphically announce to the nurses at the desk, the details of the victims' injuries that he had seen while transporting the two fatally- wounded people to another hospital. It made me even more upset to hear this and I was eager to get out of that emergency room and go home to heal myself. I did not want to be a victim. I absolutely did not want to be named as a victim. I wanted my wound to go away. Thankfully, my hearing returned within the second week and I was able to play my music. During subsequent months, the pellet fragments migrated to the soft tissue of my right sinus cavity and I had an eye hemorrhage that took a month to clear up. At that point, I had a C-T scan, which documented the reality of what had happened. I took earnest measures to heal myself.
The news of the shootings had been carried around the world and much love and support was shown to the TVUUC and Westside UUC congregations.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Spirit Of Life
Dear Readers,
The chronicles of two happenings during the past week -- one that was disturbing and the other which occurred yesterday, horrific and life-altering -- beg to be told on my blog. And they will be told. But, for the moment, I must wait. As soon as the time is prudent and it feels appropriate, I will write about them on this blog.
In the meantime, I want to express my heartfelt love for my fellow congregants at TVUUC, my deepest condolences to the families of the fatally wounded; my prayers for all who were injured, all who survived, the beautiful children, and for all of us who witnessed and were touched forever by yesterday's tragic events. Spirit Of Life, come unto me ... and you.
Clara
The chronicles of two happenings during the past week -- one that was disturbing and the other which occurred yesterday, horrific and life-altering -- beg to be told on my blog. And they will be told. But, for the moment, I must wait. As soon as the time is prudent and it feels appropriate, I will write about them on this blog.
In the meantime, I want to express my heartfelt love for my fellow congregants at TVUUC, my deepest condolences to the families of the fatally wounded; my prayers for all who were injured, all who survived, the beautiful children, and for all of us who witnessed and were touched forever by yesterday's tragic events. Spirit Of Life, come unto me ... and you.
Clara
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