Yoga Off The Mat: The Power of Storytelling
By Rev. Edie Weinstein-Moser, LSW
Just returned from the first of a two part Katrina Relief fundraiser
held at Pebble Hill which is an interfaith community in Doylestown, PA with which I have gratefully been involved since 1984. After hearing about the destruction in Waveland (ironic name for the devastation that occurred there) and Bay St. Louis, Mississippi, many faith and community groups in Bucks County joined forces and 'adopted' the two towns. Our own act of Seva. Two young men from our area went down there with a video camera and returned with a wordless documentary that highlighted the impact of a weather system run amuck. In truth, there are no words that can adequately describe what they (and we) saw. Imagine your own town, wherever that may be, following a hurricane. Everything you knew, every building in which you lived, did business, went to school, shopped, worshiped, received medical care.....gone, flattened, a pile of rubble.
What would that be like?
As I watched the images on the screen tonight, for the second time; I
had seen it a few weeks earlier when it was shown to our congregation to get us geared up for this weekend, I remembered a similar event that
transpired in my life 13 years ago. Hurricane Andrew was the worst storm of its kind at the time. We had bought our first house in Homestead, Florida less than a year earlier and on August 24, 1992, it lay in a pile of rubble as well; having fallen prey to torrential rains, storm
surge and winds that seemed liked they had come from the belly of a
gigantic dragon. What we had lost was relatively inconsequential
compared to what we received in return; an important lesson on the true value of life. We were safe, as were our critters (Merlin: a
racing-around-the house, playful schnauzer-terrier mix, Baby: a
persnickety ancient Siamese cat and Thumper: a wild-man, litter box
trained, wire chewing, base-board molding gnawing lop eared bunny). They have all since passed on to their next life. Even our 'possessions'; as if we could ever really possess anything, were replaceable, with the
exception of family photos. A second important lesson was gleaned:
purchase insurance for the replacement value of home and contents, which we were grateful we had the foresight to do. Lastly, we knew that we were spiritually protected, for in the flooded living room, all of our
religious art; Shabbas candles, a menorah, ceramic pieces my parents had painted, were still standing, despite the winds of the heavens that had roared through the blasted out windows and roofless rooms. In the back yard surrounded by the flattened six foot tall fence, was our peace
pole; a wooden obelisk with the words "May Peace Prevail on Earth"
inscribed in four different languages (ours were English, Russian,
Hebrew and paw prints) still stood with a few pieces of wood hacked away by flying debris. It is now proudly planted in my garden here; a
monument to the power of faith.
I was telling this tale to Lydia and Dennis; two survivors of an even
more potent storm. He is from Waveland and she is from Bay St. Louis and they had come to Pebble Hill tonight to tell their own story of pain and loss, hope and rejuvenation. Holding hands, with tears in their eyes, they shared their experiences with me. Dennis spoke of how needed therapy is for people there, since many, like himself are just plain angry at the storm, at God, at the government. Incidents of spousal and child abuse have been on the upswing, since some people have no where to go with their feelings of helplessness, so they take it out on those closest to them. She spoke of what was no longer left of her home town.
As I listened, I heard the words: "Telling their story over and over is
incredibly therapeutic. They need to do this and we need to hear it." I
was honored to be in a position to witness it, to be for them what
others were for us when we were in their situation. You see, traumatic
loss happens to other people, somewhere else....until it doesn't. I
remember it well. At that point, reading my thoughts, Lydia remarked
that they really should move on to another topic. I told her that they
had moved on, in a sense, from victim to survivor, to thriver who now
told the story to benefit others as well. I reminded them that they need
not BECOME the story, just share it as they felt moved to. When I went
on to speak with someone else, they hugged me and thanked me for
listening. I felt as if I was the one who should be thanking them for
reminding me of how far I had come in my healing process. I looked back and watched with delight that they were enjoying the music of a
performer on stage who was singing Bob Marley's song "Three Little
Birds" with the chorus..."Don't worry 'bout a thing, cause every little
thing gonna be alright." Sing along with the knowing that it really is
true. No matter how dark things seem; in the end, the sun breaks
through the clouds and our hearts, that appear broken by trauma, are
really broken open to experience even deeper faith and higher love.
Rev. Edie Weinstein-Moser, LSW is a writer, free-lance journalist, interfaith minister, speaker, reiki master, clown and greeting card text writer.
This article was posted by Rev. Edie Weinstein-Moser, LSW
