Say it Survivor — Today is the day!

Mary, Officer Paul and Laura. January 18, 2015

Today is the day! In January, Officer Paul wrote down the story of my friends Laura and Mary’s abuse. Here is a little bit of Laura’s incredible essay, He Wrote it Down, which went viral:

We were ushered into a conference room, where a young officer came in to talk to us. He handles all of their sexual assault and rape cases. He introduced himself, sat down and proceeded to ask us questions about what happened. Names, addresses, dates. I called my sister, Aimee, and put her on speakerphone. We were all crying.

Aimee, I said, He’s writing it down.

He wrote it down.

We said, This happened to us, and he listened. He WROTE IT DOWN.

You can read the rest of the post here.

Since then they have been working hard to bring that same hope and healing to others. You guys, I’m so excited and proud of them that I almost can’t breathe. Look what they’ve done:

First, they have an article in the October issue of Boston Magazine. I drove all over my neighborhood yesterday looking for it but all the stores near me still had September’s issue. Come on, stores, seriously. September is so last month. I’m going out again in a little bit to look again. If you find it, will you let me know, here or on my Facebook page? You can also read it online, here.

Second, they are unveiling their new website, Say it Survivor, which features gorgeous videos of Mary and Laura sharing their story and their mission statement. Here’s a little bit of what they’re doing:

The thing is, our stories only have that power if we decide to give it to them. They only wield that power if we keep them hidden inside, if we decide that our truths are so awful that they must be kept in the dark. If we attach shame to them. If we decide that they are UNSPEAKABLE.

Here’s the good news- and there is good news. Shame cannot survive having a light shined on it. Shame cannot survive being spoken aloud. Shame requires a host, and it can’t survive if you don’t feed it.

Say it, Survivor was born when two cousins, abused in childhood by the same predator, decided to plant their feet firmly inside their stories and say them out loud. They wrote them down. They sent them out into the world.

Go read more and watch the videos at their website! www.sayitsurvivor.com

When He Wrote it Down went viral (spurred on by shares by Glennon Doyle Melton and Jen Hatmaker), so many people wrote to Laura and Mary, sharing their own stories, saying “me too, me too.” Laura wrote down the first name of everyone who wrote to her, bearing witness to their stories. And through that sharing and bearing witness, healing began to happen, and community was formed. So Mary and Laura asked, How can we widen this circle, and bring this healing to more survivors? And, knowing the power of writing down their own story, they created a writing workshop to help other survivors write theirs. The first one is November 14th, in Westford, Massachusetts. You can register here. And Mary and Laura will be traveling, speaking their story, speaking out for other survivors, and for change in perceptions and legislation that will prevent abuse from happening and make reporting it easier and more effective when it does. If you want to bring them to your town to speak, you can find more information and contact them here.

Me with Mary and Laura at Old South Church, waiting to hear our friend Glennon speak

I am so darned proud of my friends. Look at them. Warriors.

And I am proud of all of you, too, who have stories of childhood abuse. You have been through hell but you survived. You are here. You are stronger than you know. I pray that you would find community and find the words to tell your story.

So much love,

Jessica

My body is not a message to men

Sep26

bodymessage Eliel Cruz, an amazing writer that I follow on Twitter, tweeted from church this morning:

“As soon as he said, ‘Ladies, we have to be careful what messages we send to men with our bodies…'”

Eliel, thank you for calling this out.

Male pastor, and men everywhere, listen, because this is important:

My body is not a message to men. It is not a message any more than your body is a message to women. Our bodies are what we use to move about in the world, to walk and run, to lift and carry, to feed ourselves and others.

Our *words* are what we use to communicate. If you want to communicate with me, use your words, and I will use mine.

When you tell women that they are responsible for the message their bodies are sending to men, you are also telling men that they are not responsible for talking to women, for listening to their words and respecting them. You are placing the responsibility on women to protect themselves from abuse and rape, and letting men off the hook for abusing and raping women, so long as the men perceive that the woman’s body is giving them the message that rape is okay.

And you are perpetuating the message that we women receive from the world that our bodies and our sexuality are the most significant thing about us, that we have to be pretty but not too pretty, sexy but not too sexy, that our hips and breasts and legs are offensive and we should hide them or lose weight to make ourselves smaller and less sexual, less seductive. You are perpetuating the message that, above all, it doesn’t matter how smart or loving or funny or spiritual or creative we are, all that matters is men’s opinion of our appearance.

This is the message that we are already receiving from the world; it should not be the message we hear in church.

Pastor, I am so much more than that, my body is so much more than that, and my sisters’ bodies are so much more than that.

Please consider this post the message I am sending to men, regardless of what they think my body might be saying.

Sincerely,

Jessica Kantrowitz, writer and proponent of using her words

Rosh Hashanah and the magic crossword puzzle: A true story

Sep16

All of this really happened, I swear:

On Monday the 9 and 5 year olds I usually pick up from school had the day off for Rosh Hashanah, so I spent the day with them. We packed a lunch, bikes, soccer balls, and books and headed to Larz Anderson Park, one of my favorite places in Boston.

After a while we ended up under a magnificent tree whose branches hung down to create a shaded club house. The boys found sticks and sharpened them into spears — cave men from the nearby tribe were attacking and they needed to be ready. I sat down on the picnic blanket and took out my book of crossword puzzles.

I’m pretty bad at crosswords. This book is supposed to be “fun and easy” puzzles, but they still take me forever. I fill in about half of the clues pretty quickly, but then get stuck on the rest. Still, I enjoy it. So, as the cave men battle preparations went on behind me, I went painstakingly through the clues, filling in a new one here and there, hoping for a breakthrough. But there were a handful that I just couldn’t get.

Then, from across the water, I heard a woman singing a haunting melody. I looked up from my book and saw a procession of men and women descending toward the pond, singing and dancing. The leader wore a striped shawl, and the men wore yarmulkas. They came to the edge of the water, gathered stones, and formed a circle.

There was something strangely familiar about the sight. I looked down at the puzzle. There it was, 19 down: “Jewish circle dances” __R_S. I looked up again at the circle of Jews across the pond. And suddenly I realized: They were acting out the clue for me! This was a magic crossword puzzle, and a magic park! What fun!

But then I started to look at the other clues I was stuck on, and wonder what they would look like acted out. 29 down: “Sacred choral work” _OT_T. Well that would be lovely. 17 across: “Regis Philbin and others” ABCD___I_E_O_TS. Hm, doesn’t quite go with the peaceful setting, but it could be entertaining. 53 down: “Zeus’ wife” _E_A. Well. I wasn’t quite sure I wanted the gods to start showing up. If I remember my mythology, things tended to get dicey with them, especially when wives were involved.

And then I saw 37 down: “Reason for an R rating” __R_.*

“Kids,” I said, “Get your things. We have to get out of here.”

***

*For those who are wondering, the answers were HORAS, MOTET, ABCDAYTIMEHOSTS, HERA, and GORE. I finished the puzzle later in the safety of my own home.

Tiny little trees, or, I can’t do it, but I’m doing it anyway.

Sep8

Hinoki Cypress

The other day I took the three kids I nanny to the Arnold Arboretum. The two “big” kids, four and two years old, took their bike and scooter, while I pushed the baby in the stroller with the diaper bag, lunch boxes, water bottles, sun screen, and all the rest of the paraphernalia that comes with three small children.

I work ten hour days at this new job. I took it because it gives me Wednesdays off, which I theoretically use for writing and editing. But ten hours is a long day, and three kids is more than I’m used to, and so it has been an adjustment. I miss the leisurely days with my last charge, a sweet little girl whose personality was similar to mine — we used to go and people watch, and wander dreamily around, having little adventures. Fun and learning opportunities were everywhere, and it never really felt like work.

I love these new children, too, but when there are three things get more practical. The focus tends to be more on keeping everyone safe, diapered and toileted, fed, getting along, and napping when they’re supposed to or need to. I try to do things that they’ll enjoy, of course, but I can’t enjoy those things as much, and the special times of bonding one-on-one do come, but they are moments here and there rather than the entire day.

So we were at the arboretum, finally, after having made and packed four lunches, covered all exposed skin with sun screen, and buckled helmets onto the heads of the biker and scooterer. And I thought longingly of the bonsai trees, through the woods and up the hill, and how much fun it would be to bring the kids there. But the path was gravel and long, and I knew the kids would have a hard time with their vehicles, and I couldn’t carry a bike and scooter in addition to all the other stuff. Just pushing the stroller up the hill would be hard, and it was a hot day, and only ten o’clock in the morning — eight hours to go. Probably I should pace myself.

Then, suddenly, I decided joy was more important than ease, and I turned to the kids:

“Do you guys know there is a garden here with tiny little trees? They’re so beautiful, it’s almost like magic, like a little fairy kingdom. Do you want to go see them?”

“Yes, let’s go!” they answered.

“I just have to tell you that we’re going to have to go down a long path and up a big hill. It might be hard to bike that long way.” I looked at the four year old and widened my eyes in awe: “So it’s a good thing you’re SO strong and brave, Evan! Let me see your muscles.”

“Yeah, I’m SO strong!” he piped up, excited, and pulled up his sleeves to flex his biceps at me. “I can do it!”

I knew if he were motivated his little sister would follow along. So, having given my little speech to the troops, I led the way. The gravel path did, indeed, prove a challenge, but they handled it like pros, with me proactively cheering them on every few minutes, before it could occur to them to complain:

“You’re doing so great! This path is hard, but you guys are so strong! Great job!” Meanwhile I leaned into my work with the stroller and tried to look around and take in the beauty of the woods. I am not a big talker, and my dual job as a stroller-pusher and cheer leader was tiring, but I pushed on. We made it through the woods and into the lovely shrub and vine garden — the last leg of our journey that comprised an uphill path that zig-zagged back and forth to the bonsai house on top. This part was in the open sun, and the job got hotter and harder. The four year old continued his brave push (his bike was much heavier than the two year old’s scooter), but his little sister started to cry, “I can’t do it! I can’t do it!”

As I looked back to assess the situation, I realized that, even though she was crying, she was still pushing the scooter; slowly, but steadily, a little bit behind her brother.

“You can do it, Callie!” I called out to her, wiping the sweat from my own face: “You’re doing it!”

“You’re doing it, Callie!” her brother echoed me: “Look, you’re doing it!”

For the last ten minutes of our climb, Callie didn’t stop crying, “I can’t do it!” and she didn’t stop moving slowly forward. Really, I could have carried the scooter for those last few yards, but I was kind of in awe of what was happening, the strength and bravery that our little adventure was bringing out in myself and the children. I had come out of my utilitarian focus and was excited about the kids, about the day, and about showing them the bonsai trees; Evan was reveling in his own strength and ability and working so hard, and Callie was succeeding despite herself.

Just when Callie’s cries were becoming more insistent I called out, “We’re here! You can leave your bikes and walk the rest of the way.” And they ran to catch up with me.

***

If you ever have the chance to see the bonsai collection at the Arnold Arboretum, you really should. They have an amazing history, and they really are like a little fairy kingdom.

This is the view from the inside of their little house, but visitors must stay on the outside to protect these precious little trees.

This Hinoki Cypress was started in 1787!

Savasana — on finding the uncluttered space

Aug25

The first time I went to a yoga class I struggled through, watching the clock the whole time. I knew the class was an hour and fifteen minutes, so it was with a sense of incredulous blessing that I realized, with twenty minutes still to go, that we were winding down. The poses became slower and easier, and then the teacher told us to lie on our backs and make ourselves comfortable. She suggested putting our socks back on and pulling blankets over ourselves — I didn’t because I was still sweating, but I came to realize the wisdom of this advice later. The teacher dimmed the lights, put on soft, meditative music, and I suddenly realized that it was nap time! Just like in kindergarten, we all lay together on our mats and rested. It felt funny lying in such an intimate, vulnerable pose in a roomful of people, eyes closed as the teacher led us through a relaxation exercise. But I soon forgot about the others and reveled in the peace and quiet as my sore muscles came to rest and my mind settled, my body becoming chilly as the sweat cooled.

Savasana is the word both for the pose — on your back with your arms out at a slight angle — and the process of lying in that pose and going through the relaxation exercise. It happens at the end of every yoga class, and is a way of allowing the poses you have just done to settle into your mind and muscles. It is also a body meditation, similar to centering prayer and bio-feedback, two things I stumbled upon a few years ago in my quest for spiritual and physical health. Like centering prayer and bio-feedback, you are encouraged to take a passive attitude to your thoughts, to allow them without trying to change them, but without latching on to them, or identifying with them.

One analogy used in centering prayer is to see your thoughts as clouds going overhead: You notice them but they don’t affect you down where you are, and they blow past with the wind. For someone who has struggled with anxiety, this is incredibly powerful: I don’t have to try to STOP thinking the anxious thoughts, or to change them or replace them with positive thoughts — exercises which left me exhausted and twice as stressed out — but I don’t have to define myself by them, either. I can nod at them, even greet them with friendly acknowledgement, but then not concern myself with them. I sometimes picture them as clouds, and sometimes as an object beside me: there, but not a part of me. Observe your thoughts, my teacher Esther says, acknowledge them without trying to change them. So I notice: I am angry at my housemate for something stupid, I am worried about money, my back hurts. It’s okay. I don’t have to try to stop being angry right now, or stop worrying, or get my back to stop hurting. That’s just how I feel. It’s not me. My true self is deeper than those thoughts and feelings, is at peace.

I think that growing up and coming of age as a Christian, there were a lot of things I thought were sins that were just feelings, just me struggling to figure myself out, and figure others out, and find my place in the world. Repenting and trying to change those thoughts and feelings was a difficult, and unproductive process. I believe in sin, and in repentance, the Hebrew word shuv that means turning away from bad choices and back towards good, turning away from the wrong path and back to the right one, turning back to God. But I wish that I had known about savasana, too. I wish I could have given myself that space and gentleness, to not immediately identify my feelings as sins, and identify myself with them. Repenting of anger never helped me let go of that anger so much as gently acknowledging it, setting it next to me, and quieting my body and my mind. I can let it go. It isn’t me. I think if I had known how to do that it would have helped me to understand what the real sins were, what things were really pointing me away from God, which direction I needed to turn to go back towards God.

This evening, after a long day at work, I came home and made my way circuitously to my yoga mat. Full disclosure: while eating a healthy and nutrient-packed salad with spinach and lentils, I lay in bed and watched a reality TV show. I won’t even tell you which one; you might not respect me anymore. But, listen: I turned the TV off after that, lit a candle, and spread out my mat. It looked like heaven. It looked like this:

I did a yoga class called hiplicious, which was a lot better than it sounds. It was actually quite wonderful. As I lay down for the savasana, I closed my eyes, but after a while I opened them again. You’re supposed to keep them shut, but I’ve found that I have to concentrate to keep my eyes shut, and that makes the muscles between my eyebrows tense, and that hurts a little bit and so kind of defeats the purpose of the savasana. So I take breaks and open my eyes to rest my forehead.

And today I noticed something I never had before. Above, the white textured ceiling was bordered by dark wood paneling that matched the wood on the walls, and it created a framed rectangle the exact size of my living room. My living room is the place I spend more time than any other room (if you don’t count time asleep); it’s where I sit and work on my computer, sit and play on my computer, sit and read, entertain guests, and do yoga. I sit on the front porch sometimes, and hang out in my bed at night, but the living room is the space most full of me, my activities and my presence. And tonight I noticed that there is a space the exact same size and shape above it, with soft, white, textured paint and a dark wood border. It is my living room, but it is emptied of furniture, rugs, house plants, computers, tissues, candles — all the things that clutter the floor below. It is a framed, empty canvas, in the shape of my life, my living, my room. I realized that it perfectly represents the place I go to when I do centering prayer, or bio-feedback, or savasana. In this case the clutter is down below, and that beautiful, white, uncluttered space is above — exactly the shape of me, but empty of all of the thoughts and anxieties, habits and coping mechanisms, that make up my daily life. It is a blank canvas, where I can meet God and we can create something together. God is the paint, and I am the brush, or I am the paint and the brush and God is the artist, or I am the canvas only and God is all the rest: the blended colors of the full spectrum and the rocky pigment sparkling in the paint, the sharp edge of the palette knife and the rough horse-hair of the brush, the Artist waiting for his materials to settle down, to move all that clutter off of the canvas so he can finally begin.

A divine inconvenience

Aug22

Mark the computer whisperer

My computer is on the fritz (the Computer-Whisperer is working on it) and so I’ve had to spend hours and hours over the last few days not online, not checking Facebook or reading through my Twitter feed, not clicking on links and reading blog posts, not watching Star Trek the Next Generation reruns, not playing flash games. I have to say, I feel like a kid again. I’ve been reading, and drawing, and just sitting and thinking. It’s so strange to have real empty space in my life again, without the thing that easily and mindlessly fills it.

It’s been kind of profound for me as a writer, too, to not have the ability to write or post what I’ve written. I’ve been able to just think my thoughts without writing them, to just be instead of talking about my existence. Of course it’s been frustrating, too — I have a few things I’ve been working on, and ideas, and descriptions that I’d love to get down on the page before they fade. But mostly I think I’ve needed this Sabbath time, even from the things that I love.

I’m typing this on Mark’s very old Mac, that needs to be plugged in to the internet and electricity because the wifi and battery aren’t working. It’s like 2003 over here, or whenever it was before wifi and longer-lasting batteries were invented. I’m stuck in the spot in the living room where the wires can reach their respective plugs. And I’m about to go away for the weekend, and I can’t take the Mac with me. And I don’t have a smart phone, btw, for those who are thinking, “Let her eat cake.” Even my Nook died, so I can’t play Sudoko and solitaire in bed in the evenings. It’s like a conspiracy. It is driving me crazy, and yet I kind of love it.

Shabbot shalom to all of you out there, reading this on your functioning lap tops and tablets and iphones. I pray for each of you a divine inconvenience, a holy conspiracy to take you out of your routines, out of your easy spaces, and maybe even back into your true self.

Love,

Jessica