Days of Our Second Lives

Stories of Health and Healing: Part II

Yep, that's right I had to come up with a second story!  Yikes.  This time was even harder than the first because the title (my own assignment so I couldn't even blame anyone else) was Writing to Heal.   Just exactly how does one go about using writing to heal?  I've used journaling as part of my own healing process for decades, but I wanted to illustrate how penning a story and sharing it with others can be beneficial as well.

The inspiration for this piece came from several sources besides myself - a young man whose partner had died of AIDS, some close friends who are superb storytellers, and a casual acquaintance who mentioned that he found just listening to how others come to terms with their lives felt healing to him.  "The healing doesn't have to be earth shattering," he said. "It just has to touch me."

And so I came up with something that touched me and allowed me to share some of the marvelous poetry produced by my friends.  I hope you enjoy it as well.  Remember, to read the complete story, stop over at The Virtual Worlds Story Project: http://www.tvwsp.com/jenaiamorane.html.

Writing to Heal

Today I’d like to talk about how writing – specifically how writing stories – can be healing.  We all know how powerful words can be, especially when they are condensed and distilled into a few lines or phrases that capture a deeply felt conviction or truth, such as the one expressed in the final stanza of William Stafford’s poem “A Ritual to Read to Each Other:"

“For it is important that awake people be awake,

or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep;

the signals we give – yes or no, or maybe –

should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.”

 But stories take the power of words even further.  By their very nature, structure, and intent they are designed to take us on a journey of discovery that culminates in new understanding.  The classic example of this is Star Wars, in which a Jedi knight turns to the “dark side.” His resulting struggle with his inner demons and those fighting on the side of “good” illustrate beautifully how a story can embody and illustrate lessons that face and preoccupy a whole nation or culture. And of course the choice the fallen knight makes in the end – sacrificing his own life to save the life of his son – is the classic hero’s journey.

Which brings me to another point about stories. Whether we write them down or not, each of us is writing stories all the time.  In a very real sense, we are actors and actresses in the plays of our lives.  Who and what we bring into our lives, and more importantly what we tell ourselves about what we bring, shapes our experiences and determines what we learn.

Writing down and telling your stories:

 

a)     allows you to step back and see the whole saga from start to finish

b)     helps you make sense of what happened and why

c)      allows to you to see themes, patterns, mindsets, and assumptions that shaped how the story unfolded

d)     lets you share and get feedback from others

 

The trick of course is to realize that you are not just a character in your story, but the writer as well.

To understand how a story can heal, it helps to understand how a story works.  Because we all grow up hearing stories, and because they come naturally to us, we seldom think about how they are structured.

 Basically, a story can be broken into FOUR parts:

 1)     The Beginning or Initiating Event

All stories  are triggered by something – an event, an idea, a decision, an illness – that prompts the main character (the hero or heroine) to embark on a journey of change.  The journey is necessary to resolve the questions and tensions set in motion by the event.

 A classic example is the middle-aged man who wakes up one day and realizes that he has been so busy climbing the corporate ladder and raising his family that he has neglected to do some things for himself.  This realization prompts him to question his priorities, to make shift gears and turn his attention to other interests – to begin to see his life in a different way.

 Not surprisingly, this causes tension in his life – in the workplace, between himself and his spouse, within himself.  Which brings us to Part 2.

2)     The Struggle

In order to resolve the conflict, the hero or heroine must go through a series of steps or stages along the journey.  Typically these steps result in increasing tension as it becomes clear that change will be necessary.

3)     The High Point or Climax

The moment when the tension reaches a peak and the main character is forced to change in some way.  Note that the change is not always a good one.  Happy endings are by no means assured.

4)     The Conclusion or Resolution

Following the climax, readers need to know how the hero or heroine came to terms with the change and what was learned.  This is done in the conclusion or resolution.

 

A Story of Healing

Today’s story is one that was told to me by a young man here in Second Life.  I will be telling it using not only my own words, but the words of other writers here in Second Life as well.

 

Though none of the writers (except myself) who contributed their pieces to this story know the young man in question, each has captured some aspect of what he described to me beautifully – proving once again that we all share and are working on common themes in our lives.  I’ve entitled this story, “It Should Have Been Me.”

 

Once upon a time, in a land that was neither here nor there but everywhere imagination and creativity thrived, two avatars named Jen and Trooper formed an uneasy alliance. 

Jen and Trooper’s first meeting wasn’t really a meeting at all. Jen was participating in the World AIDS Day events being held on Karuna – the new island in Second Life devoted to HIV/AIDS education, support, and the collection of stories related to HIV/AIDS. 

Jen first noticed Trooper sitting in the audience as she was speaking.  Bare-chested and buff, with tattoos up and down both arms and a leather collar around his neck, he was sitting alone on one side of the auditorium.  Jen was curious but too busy to do more than note his presence.

Later, when Trooper participated in each of the tours she gave of the island, walking a few meters behind the rest of the group, she wondered again about who he was.  But it was only when she saw him for a third time at the flame lighting ceremony that she took the time to check his profile. 

Beyond making it clear that he was openly gay and collared by his partner, there weren’t many clues.  Still Jen had the distinct impression that he was hurting and that he would touch her life somehow.  This impression is expressed perfectly by Verde Otaared’s poem, Earthquake:

My life is going to change again
I know it
And my mind knows it
Of course
A change like so many before
Another day
A sunrise
A rainstorm
A scar
Or, perhaps,
A caress
She knows it
Sees it for what it is
Another event
Life experience
Nothing less
Nothing more

My life is going to change again
I feel it
And my heart feels it
A small
Tremor, and a deep panic
Tells that another change
A crashing
A shaking
A destroying
Earthquake
Will blow apart
This small, tidy pile
She has made
From the shattered
Fragments
Left after
The change before.

Screwing up her courage, because after all one doesn’t want to intrude on a person’s pain, Jen sent an IM to Trooper asking simply, “Is there anything I can do?”

After a long pause he replied, “No, not really,” and teleported away.

That night, Jen dreamed a long, convoluted dream about a man she’d loved and lost, waking with a heavy heart and the lines an old blog post she’d written running through her mind.  Rereading that post brought Trooper to mind, and Jen wondered again what kind of hurricane had flattened his life. 

Later that day Trooper reappeared. Jen was working on Karuna, loading pictures into the viewer at Memorial Falls.  As before he was silent, standing a few feet away and watching as the photos in the viewer changed from face to face.  When a picture of a curly-haired blonde man with an enormous smile appeared, Trooper finally spoke.

“Who is that?” he asked.

“That’s Paul,” Jen replied.  “His sister gave us that picture. It was taken right after he went bungy jumping.”

“Ahhh…..J” Trooper smiled. “Trevor would have loved that.”

“Trevor?”

“My partner who died of AIDS.”

Another long silence fell.  “I’m really sorry Trooper,” said Jen.

“Yeah, me too,” he said.

“If you ever want to talk just let me know.”

“Thanks,” he said, and abruptly disappeared again.

It was full week before Jen saw Trooper again.  This time she was sitting at the campfire putting stories into the flowers in the Story Field when he appeared.

“Hi Trooper,” she said.

“Hi,” he said, sitting down on one of the stumps.  “Remember last week you said if I ever wanted to talk…..?”

“Sure,” she replied.  “Anytime.”

“Well if you don’t mind…”

For a long moment they sat quietly. Then Trooper typed, “It should have been me.”

What?!  No! Why do you say that Trooper?” Jen protested.

“I was the one who did dumb things, not him.”

“That doesn’t mean you deserve to die Trooper.”

“I have dreams, bad dreams,” he typed. 

“Tell me,” Jen urged.

Trooper’s dreams are hauntingly described by Syd Straaf’s poem: Nightmare Thing

The Nightmare Thing is chasing me again.
It wants my soul.
It wants to devour my being.
I know the beast well,
and it knows me.
My sins are its blood;
my fear, its oxygen.
I run and run, but my steps are sluggish,
as if I was running through snow or mud.
The beast is nearing,
I can feel its hot breath on my back,
I can hear its sinister chuckle as it thinks of my fate.
Each night, its claws grip my shoulders
and I feel its teeth upon my neck.
But each night, I am pulled from its grasp,
I am wakened by my own pounding heart.
The Nightmare Thing is chasing me again,
but this night, I will not let it win.
I know now what I must do.
I cannot keep running,
I must not awaken to my own screams again.
Tonight I shall face the beast,
tonight I shall conquer my fears.
I feel it, almost upon me,
and I turn.

For the first time, I see the Nightmare Thing,
the sum of all my hatred,
my fears, my regrets.
It is me,
my dark side, my shadow, my anger.
Such a black and wretched demon is my dream.
Its eyes burn mine.
Its vile breath suffocates me.
It licks its grotesque lips
and I can taste its poison saliva.
It wants me dead
and I am almost tempted to let it have its way.
But to die by this beast's hand
would be to desecrate my own true dreams.
Worse yet would be to awaken now,
freed tonight, but damned to a life without peace.
I stand fast.

I know I must act now or die.
Without fear, with no doubts,
I extend my hand, not clenched, not shaking,
a gesture of acceptance, a handshake, no more.
My quiet smile smothers the beast,
and the Nightmare Thing,
the demon of my soul,
the reflection of my blackest heart,
is banished from my dreams
forever.

 

“I don’t know what to think,” he finished.  “I just miss him so much.”

 

To read the complete story, please visit:

http://www.tvwsp.com/jenaiamorane.html.

Storytelling Teaches the Story Sleuth a Thing or Two

When I agreed to do four stories about health and healing at the Health Fair being held at the Dreams sim between February 15 and February 28, I didn't think much of it.  The event as down the road a bit, and I figured it would be good publicity.  That was when I still had three weeks to think about what I would say.  Unfortunately, as is often the case with writing, had enough on my plate to be able to push the thought of having to sit down and come to terms with the topic aside until the last minute.

Well I'm sure you all know what happened.  Two days before I had to talk for 30 minutes and sound like I knew what I was talking about, I finally pried myself away from the computer, picked up paper and pen (yes thats how I write), and forced myself to focus.

Health and healing. Hmmm......please imagine my furrowed brow and the ravaged plastic cap of my pen as I struggled to get my head around the idea of stories that heal....stories for healing...healthy stories...stories that exhibit health.  Ack!!!

Finally I realized, as I usually do, that the best stories come out of our own experiences, and that what I really wanted to write about was some of the healing I'd gone through in Second Life.  And so, without further ado, let me share the first of the two stories that I shared at the Health Fair.  Note that the full text can be accessed at The Virtual World Story Project web site:  www.tvwsp.com.

Stories of Health and Healing

Today's story is entitled, "Health and Healing," and I'd like to begin with a quote by Elizabeth Lesser from her terrific book, "Broken Open: How Difficult Times Can Help Us Grow."  Lesser says:

"How strange that the nature of life is change, yet the nature of human beings is to resist change.  And how ironic that the difficult times we fear might ruin us are the very ones that can break us open and help us blossom into who we were meant to be." 

For me, difficult times and change are intimately linked to healing.  Healing is a word that means to repair.  However, it also means to cleanse, purify, and restore to wholeness.  When I first tumbled into Second Life in 2007 I'd been in a very difficult situation and was sorely in need of healing.  For the past 16 months I had been caring for my diabetic mother.  Her denial and failure to come to terms with her disease resulted in a systemic MRSA infection, gangrene, and the partial amputation of her foot. 

As her sole caregiver, juggling doctors, medications, wound care and insurance forms, I was completely preoccupied with keeping her alive.  My own life and work began to feel like a dimly remembered dream.  I was isolated, lonely, and resentful.  Something had to change.

Enter Second Life.  After hearing a show about Second Life on NPR I couldn't wait to check it out.  I was up and running within 30 minutes after signing up and downloading the viewer.  Though puzzled and occasionally intimidated by all the skills I needed to master, I was also thrilled to have a whole new community of people to interact with.  Second Life gave me a much needed break from caring for and worrying about my mother.  I leapt in feet first, never dreaming that the universe had some lessons to teach me - that I had healing to do that I would never have allowed in my first life.

What follows is the tale of how an avatar named Maila came to terms with her difficult situation and healed some old wounds.  Her experiences are loosely based on my own, but I have freely and liberally borrowed from the stories of others to make my points.  It is meant to illustrate what I believe is a fundamental truth about our first, second, and even third lives to come - we are here to learn, grow, and explore who we really are.  To that end we draw people, events, and experiences into our lives.  If we pay attention - if we keep our eyes, ears, and yes souls open - we will not only get the lessons and heal, but find some very precious gifts as well.  This story tells about one such healing and the gifts that were discovered along the way.


Once upon a time, in a land that was neither here nor there but everywhere imagination and creativity thrived, an avatar with healing to do (let's call her Maila) was born.  Though she was no different from any other avatars in this regard (since even the most enlightened  avis twinkling through Second Life with particles of wisdom trailing from their heels have issues), Maila was unusual in one respect - she had been consciously working on healing most of her life. 

 

As a result, it wasn't much of a surprise to be sitting, watching the show on Help Island one day and have a racy looking avatar in black leathers and chains stomp up to her and demand, "So what's your problem?  Why are you so down in the mouth today?"

 

Hmmm.... for a long moment Maila considered the avatar before her - ignoring the menacing, black rimmed eyes, spike studded collar, and mangy looking tail whipping angrily from his backside - and focusing instead on the genuine curiosity and concern.  Opening a new IM window she typed, "My mother has been really sick and almost died.  I've been spending all my time taking care of her and my own life has sort of gone down the drain."

 

"Well is she still alive?" demanded the avatar.

 

"Yes. She's doing better and better," said Maila.

 

"Well there you go.  Things are looking up.  You should be grateful! And let me tell you," he continued, "There are lots of people here who are worse off than you.  So stop mopping around and enjoy your Second Life!" 

With that the half human half feline strutted off to trade insults with what looked like black and tan jackal leaving Maila to ponder what he'd said.   Of course she knew there were people whose lives were harder than her own, but that didn't change the facts of her own difficult situation, or that she was in need of a little TLC herself.  But the black leather avatar had been right about one thing - it was time to start having some fun in Second Life.

A quick perusal of the kinds of fun going on at Help Island - lewd gestures, loud repetitive "hoos, yahs, giggles, wahs, and Lols," and break dancing, not to mention the endless stream of chat flowing across the lefthand side of her screen - made it clear this was the wrong place to be looking for the kinds of interactions that would nourish and sustain her.  It was time to make a plan - time to explore Second Life.

Over the course of the next two months, Maila dropped in on and was welcomed warmly by a variety of communities in Second Life.  In Avilion, a medieval role play sim, she was shown through crystal caves, danced with gallant knights, and chatted with all manner of imaginary creatures, learning the stories of how drows, dragons, druids, and gossamer winged faeries found their way to that magical land.

At Caledon she was treated with such formality (albeit polite and witty formality) that she realized it would take a great deal of time and persistence to be admitted to their close knit and clearly complex society.   When she began to hear stories of residents feeling slighted because their formal titles had been omitted she knew it was time to move on.  She had enough trouble remembering all the many and creative names she encountered, and was sure she would offend someone sooner or later by failing to be properly respectful.

At the Open Latte at Mill Pond, a coffee shop where pseudo intellectuals of all sorts gather she encountered a string of avatars on the make.  The first was a Russian looking to add her to his growing stable of mistresses.  The second was a self-proclaimed bad boy who announced he planned to corrupt her.  The third a was a lonely fellow with a sad story to tell, who decided she was much too intense for his tastes.  After the fourth, a provocatively dressed woman who regaled her with tales of her sex life and then invited her to try out her sex bed collection, she stopped visiting the Latte.  

Eventually, however, she found a home.  Landing on a small island called Tanisha, a large black bird offered to rent her land and help build the school she dreamed of opening.  It was here that she finally settled in and began the second stage of her healing process:

With a home to call her own, Maila's Second Life shifted into a different gear.  Instead of spending all her time exploring, she found herself staying at home, listening to music and pondering what she'd seen and heard. 

If truth was told, she'd begun to notice some rather peculiar things about the residents in Second Life.  "Things," she commented to a first life friend who was curious about her adventures, " are not always what they seem in Second Life."

"Really?  Give me an example," said the friend.

"Well," said Maila smiling at the memory. " The other day I met a gray-skinned pointy-eared drow whose profile warned that he was evil and I should avoid him at all costs.  He turned out to be a perfect gentleman and great company.

"And then there was the dress designer at the coffee shop dressed in a drop dead gorgeous black sequined dress and stillettos.  She turned out to be a he who was using his female avatar to try out his latest design.

"Or how about the studly, bald, black dud who turned out to be an AIDS activist, or the cockroach that shows up every night and sits on my land without saying a word.  What's that about?"

"Oh my gosh stop!" laughed her friend.  "This is just too funny.  Isn't anyone what they claim to be in Second Life?"

"You know," said Maila half seriously, though she too was laughing, "I'm really beginning to wonder, even about myself."

The conversation that day turned to other things, but Maila's inner radar - set to its most sensitive setting after years of healing work in her first life - was warning of a major lesson ahead.  Though she had laughed when she told her friend about men impersonating a women and vice versa, and the many peronas avatars chose to explore, she was actually quite distrubed by some of what she'd seen and heard, particularly what she'd come to call the "Love Em and Leave Em Syndrome."

Everyone it seemed was in love in Second Life. The trouble was they didn't seem to stay in love, at least not with the same person.  As new as she was, Maila had already listened to the sad stories of four friends who had found what they believed was "true love," only to have their hearts broken.  The troubling aspect was the intensity and speed with which these relationships formed and fell apart.  Moreover, many of them were between people who were not free in their first lives.  How, Maila wondered, did people manage to justify this - to separate their first from their second lives?  Was that possible?  If they were really in love, didn't it affect their first lives?  Wouldn't the time and energy spent on a Second Life take away from the first?  And how, she mused, could people come together and fall apart so quickly without unraveling at the seams?

Sitting before the crackling fire in her skybox, which she had designed to look like a log cabin, Maila chewed on these questions like a cow working doggedly on its cud.  Having sworn off relationships and men after a particularly tough expereince several years ago in real life, she couldn't imagine falling in love with an avatar.  "Thank goodness I'm past all that," she said to herself, mentally patting herself on her back.  "The last thing I need is a man in my Second Life."

Maila's "last thing" turned out to be a tall, dark-haired fellow we'll call Dudas.  Mr. D and Maila were introduced by a mutual friend who thought they had a lot in common.  "Oh come on," the mutual friend urged. "Don't be such a recluse.  You need to get out more.  He's a nice guy - intelligent, good-looking, and easygoing.  You're gonna love him."

It took Maila four long months to love Mr. D.  Though he was indeed good looking, charming, and intelligent, there were some red flags as well.  First, he was married, though he claimed the marriage was on the rocks, spending hours and hours describing the torturous ins and outs of his relationship with his wife.  Second, he didn't seem all that interested in getting to know Maila herself, though he was intensely attracted to her avatar - a fact that he remarked upon again and again.  And third, though he told her again and again that he loved her - going so far as to teach her how to say I love you in his native tongue - he made no mention of her in his profile and was careful not to introduce her to his friends.

 

On the other hand, Dudas was eager to purchase land with Maila and build a home.  Like lovebirds, they constructed a nest in the sky, promising to share it with no one else, and lay together there for hours, marveling at the circumstances that had brought them together.

 

Things could have gone either way if Maila had not felt the physical attraction.  At first she doubted it was possible, but it wasn't long before she'd realized that a person's avatar exudes and expresses the energy of its creator.  Dudas was very real to her in every sense of the word.  And of course once the commitment was made, there was no going back - no pretending it hadn't happened - that a line wasn't crossed - that each had not been irrevocably and intimately touched by the other.

 

It took just under two months for the relationship between Maila and Dudas to fall apart.  At first he was just busier than usual with real life work.  Later, he acquired a female avatar which he dressed in skimpy, provocative clothing and proposed that Maila take shopping.  When she protested, saying she wanted to spend time with the man she'd fallen in love with he accused her of being unkind and not wanting to have fun. 

 

The day eventually came when she confronted him about the lack of time they were spending together.  He said her expectations of the relationship were different from his; that they couldn't go on like this; they had to split. 

 

For the next two months Maila mourned.  Incredulous friends in her first life couldn't believe she'd taken the relationship so seriously.  Those in her Second Life were sympathetic but impatient.  "He's a player Maila," they said over and over again.  "Get over it!"

 

Maila did get over it, but it was only by slowly and surely coming to the realization that Second Life was every bit as real as her first life.  In fact, as she later described it to a friend, Second life was an accelerated and distilled classroom where any and all kinds of interactions in real life are possible with one exception.  In Second Life none of society's rules and guidelines for behavior are in place.  People are not only free to look and behave any way they choose, but can simply walk away from a relationship if it becomes challenging.

 

For some, the lack of rules and consequences means freedom to explore.  For Maila, as she began to come to terms with the fact that she had drawn this man into her life for a reason, it meant she had discovered a powerful learning tool.

 

"Pay attenion now," she cautioned herself.  "Don't let yourself get sucked into another soap opera." 

 

To read the rest of this story, please go to The Virtual World Story Project web site:  http://www.tvwsp.com/jenaiamorane.html