Get Crackin’
There are cracks – fissures in the earth’s crust that spew molten rock. It’s raw. It burns. It cleanses and scorches simultaneously with a copper glow. And it happens unexpectedly and in short bursts. I’ve seen such volcanic eruptions on Discovery Channel documentaries about the Hawaiian Islands. The lava destroys the terra firma even as it expands it. As it wreaks death it cleanses the earth’s palate for rebirth.
Infrequent ruptures aren’t limited to volcanic landscapes. They happen to PTSD survivors as well. Instead of magma, we protrude a sudden rush of emotion like a bursting Yellowstone geyser. The tears spill from a reservoir that we swore was a dry well. Where did they come from, and why did they come just now?
It happened to me Thursday evening. I sat in the amphitheater at the Minnesota Zoo. It was a warm evening in July – the humidity sucked from the air by thunderstorms the day before. Mary Chapin Carpenter had taken the stage. She began singing “Stones in the Road.”
When we were young, we pledged allegiance every morning of our lives
The classroom rang with children’s voices under teacher’s watchful eye
We learned about the world around us at our desks and at dinnertime
Reminded of the starving children, we cleaned our plates with guilty minds
And the stones in the road shone like diamonds in the dust
And then a voice called to us to make our way back home
I sat on the wooden bleacher, surrounded by hundreds, behind my sunglasses as the first tear began to fall. Nobody noticed – at least I don’t think they did. I did the subtle cheek wipe. “Am I in the clear?” I wondered. A few more drops meandered down my titanium cheeks. Sniff. Wipe. Repeat. What caused that raw reaction? A mixture of things, I surmised. Mary Chapin Carpenter’s eloquent song writing laced in Americana intertwined with folksy melodies played its part. Her stories put to song reminded me of a time when I, like those in her songs, was young, innocent, naive. These were not bad traits but linked to pleasure. These were feelings hitched to a wagon about to head West – adventure, opportunity. Gaining. Loving. Losing. I was fresh and starting out. There were no scars.
That seemed like a lifetime ago.
The zoological setting also took me back to nearly six years ago. It was in that exact same spot that I saw Bruce Hornsby two weeks before the bridge collapsed. I recalled that night with fondness. I still felt fresh, naive, intact. So two-thirds into Mary’s song she reached her bridge, and I hadn’t quite reached mine. With closed eyes I was there, and it wasn’t Mary, it was Bruce. And I wasn’t broken. I was whole. And wrapped in the warmth of a mid-July evening, the tears tumbled.
Getting emotion from me can be like squeezing blood from a stone. PTSD can seem like a thick crust – nearly impenetrable. But I fight. I fight for the cracks. I fight for the oozing, the cleansing, the rebirth.
