Afterimage 54: To Purgatory
The macro and micro of violence, uncertainty, and pathways to peace.
no 54
Being present is the unique gift of being alive. Today’s newsletter is an exploration of small ways to cultivate stillness in the face of grief, and finding moments of peace.
Welcome to installment 53. You might have noticed, I’ve been away. My life is changing in ways I didn’t anticipate, even though now in hindsight, there have been some signs. My life is evolving faster than I’m living and writing, and I’m trying to figure out the cadence of this newsletter. Thanks for letting me visit your inbox, and for being part of my journey here.
When something from the past week stays with me, I go back and see it in my mind’s eye— I fact-check it, seeing things as they are, and simply observe how my body responds in the moment. I call this the Afterimage.
After I have a good look over the Afterimage, I invite my mind to ponder on it. That’s the Afterthought.
This week, I’m deviating from this framework and will simply share what’s been with me since we last met.
Here's what I saw, heard, or sensed that’s stayed with me over the past weeks.
Let’s begin.
To Purgatory
I had a mammogram. And an ultrasound. They whisked me into a biopsy without asking me what day I’d want to come back. It would take a week to get the results.
During the week of waiting, I quickly went dark and to doom. The needle used to harvest cells hurt like fuck. It was literally just a syringe, but it felt like a number-two pencil. I cried from the jab, and I cried from whatever it stabbed. In the exam room, I let tears flow but held my breath. It went straight into a deep and forgotten emotion that left my heart and didn’t make it back.
I let out the rest of my cry in the dressing room. I cried because I wanted to know what the future would look like for my daughter. How I really hope she won’t ever have to relive the nightmare of the year she had with her dad. I remembered I hadn’t drafted the will yet. And I cried some more. I took time to get dressed so I could cry it out. Holding it in felt like it would make whatever’s up with my boob turn out malignant.
The next day on my morning walk, I stood on the grassy field where the neighborhood dogs play. I got there late that morning, all of the dogs long gone. I stood and let the sun on my face. I looked toward the trees and saw dapples of light coming through, dancing and flickering on a pool of rainwater from the morning.
I wept.
I wept at the uncaptured beauty of the world around me and knew: that these glimpses of mundane beauty would flash before me in the moments before my last breath. They’ll hold equal weight to the more milestone-y, significant events of my life: birthdays, the first time I fell in love, the day my daughter was born, the day I moved away from home, the day my forever person changed the meaning of forever, the last time I fell in love, and the day I found myself again. I let myself go all the way to the end.
It's just the way I am. On every personality or values assessment I've taken, I'm a 99% in anything that measures Appreciation of Beauty, or Aesthetic. Remembering this about myself, I laughed. And I gently walked myself back. I walked my mind back to today where nothing is conclusive. Where there is no promise of a long runway or an abrupt end. Where there is no knowing what my body may or may not have to endure to get to (is there even) the other side?
I walked myself back to today, where there is still the promise of my next breath, the school pick up, the laundry, the coffee, a WhatsApp chat with Emilie to continue, a walk with Shadow, the work email, evening time with my daughter reveling in the delight of her passionate commentary on men’s volleyball. There was still the promise of a nice, long bath and a few pages of reading before bed.
I walked myself back to the present moment, to the moment where I realized: I like my life, warts and all. And I love and care about myself. More than I knew. And more than I believed.
After a week, the results came back. Class 3: inconclusive. Neither do I have a clean bill of health, nor am I sick.
Purgatory.
I have a month of imaging and another biopsy coming up. I’m angry. At whom or what, I’m not sure.
Witnessing Hell
I grieve for children, innocent people, the women, the elderly, and the impoverished who continue to be killed without mercy. I grieve for the terrorized Gazans and devastated Israeli families. Witnessing the terror and atrocity on the heels of feeling my own mortality makes me feel vulnerable and depleted. But it’s gotten me to listen and learn, filling the gaps of my ignorance, attempting to understand more than to know, or to say anything, until now.
Russian friends with Ukranian grandparents had made me keenly aware of the difference between people and states, and now so do my friends who are Jewish and in support of Gazans. It’s getting me to sit with my emotions, and recognize and accept what I’m feeling. It’s forced my curiosity to learn more about Japan’s stance on the Middle East and where my taxes are going.
When tragedy strikes, I’m flooded by overwhelm and helplessness. What I’m feeling is magnified this week from the horror itself, and the exhaustion from the emotional weight of my non-diagnosis. And another part is what I suspect to be the way my nervous system works, following past trauma. Small triggers put my system on alert, so witnessing bigger waves of suffering and violence puts my system in overdrive. I know I need to go toward news rather than let it come to me. I know to limit my screen time and to stay grounded in my body- with a walk or my hands in the dirt in my garden. I know to connect to other caring people, instead of letting my monkey mind fill my brain with chatter. And to write.
The sheer magnitude of destruction in the images from Gaza is more than I can handle. And yet turning away is not an option.
A Personal Gate to Haven
So I turn around. Instead of staying in the macro where I feel helpless, I turn toward myself, my grief, and my life: I go to the personal, what’s close, and to the micro.
I’m asking myself about my blind spots, and any narratives I choose not to explore or question, intentionally or unintentionally. I ask myself how can I cultivate peace immediately around me, now?
What toxic narratives live inside me?
How do these narratives set the tone for guaranteed conflict, and escalated violence? I don’t know why my daughter’s father is so violent with me. And I don’t know why I take the oppressed position with him. How can I change my response?
What is my part in complicity, either here in Japan, or in my own personal relationships?
How do colonialism, manmade/man-drawn lines, and capitalism impact me, my worldview, and my actions? In my case in this country: as both colonized and colonizer. As a consumer, worker, and capitalist. Have I engaged with the systems that I could influence, around reparations and amends toward the countries and people the Japanese have violently occupied? In what ways do capitalism and colonialism, occupation make me unkind to myself?
In plain language:
What do I do to be rooted in peace?
What am I doing to leave conversations, places, and myself better than I found it?
What joys and access to personal power do I deny myself in the name of having enough, being efficient, and saving time? How does that self-deprivation take away my sense of agency and power?
While none of the answers to these questions are comfortable or bring me closer to any kind of closure, they guide me toward what I can do, on action that is hopefully meaningful and impactful. If not to Peace, to peace— peace around me, in my own microspheres of influence, and peace within me.
So coming back to the super personal and micro/personal: what does it mean to live a life rooted in peace? What does that look like?
It feels like a benevolent thing to reflect on, but here’s the thing: I don’t even know what it means: Peace. Do you? Japan is a pacifist country, its Constitution prohibiting the Self Defence Force from fighting wars (-- but allowing it to “defend”). I live on an island not far from Russia. The presence of the Japanese Self Defence Force on my island reminds me that — while I can’t accurately define it- security is a different concept and state, than peace. Is peace when there’s a lack of violence, of war? And if we try to understand peace in positive language- not in the absence of fighting or war- how can we describe and define it? And when peace is achieved at the detriment of another group, is it real peace? This might sound like Peace Studies 101, but I sense the answers will help me define the kind of human I want to be, and my part in creating Peace.
I’ll continue to ask myself this week what is an action to help me cultivate peace, and a simple practice to help me be at peace with uncertainty— both in the world and in my body.
I wish you gentleness, lovingkindness today and every day.
Akiko
A Meditation for Us
My Instagram feed is dark this week from both natural and man-made disasters. Images from Gaza. From Afghanistan. From Australia, where an Australian Indigenous Voice referendum to amend the constitution to offer an Indigenous Voice to Parliament was rejected. And in still so many parts of the world I know so little about.
After writing this week’s newsletter, the word lovingkindness stood out and called me to one of my favorite meditations. It can be used to cultivate P/peace: the Metta meditation.
This is a mindfulness meditation that helps to cultivate and recognize the desire for compassion, the right to kindness, acceptance, and love for ourselves, and each other. The meditation helps us to feel this for ourselves, and then extend it outward, to all sentient beings.
Thanks to my friend Leza for introducing this meditation to me. It grounded me through the years my world turned upside down, until it emerged again, right side up.
Prayers that all is well, Ako. 🙏
a beautiful reflection and deep questions, thank you.