“I want a word that means
okay and not okay,
more than that: a word that means
devastated and stunned with joy.
I want the word that says
I feel it all all at once.”

— Rosemerry Wahtohla Trommer

I, too, want a word that means okay and not okay. Because I am: okay and not okay. As many of you know, I usually write in metaphor. Especially when it comes to trauma. Finding words or for the inner experience of fragmenting or shattering can be hard—so I like to find images or experiences to expand the language or conversation. But today, uncharacteristically, I am stating a fact: I have actually fractured my legs. I broke both of them last week in a hiking accident. So, in that very real way of being hurt, and having my life turned upside down, I am not okay. This spring and possibly this year will not be what I planned. I am not able to do the things that usually bring me joy—like walking in the woods or working in my garden-- and I am not able to live my life in the way I was living it, in the places I was living it.

But I am also okay. There isn’t a lot of pain involved with my injuries and I am able to be as mobile as one can be with two broken legs. It’s not life-threatening—just an inconvenience. I have work that I enjoy and much of it can be done remotely. I am, as Ann Lamott would say, okay in every real and important way.

But fractal is the word that keeps coming to mind when I try to find a word that means okay and not okay—a word that means devastated and stunned with joy. fractal (n.) means "never-ending pattern," from French fractal from that has the same Latin root fractus as the word fracture.

Fractal is a word that begins as broken and somehow morphs into something resembling harmony. Fractal takes fracture and brings order to the pieces. Fractal says broken or seemingly disparate pieces are not only part of a whole, they are also part of a beautiful whole, they are part of an order. Fractals link the small and the big. They say both parts are necessary.

Mathematically-- Fractals have a dimension (D) between 1.3 and 1.5 which is the ratio of large coarse patters to smaller, fine ones. Examples of this in nature are a coastline to dunes, a trunk of trees to branches, and branches to leaves. Fractals are repeating patterns of things.

And my fractures have revealed the patterns, the fractals, the repeating patterns of protections and defenses I had used for so many years. Patterns I tried to change, but which hid below the surface always slightly out of view. The self-reliance. The inability to ask for or accept help. The need to keep my difficulties or work hidden. The patterns get revealed when there is a crack: when you can’t use them anymore.

Many of us saw our patterns more clearly during covid—our old coping strategies or routines were different. The ways we managed our work, or our stress simply weren’t available. You see your protections, your defenses most clearly when you suddenly can’t use them.

Many years ago a Nor’easter blew down the 6 foot cedar fence in front of my house. All 40 feet of it. The grey fence lay there on the sidewalk like a wooden boardwalk and suddenly my house was in view of the road, cars rushing by, and I could see everything. It felt like I was living in a different house.

And today I am also living in a new house—literally and figuratively. But unlike in years past, I find myself more curious—kind of looking around and figuring out how to inhabit the new space—inside and out. My legs are braced and held by the support of casts. I have all sorts of supports for my legs to keep me as non-weight bearing as possible. But supporting my legs has meant support for me as a whole person—and I am being held—braced—contained-- by the kindness of family and friends. It is a different kind of cast—but it may be the one that heals what was most broken.

One of the original psychology writers, Michael Balint, talked about the kind of fractures that are unseen, and unhealed, but which drive so much of the way we live our lives and connect (or don’t) to others. He called this kind of fracture the basic fault. And his treatment for it, long before the relational theorists came to be, was to create an environment of care and connection. To not interfere. To trust the person to lean into support that was kind and non-judgmental. To create a container and let the person heal their fault.

But really, it’s not easy to heal these old fault lines. Especially in today’s busy and fast paced world. We get good at not doing or trying the things that would reveal that fracture. We don’t let the help or support or the light in. Those faults, those fences stay up. Until a Nor’easter blows them down. Until you fracture both your legs.

Until something cracks enough to let the light in—and you find yourself supported enough to heal what is shattered—inside and out.

For more poetry by Rosemerry Wahtohla Trommer visit her blog: A Hundred Falling Veils