Fracture|Fractal

“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.

© 2023 Gretchen L. Schmelzer, PhD

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


The Chance to Start Again

“Last night I dreamt of a tornado,
where I clung to my bed
as the house spun
telling myself over and over
it would be okay.

I stared at the
moon snail wondering
if he too sought
soothing in prayer.
Claws gripping his bed
in his spinning
spiral house.

I stopped and
turned back
toward the sea
feeling the loss
of my story
of perfection
of wholeness

knowing suddenly
that this story
would end just like my dream—

with houses falling from the sky
into shallow water—
safer than you feared,
but more precarious
than you would have hoped.

A story not so much
of safety or rescue
or even homecoming,
but instead, landing
in a new place with
the chance to start again.
”
— Gretchen Schmelzer

I’ve been doing a lot of writing and a fair amount of speaking about a place I am calling ‘emergence.’ Emergence is what I am calling the space between healing and growth—an in-between place—a middle space—a pause or rest or reset. In the place where we find ourselves—not fully pre-covid and not completely post covid—we have need of language, attention and understanding of what it means to be in between—and to begin to ponder what it means that we all have the chance –not to return to where we were before—but instead, the chance to start again.  

I feel like we all need to remember that beginnings are acts of creation. And creation can be made or it can be grown. Can come from old pieces or new pieces. Can happen fast or slower.

But we are in a new place, and we need to acknowledge and create the space to be new. The space to explore. The space to be curious.

We need to see that emergence demands creation and creativity. That the old playbooks of what worked before may not work for us right now—not in this in-between place—and not as a way to manage the losses we experienced in the last three years. So many people are worried about the youth. So many people are feeling disoriented as they try to regain footing in this new place.

Stop looking for the answers and start asking questions. What is making you feel burned out? What feels undone? What have you missed doing? What was the biggest impact of the pandemic on you? What did you lose? And, what did you gain? What did you gain that you aren’t willing to give up as you start again?

What do the children and teenagers need—now? What is missing? What isn’t working? What is working? What do the children need from adults (and are the adults healthy and recovered enough to provide that?) What do the children and teens need from each other? What doesn’t exist that might help? What weren’t they able to grow during the past three years? How might we create opportunities for remediation of those growth areas? What are areas of untapped potential in our community? Don’t judge the answers. Just listen.

Stop looking for the already made answers for healing and emergence. You won’t find them. During the pandemic I often counseled people to add the suffix: ‘in a pandemic’ to their statements as in: “I am running a virtual meeting in a pandemic.”  And, “I am negotiating parenting with my spouse in a pandemic.” I asked them to do this to remind themselves that they couldn’t possibly know the perfect way to do something in a brand new situation — and to help them have some grace during the learning curve. We need a similar way to hold ourselves and each other during this time of emergence.

And now I  think the corollary to this idea is to stop imagining that there is a right answer to how we each heal and recover. Healing and recovering from the last three years is an act of creation for each and every one of us. It requires of us not just the task problem-solving with answers and information we already know, but instead using all we know in new ways— it requires creativity. Real creativity—invention—imagination.

Which means, plainly stated, it will not be easy. If you bravely ask the questions above of yourself, your loved ones or your work colleagues—it is highly likely that you will get answers you don’t like the responses to— or you will get answers that demand efforts that will cause discomfort. Maybe it will mean stopping or slowing down. Or starting something completely different. Or making hard choices. Or it will require time, or effort, or attention, or more people.

And it’s not just about individuals. It is also highly likely that the previous systems—whether families, schools, communities and organizations—don’t have all the skills, resources or structures in place to meet the current demands. They too must engage in the act of creation. They too must lose the illusion that the answers they need lie in turning back toward old habits and strategies.

But most of all, perhaps, is the real need to remember that this time of emergence is an especially precious and tender time. New beginnings are one of the hallmarks of healing and integration. In this time after Covid we may indeed be safer than we feared, but more precarious than we hoped. And we have one of those rare chances to start again.

Moon Snail

On a stormy high tide,

near as I dared,

I stood watching waves

clearly devoted to

an invisible power.


For a brief glittering moment

a wave is perfect the way

a flower is perfect

or the way


that I felt today

when I found a

moon snail shell

whole and unbroken.


The chubby grey spiral

a holy communion of roundness

blessing and anointing me

into the club of people

who find unbroken shells.


In blue sky sunshine

I headed home,

basking in the warm

glow of wholeness.


Things would be different now.

O me of newly unbrokenness

and rounded blue grey perfection!


Two blocks from home

I glanced down, catching

a flicker of movement

inside the spiral--

a tiny claw.


Last night I dreamt of a tornado,

where I clung to my bed

as the house spun

telling myself over and over

it would be okay.


I stared at the

moon snail wondering

if he too sought

soothing in prayer.

Claws gripping his bed

in his spinning

spiral house.


I stopped and

turned back

toward the sea

feeling the loss

of my story

of perfection

of wholeness


knowing suddenly

that this story

would end just like my dream--


with houses falling from the sky

into shallow water--

safer than you feared,

but more precarious

than you would have hoped.


A story not so much

of safety or rescue

or even homecoming,

but instead, landing

in a new place with

the chance to start again.


© 2023 Gretchen L. Schmelzer, PhD

April is National Poetry month so I am going to work more poetry, one way or another, into the blog this month— mine, others— directly or indirectly.





Eyes Up! Heels Down! Grab Mane! Atta Girl!

Twenty five years ago I facilitated a sport psychology workshop for Masters Women rowers where the task was to work on their self-talk. In looking at self-talk you can often gain clarity about the kind of coaching you have experienced and absorbed—about what you’ve heard from others. Our ability to learn language and speak follows a predictable path—first language is receptive—we take in words—we learn by listening. And then language is expressive—we use the words we have heard to create sentences and speak. So looking at what you took in over the course of your life is important so that you can see what parts of your inner talk are helping you and what parts are getting in the way.

One of the exercises the athletes did was to think of a time when someone did a particularly good job giving them helpful instructions—from both an informational and emotional standpoint. And one woman, Annie, raised her hand and said, “I have the best example.” And it was a fabulous example, one that has stayed with me for these 25 years. Annie’s story was that she had been a horseback rider when she was a young girl and one day she was riding a particularly difficult horse. It was a new horse to the barn and she was riding it to test it out and see if they could train it. Soon into riding it, the horse began to try to buck her off. Her mother, who both ran the stable and was the riding instructor, turned around and saw the horse bucking and Annie struggling, so she yelled across the ring, “Annie! Eyes up! Heels down! Grab mane! Atta Girl!”

“Annie! Eyes up! Heels down! Grab mane! Atta Girl!”

Both structurally and metaphorically this coaching is peerless. Structurally, Annie’s mom got Annie’s attention by using her name, saying I see you and know you are having a hard time—listen to me. She gave her the exact instructions Annie needed to stay on the horse. 'Eyes up' meant she kept her eyes where she wanted to stay—she kept her eyes on the goal. 'Heels down' meant that she had her center of gravity back down and was able to use the stirrups to hold her. She kept her seat. 'Grab mane' because it was a solid handhold that wasn’t going anywhere. Annie’s mom didn’t go in to long details, or instruction—just the necessary actions that would keep Annie on the horse.  And the mom followed it up with a word of praise, 'Atta Girl', acknowledgement of the success of Annie’s actions. There was no lecture, no judgment, no I told you so’s. This is the kind coaching that the brain takes in the best, and the kind of coaching that creates the most useful, sustainable self-talk

But the other reason I loved this story is that this story and the coaching is perfect for any metaphorical horse that is trying to throw us. There are just times when we hit bumpy patches—whether it is being a new parent, or starting a new job, or healing from trauma. There are days or issues or conversations that can have us feeling like we are just going to get thrown at any minute, like we are hanging on for dear life and we don’t know what to do. And we just need to hear that calm voice shouted across the ring, “________"(fill in your name)! Eyes up! (Remember your goal—see it, visualize, keep your gaze on it). Heels down! (Do what you need to feel more grounded) Grab mane! (Hold on to your strengths and resources right now). Atta Girl! (Well done. You don’t need to be a perfect rider to get praise, you need to stay engaged in staying on to get praise, and you are doing that. Go You!).

So I offer you the exercise that the rowers did: what was the best coaching you ever got from someone? What did they say? What did they do? How did they say it? Write what you heard down on a sheet of paper or on a bunch of post-it notes. What was helpful about it? What worked well for you? How did it make you feel? How can you use more of that coaching in your current self-talk to help you towards you goals or help you with your healing? Create some good mantras to have at the ready for your bumpy moments, for your learning moments, for your healing moments.

And if you are at a loss at any point you can always borrow Annie’s: Eyes Up! Heels down! Grab mane! Atta Girl!

© Gretchen L. Schmelzer, PhD 2023/2016

Wingspans

“I pray to the birds. I pray to the birds because I believe they will carry the messages of my heart upward. I pray to them because I believe in their existence, the way their songs begin and end each day—the invocations and benedictions of Earth. I pray to the birds because they remind me of what I love rather than what I fear. And at the end of my prayers, they teach me how to listen.”
— Terry Tempest Williams, Refuge: An Unnatural History of Family and Place

I am a sucker for a big wingspan. Years ago on a walk I was busy admiring some peonies in a nearby garden when I was aware of a big shadow passing over me and looked up. A blue heron—overhead. A huge wingspan and legs, relaxed, hanging back, headed toward the Charles River.

I remember an eagle flying over my tiny hatchback one summer when I was driving in Maine. I remember ducking my head instinctively, as if I were a rabbit and not a person in a car. I remember watching it fly ahead of me until it was out of sight. These large birds with their powerful wingspans are so compelling it almost hurts when the leave your view.

A wingspan is the measure of your reach—from tip to tip. Our widest reach. And if you are changing or growing or healing—you have felt this stretch, this reach. You have had the branch break under you and had to thrust your wings out—not sure if they would catch you.

Maybe the love affair with these huge birds started with my seventh grade project for Ecology about the Peregrine Falcon where I drew out the bird, copied from the Encyclopedia Britannica, in a mixture of markers and colored pencil on a big white sheet of poster board. Creating that poster was like becoming a pen pal with that bird. By the time I finished my poster all I wanted to do was to meet the bird in person. I waited nearly 35 years. On my way to the grocery store two years ago a teenage Peregrine sat on a brick wall in front of an apartment building. I pulled my car over and watched it for 20 minutes—until it flew away. I like to think that it looked a lot like my poster board. Or at least enough like it that I recognized it instantly.

Maybe we all are overcome by awe when in the presence of something that dwarfs us.  Or, we’re in awe of something that dwarfs us when it’s outside of us—like a mountain, or a waterfall or a storm or a bird of prey. And yet, when it is something internal that dwarfs us—I don’t know about you, but awe isn’t the word that comes to mind for me. It’s usually closer to dread.

When I run up against a big feeling that I wasn’t expecting, I don’t feel awe. When a shadow flies over my heart, I don’t want to look up. But Terry Tempest Williams reminds us that a shadow is never created in darkness. It is the light that allows it. As she states, “our shadow asks us to look at what we don’t want to see” 

The funny thing about the shadow of a wingspan is that it is something you sense—in that deep mammal place we all still have. You sense it and then you see it in your peripheral vision—just out of sight—before you see it on the ground. And with the big things we are trying to change and heal—I think the same thing is true. I think we sense it first. And then we can see it just out of our peripheral vision—and then the shadow falls on us.

And this is where the discipline is and the healing can be. When the shadow falls, and when what Mary Oliver describes as the soft animal of your body freezes and halts with fear and dread—can you look up? Can you find awe? Can you see the beauty? Can you even more simply just pull your car over and sit with the feeling for 20 minutes asking nothing of it—just the simple act of being with it? Of having reverence for this thing that is your light and shadow—that holds so much power—that is your fullest reach?

© 2023/2015 Gretchen L. Schmelzer, PhD