It’s a difficult time in which we’re living: political uncertainty, the virus, and for me, my cat who is wasting away yet still manages to leap up on to my bed and purr, ready for an all-night cuddle. I call it purrdling. I cuddle, she purrs.

Depression has been my life-long companion. Drugs don’t touch it. What has always helped me manage to keep going, to feel a little better, is being in the forest, hiking in mountains, preferably alone. I’m grateful that at 84 I’m still able to hike down a steep trail to a circle of stones made by the few hikers who pass by. It’s a large circle divided into four quadrants, lined with stones leading to the inner circle. It feels like a special place, with a mystical energy I cannot describe.

​I hike with a talisman stone heart. Every time I hike it nestles in my left pocket, a source of comfort and security. This time, when I approach the circle, an inner voice says I need to put my talisman stone heart in the circle. I resist. I put heart stones I’ve found in the circle. My inner voice is relentless. I need to place my talisman stone heart on the center stones. Reluctantly, wondering why I am listening to a voice I don’t understand, I carefully, almost tearfully, place my talisman stone on top of the other heart stones I’ve put there. I stand quietly, allowing my heart to fill—with gratitude, love, hope—the wish that people would stop shouting and start talking, would listen intently, even to those whose ideas seem most egregious. When an inner voice says I am ready, I walk slowly around the circle. At each quarter I stop. I think about the world as it is, not caring that I am only one small, insignificant person among billions. I send compassion, lovingkindness, and the wish for peace and justice into the world. 

I step back from the circle, taking in its wholeness. I appreciate the many people, unknown to me and perhaps each other, who have created this space in this place. It feels good that in order to reach it you have to hike up or down steep mountainsides. 
As I turn away, ready to hike back up, I feel something inside me shift. I feel a little lighter. I feel a little more hopeful. I have done what I can do. 

As part of my 80th birthday celebration I chose to do a vision quest—four days and four nights alone in the wilderness, with no phone, books, watch, or digital devices. I hoped being alone, with no distractions, and only a journal to write in, would enable me to shed emotional and psychological burdens I’d carried for years.

There were months of preparation—making 144 prayer ties filled with cornmeal and tobacco, monthly visits with the vision quest leader, a 12-hour mini-vision quest in a nearby forest, preparation with our retreat leaders and the group for two days before beginning the vision quest, yet nothing prepared me for what happened.

We entered our designated location at 5am and I immediately slept for hours, lulled by the sounds of the forest. I was woken by a voice inside me telling me it was time to get started. 

What I did during the four days and nights is considered medicine, not to be shared. What I can say is that each time the voice told me to do something, like stamp on dead branches, memories of my early childhood surfaced—memories of horror and abuse and murderous violence—of living away from home. At times, experiences I’d been told never happened. Other times, experience for which I was blamed. I understood the abuse was not my fault, that for years I’d had a metaphorical sign on my chest saying, “Abuse me.”  I left it all in the wilderness.

At the retreat center we processed what we had experienced. When it was my turn, I began to cry for the first time since I was 16 and had been refused entry into a school club because I was Jewish. The other retreat participants waited with calm, waited until I was ready to speak. I told the truth of some of the abuse, how it had scarred me, how I never felt good enough or lovable. They listened with no judgment, many quietly crying. When I finished there was a perceptible silence. Had I said too much? Had I said the wrong thing? 

As a group they came over to me, offering hugs, encouragement, kindness, caring. For the first time I felt part of a group. For the first time I felt good enough.

Once one knows something, one cannot unknow it. What I experienced doing the vision quest made it possible for me to continue healing, by choosing to be with people who treat me well and with kindness. I’m still learning how to feel good enough.


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Nancy was joined by friends and readers Live on Zoom for the virtual launch of her latest book and memoir: Breaking the Silence.  Nancy did not read from the book directly, opting instead to tell some of her life's story and some of the stories she has picked up along the way as she would have recounted them to a friend. In the Q & A session, she talks about how this memoir came to be, how writing this book has been a part of her healing journey, and what she hopes this book can do for those who read it. 

I think I was born a storyteller. At first, when I was young, I hid in as safe a place as possible and told stories to myself. I imagined saving children from evil monsters, floods, fires, and parents who abandoned them in the forest. As I grew older, I noticed that when I told stories, students stopped what they were doing and calmed down, adults listened attentively. I told world stories that featured brave heroines, murderous queens and incestuous kings. 

I discovered that telling stories helped create a kind of community no matter the ages of the listeners and this helped people feel connected to one another and to me. I later realized that what was happening in my life found its way into the stories I was telling. When my son was in the hospital, not knowing if he would live or die, I told Cinderella, focusing on the hardships she suffered, her disbelief in fairy godmothers, her depression—the bleakness of her life. A few weeks later, when my son was out of the hospital, I easily focused on how quickly Cinderella responded to her fairy godmother, the wonderful ways in which her life changed.  Both times I told the same story, but how I was feeling personally worked its way into my storytelling.

Stories matter—all stories, whether they’re world tales or personal stories. Stories are how I make sense of the world and help to create the person I am.

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