Martin Prechtel's "The Smell of Rain on Dust" is beautiful from its title on through every page. Savor this: "The Sea speaks in a million ways, but the waves always lick the face of our hurt until our real face reappears from beneath." And I ask: Why isn't this book being reviewed in the NY Times? Why isn't Martin Prechtel being interviewed by Charlie Rose? This man is a mental, spiritual and artistic giant. But such is our world. We pretend to value honesty while hiding everything about ourselves.
I've learned more about grief than I thought it was possible to know. Yes, one misjudges, perhaps, gets hurt, feels pain and if the betrayal is deep enough, grief ensues or is buried. We all know this. But Prechtel brings us into a kaleidoscopic world of pain we never knew existed, a world that holds the meaning of grief psychologically, politically, financially, historically, mythically and spiritually. He draws us a picture that sparkles of grief's relationship to praise and the saving grace of praise, showing how it spins our big world and our little worlds. He flat out states, ". . . without grief we can never grow ourselves into real people."
He points out the relationship between suppressed grief and alcoholism. He homes in on returning vets, stating what I have always secretly believed: we humans are not cut out for such massacres and violence and ugly killings and we will pay for it with our souls. We are actually a gentle species, history notwithstanding. Additionally, Prechtel lays out for us the idea of one family member carrying "the old family grief" and the ramifications of that, a truly fascinating concept. Add in the idea of reincarnation (which he doesn't do) and the family picture becomes a marvel of connections that were heretofore unperceived. He speaks of revenge and its impulse to war, one of the best chapters in the book. He comments, " . . . it is truly nightmarish how easily and how quickly grief can be converted into group-endorsed violence." I think of Israel. I think of all the many Arab tribes, sects and subsects whose sole motivation seems to be revenge for events that sometimes took place hundreds of years ago. Well, every nation has its similar history. 9/11/2001. He remarks, "Revenge took no cultural talent." He understands that people's first reaction is to find and attack what caused their pain. Carefully, he points out, "But to retain revenge instead of going through the gauntlet of the sorrow of grief was too easy and would only 'freeze' grief in its tracks, turning the moment into toxic stone." In his poetic way he tells us something of healing, "But feelings were considered a kind of wind, and there was no need to freeze the wind, but better to thaw the clouds of hate into a rain of tears that fed the thirsty ground of the human soul."
There is not one bonafide therapist out there who would not profit from reading this deep little book -- and then be able to pass their knowledge on to their patients. Back to the Arabs. Arabic culture, for those of you who do not know, is a deeply poetic culture, filled with admirers of Rumi and Hafiz. If I had a million bucks I'd print Prechtel's book in a mix of Arabic and drop it by airplane on every Arabic country. Killing your fellow-man would look a lot less appetizing and suicide bomber sacrifices would be seen for the insanity they are, and utterly unnecessary for the people would then access their natural wisdom and discover an alternative to fighting, hatred, war and revenge. Please allow me my little fantasy.
The chapter on money as "grief not listened to" was a real eye-opener. But however interesting it was, I confess some of it flew over my head. I would have profited by a much longer chapter with more nitty-gritty examples. Though the book is only 170 pages long, every page holds gems of high value. His take on science made me laugh and nod, even as both he and I have respect for what it can do: "Science is basically a cult of measurement." I also loved his teachings about "real people." I wish there had been more of this as well. Regarding what a "real person" is, I felt a gut-level agreement as I read, "a person who knows that all the world's weather wildness is the grief-binge of the Earth herself as she wanders singing, howling, weeping through the streets of her own village: 'the universe,' in hopes of being heard."
As he connects us to the beautiful partnership between grief and praise (teaching me once again the truth that the Universe is a loving place whose structure is always geared to healing and love and wholeness, despite appearances) he cautions us, "If the way we live does not praise life, then we are not alive." I thought about that in my own life and I saw, after a little resistance, that it was true. We are half-dead and dying when we fail to see how beautiful and valuable we are, how beautiful and valuable our enemies are and what the world needs to become the paradise we have all, in our secret dreams, envisioned and hoped it to be. It needs us. All of us. Voices raised in appreciation for it ALL.
Martin Prechtel is a "savior" of the first order. I've read most of his books, innocent and profound, joyful and full of despair, but in the end he saves us from our selves in the only way one can be saved: not by power, not by money, not by safety, not by government or corporation, not even by therapy, but by that inward turning we all must do, facing our darkness, diving in and coming out the other side into the bright light of love, truth, healing and joy. It takes courage to do this, far more courage than quitting a job or relationship, having a child, going to war, moving across the world, or finding yourself in a disastrous flood or earthquake. Inner pain is the only demon life gives us. May you have the courage to face it. May this be your fate!
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Miss L.
Not to be read by anyone actually grieving!
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