Broken
Lisa Jones
Scribner (2009)
As I drove through New Mexico on my trip this summer, I was struck by the signs–Leaving Nambe Pueblo; Entering Ohkay Owingeh Pueblo–and those ubiquitous green historical markers–Aqua Fria: a traditional historical community; Bandelier National Monument: home of the Cochiti; Captive Women and Children of Taos County.
This is very clearly a land proud of its heritage and its people.
But as my car slowed to wind through reservation land, I was struck (as many are) by the poverty. It seemed to me that we talked out of both sides of our mouth. “We honor the heritage of these Native peoples, but we really screwed them over … so we’ll honor the heritage of these Native peoples.” I visited the famous Taos Pueblo and saw the love our college-student guide had for his traditional way of life–but I felt like an intruder, traipsing through someone’s living room and gawking at their kitchen. Add to all this the fact that I know many in the New Age movement who have (in my mind at least) co-opted religious traditions and practices that don’t belong to them–and it seems like a kind of spiritual colonization.
Writer Lisa Jones wrote about one Native American, Stanford Addison, in her memoir titled Broken: A Love Story. And while she didn’t lay to rest any of the conflict I felt in New Mexico, she did speak eloquently to the incredible spirit that can transform even the most desperate circumstances–and in that very transformation come to heal others, including her. Through her eyes, I came to see New Mexico in a different light.
As a young man, Stan Addison lived life at full tilt. He boozed it up, used women shamelessly, and didn’t shy away from a good fight. That is until a truck accident left him first, near death, and finally, a quadriplegic. But even while he recovered in the hospital–even when he hadn’t yet accepted his fate–the spirits came to his side and made it clear: he could stay or he could go. But if he stayed, he had some compelling business to attend to. Stan wasn’t ready to leave quite yet, and he gradually came to understand that he was given some powerful medicine. And he was to share those gifts. He held sweat lodges and took on the pain of others so they could heal. Shared his visions. Warned off bad spirits. Gentled horses. Took in young men who needed the anchor he provided.
But that’s Stan Addison’s story.
And, yes, the story in Broken seems at first to be Stan’s–but it is, in the end, the story of Lisa Jones. Lisa grew up in a less-than-functional home. (This, despite the fact that her father was a psychiatrist.) When her parents divorced, meeting the emotional needs of three children wasn’t high on their list of priorities. But Lisa was smart, driven, and independent. A survivor. She became a successful journalist and lived a life of adventure. It was the Good Life. Except when it wasn’t. There were those nagging doubts. Feeling lost. The draw of commitment and its companion, the fear of being tied down. Uncertainty.
Like most 20th century educated professionals, Lisa disguised her fears quite well. Except Stan saw through her and her heart felt the pull of the man with incredible gifts. Lisa became the supplicant to Stan’s sage. So she returned to the sweat lodge over and over again. She listened to Stan’s stories. She argued. Questioned him for hours on end. She washed his hair, lit his cigarettes, and drove into town for his sodas. Cooked meals. Stan waited and Lisa learned–but not without unraveling even more emotional pain.
And that’s what I failed to keep in mind as I drove through New Mexico–I was outside looking in. My eyes saw what might have been material poverty, but they failed to see the richness of spirit. I wasn’t privy to the private lives of Native peoples or their spiritual practices–but Lisa Jones was when one very extraordinary human being welcomed her into his circle, and I am grateful she shared her story with us in Broken.
* When I looked over the art on the both the hardcover and paperback of Broken I so. totally. misjudged the book, actually passing it over a few times. (Isn’t there some saying about that … ?) The cover art was rather … romantic … and then there was the subtitle “a love story”. I convinced myself I wouldn’t like the book (I was thinking shades of Horse Whisperer) until I actually read the back cover blurb. I finished the book in just under two days. ‘Nuff said about that whole ‘book by its cover’ thing. How fitting that my first drive through New Mexico left me feeling similar.
This is my symphony 