Sometimes I get paralyzed to take action regarding my daily mundane activities. They seem so pointless and mundane, but they aren't. Schedules are about people. Bills are about people. Everything we do is about people, I would think.
People matter.
Today, as I sat on my king-size bed meditating, bringing my focus to my breath and then allowing thoughts to float in and out while my psyche and heart observed the thoughts and my bodily responses, I felt anxious. My body was tight.
I had to tell myself to breathe.
My body relaxed.
Tears then welled in my eyes, but they never made their way down my cheeks.
I have nothing to fear. If I get tense during the hearing, simply remind myself that I am simply telling the truth. That is all I have to do.
I am a witness in an upcoming hearing. I probably won't even be cross-examined because the person being charged will most likely not even show. The hearing isn't in front of jury or judge but rather a licensing board.
I asked my self, Why the tears?
My response was, Because it hurts. Sometimes the truth hurts.
My self response continued, But I don't think that's why I have tears. I think I have tears because this two-year mess is finally coming to a close. I won't be calling the state or the state calling me with updates and questions and more information surrounding the case. I won't be wondering how it will end. It will be done.
And another part of me wonders if "it" will ever be done.
And that part hurts....
_________________
September 30, 2012
September 28, 2012
A day off work....
Today is Friday. I keep thinking it's Thursday.
Last week on my day off work I climbed into my gray, 1999, Ford Explorer wondering where I would go. Movie? Bookstore? Blue Ridge Parkway?
I had wanted to go hiking, but the weather called for one to two inches of rain in the mountains.
Maybe I should just go to a movie.
I headed south on Peacehaven Road. When I got to the junction with Highway 421, I made a choice.
I'll head north on 421 and see where I end up. Maybe I could hit Interstate-77 and go north and just enjoy the mountains as I drive. But, if it's raining a lot, there won't be a view. I'll just see fog.
As I headed up I-77, I took an exit near Elkin, I think it was, to stop and fill my gas tank. While there, I pulled out a North Carolina map. On the map, I located the area where I was driving.
I haven't been to Sparta in awhile. I'll go there and see what I can find.
I think of my father when I think of Sparta, North Carolina. Dad used to smoke a pipe. It seems he often used cherry pipe tobacco. The smoke would lay heavy in our family room. It wouldn't really lay; rather, it would float...like smoke waves hanging in the middle of the air. A sweet waft would fill the room.
Sparta is home to Dr. Graybow Pipe Company. Dad smoked from Dr. Graybow pipes.
Come to think of it, Dad may have had his car wreck around Sparta. I'll have to inquire sometime to see if either of my siblings know exactly where Dad collided head on with a flatbed truck that left Dad paralyzed. In my mind, it was around Sparta. Or maybe it was near Burnsville. I'd like to know which mountain curve it was where that almost-fatal accident occurred. That seems an odd desire, bordering on morose. Oh well.
After arriving in Sparta, I landed at Backwoods Bean Coffee Shop. I ordered a drink and picked a table toward the back. I had gotten a late start from my house and arrived at the coffee shop around 4:15 PM. They closed at 5:30.
I sat and wrote and read. At closing time I inquired about a place to eat supper and maybe hang out a bit more. The folks referred me to a local family restaurant down the street.
At the restaurant I ordered the sauerkraut with sliced hot dogs, pinto beans, tossed salad, and hush puppies. The menu didn't offer corn bread; I thought that odd. It was a good meal. I noticed one African-American in the restaurant. The thought hit me about how I seldom see African-Americans in the North Carolina mountains.
I finished my meal and paid at the register. It must have been around 6:45.
I walked to my Explorer and again pulled out my map wondering where to go on this day off.
Carol, you've wasted your day. No, I haven't. I've enjoyed the ride. But you haven't seriously written anything; you've just spent money on gas and food.
I chose to not pay much attention to my self-critical analysis of how I was spending my afternoon and evening off.
I pulled out my map, wondering if I should just head back home to Winston, or go somewhere else.
O.K. I wanted to do something special today. The day's not over yet. I hope I run into something special.
I pondered the map.
I'll head to Galax, Virginia. I think I'll take the Parkway; maybe there'll be some good scenery now that the rain has settled.
When I arrived at Galax, the sun had all but set. Galax is a small town and I expected nothing on a midweek night.
But, as I approached the town section I saw cars ahead parked on the side of the road.
That's odd. Wonder if something is going on?
As I slowly drove down the dimly lit street, I gazed to my right and caught site of musicians through a large storefront window of a coffee shop. There was a crowd at the back of the shop.
I found a parking spot about 1-1/2 blocks up from the coffee shop.
Something special in deed. It was jam session night.
The coffee shop employee, or maybe she was the owner, told me that every night there is a jam session in Galax. Tonight it was at the coffee shop. Not many people had shown up because it had rained two inches that day. Weather can keep folks from going out.
In one room of the coffee shop was a stage in the window. That's what I had seen from the road. Five men were on stage making music, gospel to blues to bluegrass. All strings...acoustic guitar, slide guitar, bass guitar, banjo, and a fiddle.
One room over, though...that was the really special part to me. Thirteen locals were gathered for a jam session in the one-room over.
Three banjos.
Three guitars.
Two lap dulciimers.
Four fiddles.
One floor bass.
My god, they were awesome. They played old time music. It was like an old time symphony. I was tapping my toes and even danced a jig, adding my old time percussion.
But I noticed there were no mandolins.
Even now, over a week later, it makes me smile. It was perfect, even without a mandolin.
Foggy September late afternoon, Blue Ridge Parkway, 2012
Last week on my day off work I climbed into my gray, 1999, Ford Explorer wondering where I would go. Movie? Bookstore? Blue Ridge Parkway?
I had wanted to go hiking, but the weather called for one to two inches of rain in the mountains.
Maybe I should just go to a movie.
I headed south on Peacehaven Road. When I got to the junction with Highway 421, I made a choice.
I'll head north on 421 and see where I end up. Maybe I could hit Interstate-77 and go north and just enjoy the mountains as I drive. But, if it's raining a lot, there won't be a view. I'll just see fog.
As I headed up I-77, I took an exit near Elkin, I think it was, to stop and fill my gas tank. While there, I pulled out a North Carolina map. On the map, I located the area where I was driving.
I haven't been to Sparta in awhile. I'll go there and see what I can find.
I think of my father when I think of Sparta, North Carolina. Dad used to smoke a pipe. It seems he often used cherry pipe tobacco. The smoke would lay heavy in our family room. It wouldn't really lay; rather, it would float...like smoke waves hanging in the middle of the air. A sweet waft would fill the room.
Sparta is home to Dr. Graybow Pipe Company. Dad smoked from Dr. Graybow pipes.
Come to think of it, Dad may have had his car wreck around Sparta. I'll have to inquire sometime to see if either of my siblings know exactly where Dad collided head on with a flatbed truck that left Dad paralyzed. In my mind, it was around Sparta. Or maybe it was near Burnsville. I'd like to know which mountain curve it was where that almost-fatal accident occurred. That seems an odd desire, bordering on morose. Oh well.
After arriving in Sparta, I landed at Backwoods Bean Coffee Shop. I ordered a drink and picked a table toward the back. I had gotten a late start from my house and arrived at the coffee shop around 4:15 PM. They closed at 5:30.
I sat and wrote and read. At closing time I inquired about a place to eat supper and maybe hang out a bit more. The folks referred me to a local family restaurant down the street.
At the restaurant I ordered the sauerkraut with sliced hot dogs, pinto beans, tossed salad, and hush puppies. The menu didn't offer corn bread; I thought that odd. It was a good meal. I noticed one African-American in the restaurant. The thought hit me about how I seldom see African-Americans in the North Carolina mountains.
I finished my meal and paid at the register. It must have been around 6:45.
I walked to my Explorer and again pulled out my map wondering where to go on this day off.
Carol, you've wasted your day. No, I haven't. I've enjoyed the ride. But you haven't seriously written anything; you've just spent money on gas and food.
I chose to not pay much attention to my self-critical analysis of how I was spending my afternoon and evening off.
I pulled out my map, wondering if I should just head back home to Winston, or go somewhere else.
O.K. I wanted to do something special today. The day's not over yet. I hope I run into something special.
I pondered the map.
I'll head to Galax, Virginia. I think I'll take the Parkway; maybe there'll be some good scenery now that the rain has settled.
When I arrived at Galax, the sun had all but set. Galax is a small town and I expected nothing on a midweek night.
But, as I approached the town section I saw cars ahead parked on the side of the road.
That's odd. Wonder if something is going on?
As I slowly drove down the dimly lit street, I gazed to my right and caught site of musicians through a large storefront window of a coffee shop. There was a crowd at the back of the shop.
I found a parking spot about 1-1/2 blocks up from the coffee shop.
Something special in deed. It was jam session night.
The coffee shop employee, or maybe she was the owner, told me that every night there is a jam session in Galax. Tonight it was at the coffee shop. Not many people had shown up because it had rained two inches that day. Weather can keep folks from going out.
In one room of the coffee shop was a stage in the window. That's what I had seen from the road. Five men were on stage making music, gospel to blues to bluegrass. All strings...acoustic guitar, slide guitar, bass guitar, banjo, and a fiddle.
One room over, though...that was the really special part to me. Thirteen locals were gathered for a jam session in the one-room over.
Three banjos.
Three guitars.
Two lap dulciimers.
Four fiddles.
One floor bass.
My god, they were awesome. They played old time music. It was like an old time symphony. I was tapping my toes and even danced a jig, adding my old time percussion.
But I noticed there were no mandolins.
Even now, over a week later, it makes me smile. It was perfect, even without a mandolin.
September 25, 2012
Perusals .....
I was perusing some of past blathering and came across something I posted on a forum on June 12, 2012.
I'm sharing that post below.
Why am I sharing this on my blog?
I don't know.
Maybe because the Knapp drama is coming full circle soon. At least I hope so.
So...below is what I posted elsewhere (with some edits for grammar, spelling, and maybe clarification).
******************
******************
{Begin my June 12, 2012 post on an online forum}
[Johnny Profane - John] Knapp recently started a discussion on his FB wall.
I don't converse with Knapp (and have no desire to without a third 'impartial' party present) and he has blocked me from seeing his FB wall, but still others have access. His wall is public to any member of FB.
The man is not honest.
He is a change artist.
But it is false change.
True change involves accountability.
He has lots of catching up to do in that category.
He'd need a new sets of books.
"Penny Thoughts"
I'll post below what I wrote in my journal on the fly after I initially read John's thread on FB linked above.
These were simply my initial thoughts, endeavoring to unspin Johnny webs for my own head. That is, my thoughts aren't an official critique...just thoughts out loud.
**********************
{Begin Johnny Profane's public statements and my journal entries to unspin Johnny webs from my head.}
[John Knapp's / Johnny Profane's public statements are in red.
My journal scribblings are in green.]
___________
[Johnny Profane-Johnmknapp had posted this link (Mysterious Buddhist Retreat in the Desert Ends in a Grisly Death) prefacing his comments.]
There is no such thing as a cult. But spiritual abuse happens in every human group.
J.P.
Not so Johnny boy. There are healthy human groups where spiritual abuse does not happen.
The established definition, guys, doesn't work. It's not recognized outside the anti-cult world for 3 very good reasons: Lifton's 'criteria' describe general behavior that happens in EVERY human group, there is no way to operationalize the definition so impartial observers define one group as a cult and another as not, the same sort of abuse claims may be made about any human group that survives long enough. I suggested for many years as a spiritual abuse counselor that we define the abuse operationally nd forget about labeling unpopular religions, political groups, and businesses as 'cults.' After some 40 years of anti-cult activism, if we don't have n operational definition of a 'cult,' it probably is no more likely to exist than Big Foot, Nessie, or the Easter Bunny.
But if you have a definition that can be operationalized for research, I'd love to learn about it.
J.P.
Don't know if it's not recognized outside the "anti-cult world" or not. If not, who are these people that don't recognize it? Who are the people that do recognize it? Of those that do, who is and who isn't part of the anti-cult world? Johnny needs to back up his statements.
Again, not EVERY human group lives up to Lifton's criteria. There are healthy human groups.
There is no such thing as an impartial observer; that does not exist in any field. People have biases and those biases play into their observations.
There is an operational definition or rather are operational definitions. As you have stated yourself in your previous writings (and referred to others' writings) cultic behavior happens on a continuum. Check out Dr. Langone's paper again on the usage of the term cult. Or check out Diekman's essay again.
As far as comparing whether or not a cult exist to the existence of the Easter Bunny or Lochness, I guess one could say the same about God? I mean, what is the operational definition of God? I guess it'd be creator. And one can go all sorts of directions from there.
A cult is a group of likeminded people that believe something that is non-conventional. At least that is my understanding of the word cult. From there we can go all sorts of directions. To say cults don't exist is nonsense.
Who says spiritual abuse exists? To some that term "spiritual abuse" would be hogwash. Would not a better way to state "spiritual abuse" be "emotional and psychological abuse in the name of God"?
So...for an operational definition: Would you really love to learn it? Bullshit. You're just placating & buttering any one who reads your forked-tongue speech.
[J.P. addresses a FB commenter] abusive groups and individuals certainly do exist!!! But the attempt to define some groups as 'cults' and some as legitimate fails. Can you tell me why Scientology is a cult but the Catholic Church is not?
J.P.
Yuppers Johnny, abusive groups and people exist. You are a fine example of such an individual.
The only way to answer your question regarding Scientology and the Catholic Church is for you to tell me what you mean by the word "cult."
[J.P. addresses a FB commenter], good discussion! Many, many see the Catholic Church as destructive-in many of the same ways that Scientology is accused of: psychological, financial, sexual, and physical abuse. Can you explain why Scientology is a 'destructive cult' but the Catholic Church is not? There are documented abuses-even systemic-in many if not most human groups-religious or not. I'm of the studied opinion that the 'cult' label-which nearly always means 'destructive' in contemporary times applies to so many groups it is meaningless. Abuse can be defined. But labeling a yoga group, for instance, as a cult is simply hurtful-and does not acknowledge the real problem, spiritual abuse. Abuse, and the damage and pain it causes, seems demonstrably real.
J.P.
So, what would your term be for a group that is abusive?
[J.P. addresses a FB commenter], I think in some ways you are arguing my point-even tho orgs like the ICSA insist that non-religious groups may also be labeled 'cults.' If everything can be labeled a cult, in the anti-cult movement sense-then nothing is a 'cult.' Why continue to use a word whose sole purpose appears to be used as hate speech?
J.P.
There you go again with the word "everything." Not everything can be labeled a cult. Where do you come up with that, Johnny? Where do you come up with the sole purpose of using a term to describe someone's experience in a group as "hate-speech"? Is it less "hateful" to call the group "a group that has exhibited abusive tactics?" What's the difference Johnny?
[J.P. addresses a FB commenter], I respect your experience. And the pain I suspect you went through. The problem is, I still have no idea of how to differentiate between a 'legitimate' group and a cult. Many would argue that the Catholic church, the Mormons, and non-religious groups meet the criteria for a cult as defined by the ICSA and similar anti-cult orgs. Do you have a definition that makes it clear which groups are 'cults' and which are not?
J.P.
Bullshit. Yes you do. You supposedly researched this field for years. You headed up your own non-profit that had healing culitic abuse right in the title.
Again, what term do you want to use to describe when a group (or faction of a group, or small circle within a group) exhibits abusive tactics? How do you define abusive tactics?
_____________
{End Johnny Profane's public statements and my journal entries to unspin Johnny webs from my head.}
{End my June 12, 2012 post on an online forum}
******************
******************
I'm sharing that post below.
Why am I sharing this on my blog?
I don't know.
Maybe because the Knapp drama is coming full circle soon. At least I hope so.
So...below is what I posted elsewhere (with some edits for grammar, spelling, and maybe clarification).
******************
******************
{Begin my June 12, 2012 post on an online forum}
[Johnny Profane - John] Knapp recently started a discussion on his FB wall.
I don't converse with Knapp (and have no desire to without a third 'impartial' party present) and he has blocked me from seeing his FB wall, but still others have access. His wall is public to any member of FB.
The man is not honest.
He is a change artist.
But it is false change.
True change involves accountability.
He has lots of catching up to do in that category.
He'd need a new sets of books.
"Penny Thoughts"
I'll post below what I wrote in my journal on the fly after I initially read John's thread on FB linked above.
These were simply my initial thoughts, endeavoring to unspin Johnny webs for my own head. That is, my thoughts aren't an official critique...just thoughts out loud.
**********************
{Begin Johnny Profane's public statements and my journal entries to unspin Johnny webs from my head.}
[John Knapp's / Johnny Profane's public statements are in red.
My journal scribblings are in green.]
___________
[Johnny Profane-Johnmknapp had posted this link (Mysterious Buddhist Retreat in the Desert Ends in a Grisly Death) prefacing his comments.]
There is no such thing as a cult. But spiritual abuse happens in every human group.
J.P.
Not so Johnny boy. There are healthy human groups where spiritual abuse does not happen.
The established definition, guys, doesn't work. It's not recognized outside the anti-cult world for 3 very good reasons: Lifton's 'criteria' describe general behavior that happens in EVERY human group, there is no way to operationalize the definition so impartial observers define one group as a cult and another as not, the same sort of abuse claims may be made about any human group that survives long enough. I suggested for many years as a spiritual abuse counselor that we define the abuse operationally nd forget about labeling unpopular religions, political groups, and businesses as 'cults.' After some 40 years of anti-cult activism, if we don't have n operational definition of a 'cult,' it probably is no more likely to exist than Big Foot, Nessie, or the Easter Bunny.
But if you have a definition that can be operationalized for research, I'd love to learn about it.
J.P.
Don't know if it's not recognized outside the "anti-cult world" or not. If not, who are these people that don't recognize it? Who are the people that do recognize it? Of those that do, who is and who isn't part of the anti-cult world? Johnny needs to back up his statements.
Again, not EVERY human group lives up to Lifton's criteria. There are healthy human groups.
There is no such thing as an impartial observer; that does not exist in any field. People have biases and those biases play into their observations.
There is an operational definition or rather are operational definitions. As you have stated yourself in your previous writings (and referred to others' writings) cultic behavior happens on a continuum. Check out Dr. Langone's paper again on the usage of the term cult. Or check out Diekman's essay again.
As far as comparing whether or not a cult exist to the existence of the Easter Bunny or Lochness, I guess one could say the same about God? I mean, what is the operational definition of God? I guess it'd be creator. And one can go all sorts of directions from there.
A cult is a group of likeminded people that believe something that is non-conventional. At least that is my understanding of the word cult. From there we can go all sorts of directions. To say cults don't exist is nonsense.
Who says spiritual abuse exists? To some that term "spiritual abuse" would be hogwash. Would not a better way to state "spiritual abuse" be "emotional and psychological abuse in the name of God"?
So...for an operational definition: Would you really love to learn it? Bullshit. You're just placating & buttering any one who reads your forked-tongue speech.
[J.P. addresses a FB commenter] abusive groups and individuals certainly do exist!!! But the attempt to define some groups as 'cults' and some as legitimate fails. Can you tell me why Scientology is a cult but the Catholic Church is not?
J.P.
Yuppers Johnny, abusive groups and people exist. You are a fine example of such an individual.
The only way to answer your question regarding Scientology and the Catholic Church is for you to tell me what you mean by the word "cult."
[J.P. addresses a FB commenter], good discussion! Many, many see the Catholic Church as destructive-in many of the same ways that Scientology is accused of: psychological, financial, sexual, and physical abuse. Can you explain why Scientology is a 'destructive cult' but the Catholic Church is not? There are documented abuses-even systemic-in many if not most human groups-religious or not. I'm of the studied opinion that the 'cult' label-which nearly always means 'destructive' in contemporary times applies to so many groups it is meaningless. Abuse can be defined. But labeling a yoga group, for instance, as a cult is simply hurtful-and does not acknowledge the real problem, spiritual abuse. Abuse, and the damage and pain it causes, seems demonstrably real.
J.P.
So, what would your term be for a group that is abusive?
[J.P. addresses a FB commenter], I think in some ways you are arguing my point-even tho orgs like the ICSA insist that non-religious groups may also be labeled 'cults.' If everything can be labeled a cult, in the anti-cult movement sense-then nothing is a 'cult.' Why continue to use a word whose sole purpose appears to be used as hate speech?
J.P.
There you go again with the word "everything." Not everything can be labeled a cult. Where do you come up with that, Johnny? Where do you come up with the sole purpose of using a term to describe someone's experience in a group as "hate-speech"? Is it less "hateful" to call the group "a group that has exhibited abusive tactics?" What's the difference Johnny?
[J.P. addresses a FB commenter], I respect your experience. And the pain I suspect you went through. The problem is, I still have no idea of how to differentiate between a 'legitimate' group and a cult. Many would argue that the Catholic church, the Mormons, and non-religious groups meet the criteria for a cult as defined by the ICSA and similar anti-cult orgs. Do you have a definition that makes it clear which groups are 'cults' and which are not?
J.P.
Bullshit. Yes you do. You supposedly researched this field for years. You headed up your own non-profit that had healing culitic abuse right in the title.
Again, what term do you want to use to describe when a group (or faction of a group, or small circle within a group) exhibits abusive tactics? How do you define abusive tactics?
_____________
{End Johnny Profane's public statements and my journal entries to unspin Johnny webs from my head.}
{End my June 12, 2012 post on an online forum}
******************
******************
September 19, 2012
It All Matters
aww ~ september 19, 2012
non-subject: where nothing matters
*************
September, 2012.
I feel depressed today, but not suicidal depressed.
I feel just at the start of a down cycle.
I seldom continue on the down cycle anymore.
I know this feeling will cease; it always ceases.
August, 1999.
I lay curled in a fetal position on the floor in the corner of my bedroom.
My middle-school-aged daughter was at camp; I don't recall now where my son was.
I was a despicable hunk of flesh, good for nothing.
I was a burden; a moron.
I was a terrible human being; a wart on the Body of Christ.
I was a horrible mother, a horrible wife.
I alternated laying curled and then sitting and rocking.
The berating and whipping my soul were continuous.
I couldn't stop the tears.
I lay contemplating my method of suicide.
My method involved drowning.
In this condo where we now lived in August, 1999, we had a garden tub.
The water would be plenty deep in the garden tub.
In my mind I saw myself floating, dead in the garden tub.
I saw my children finding my dead body floating in the garden tub.
My gut and heart churned at the image.
My gut and heart contorted in pain.
"No, I can't do that to my children."
"Other children survive worse Carol."
"No, I will not do that to my children."
My children were my stop gap.
Somehow I managed to pick up the phone and call my doctor's office.
My doctor was summoned to his end of the receiver.
"It's Carol." My voice was low and guttural. "I want to kill myself. I'm such a piece of garbage."
The tears poured.
I told my self to breathe.
I was afraid.
I don't recall now what all my doctor said, but it must have helped.
He talked me into a prescription for Xanax; it'd be a low dose.
I wouldn't take it all the time; it's addictive.
But we could try it as a stop gap.
It would maybe help me.
I was already taking Zoloft at the time.
The doctor called my husband who worked an hour away.
My husband drove home, in route picking up the Xanax.
I took the Xanax and fell asleep.
non-subject: where nothing matters
*************
September, 2012.
I feel depressed today, but not suicidal depressed.
I feel just at the start of a down cycle.
I seldom continue on the down cycle anymore.
I know this feeling will cease; it always ceases.
August, 1999.
I lay curled in a fetal position on the floor in the corner of my bedroom.
My middle-school-aged daughter was at camp; I don't recall now where my son was.
I was a despicable hunk of flesh, good for nothing.
I was a burden; a moron.
I was a terrible human being; a wart on the Body of Christ.
I was a horrible mother, a horrible wife.
I alternated laying curled and then sitting and rocking.
The berating and whipping my soul were continuous.
I couldn't stop the tears.
I lay contemplating my method of suicide.
My method involved drowning.
In this condo where we now lived in August, 1999, we had a garden tub.
The water would be plenty deep in the garden tub.
In my mind I saw myself floating, dead in the garden tub.
I saw my children finding my dead body floating in the garden tub.
My gut and heart churned at the image.
My gut and heart contorted in pain.
"No, I can't do that to my children."
"Other children survive worse Carol."
"No, I will not do that to my children."
My children were my stop gap.
Somehow I managed to pick up the phone and call my doctor's office.
My doctor was summoned to his end of the receiver.
"It's Carol." My voice was low and guttural. "I want to kill myself. I'm such a piece of garbage."
The tears poured.
I told my self to breathe.
I was afraid.
I don't recall now what all my doctor said, but it must have helped.
He talked me into a prescription for Xanax; it'd be a low dose.
I wouldn't take it all the time; it's addictive.
But we could try it as a stop gap.
It would maybe help me.
I was already taking Zoloft at the time.
The doctor called my husband who worked an hour away.
My husband drove home, in route picking up the Xanax.
I took the Xanax and fell asleep.
September 13, 2012
Leaves & Versions of Reality
authentic writing phone group, 9/12/12
my cell phone in a sun room on benton creek, 7:45 pm
non-subject:an alternative version reality
***
If a leaf could think, what would be its version of reality?
If the leaf hung high on a tree, the ground below would loom large and vast; that is, if the leaf could see beyond the leaves located below its own perch.
If the leaf hung low on the tree, the ground would not seem as vast as if the leaf were higher. The low leaf's field of vision would be more limited than the higher leaf.
At one time in The Way Ministry, followers were called "leaves."
One of the Ministry's bands at the time, Pressed Down Shaken Together And Running Over, wrote and performed a song entitled I Am A Leaf. Part of the words in the chorus were, "I am a leaf, on a mighty tree..."
I liked the song. It was tender.
Leaves are tender, in the sense that a leaf can tear easily. Leaves are strong in the sense that they cling to their twigs and branches when winds are forceful.
We, as individual followers of The Way, were Leaves on The Way Tree.
The Household Fellowships were known as Twigs.
A group of Twigs formed a Branch.
A group of Branches formed a Limb. Typically one US state comprised a Limb, such as the Limb of North Carolina, or the Limb of Wisconsin, or the Limb of Ohio.
An entire country was called a Trunk.
The Roots of the Ministry were only at Ministry locations.
We called them Root Locales.
The main Root Locale was Headquarters in New Knoxville, Ohio.
The Root at Headquarters is where the Research Department was located.
Headquarters is where Doctor lived, and where Craig lived, and where the top leadership lived.
Headquarters is where the Word was worked, where Doctor and the research team intensely dug into the greatness of the Word.
From Headquarters, the greatness of God's accurate Word sounded out around the world.
All together, we, the Household of believers, were The Way Tree.
In nature, a leaf gets its nourishment from the tree on which it grows and from the tree's roots and ultimately from the the soil in which those roots are grounded.
Leaves need sunshine.
A healthy branch produces fruit.
If a branch is not producing fruit and is damaged, sometimes its best to cut off the branch to help the rest of the tree.
In The Way there were two genre of fruit.
One genre was the fruit of the spirit listed in the book of Galatians in the Bible. Love. Joy. Peace. Longsuffering. Gentleness. Goodness. Believing. Meekness. Self-control.
The other genre of fruit were new people, recruits - new Leaves on the mighty Tree.
I recall when Rev. Martindale, the second president of The Way, criticized Pressed Down's song; he made fun of it.
I recall him boldly proclaiming something like, "Who wants to be called a 'leaf!?'"
It seems he thought it was silly.
It felt like Martindale thought we, the Household of Believers, had grown beyond the "Tree" terminology.
At the time I felt badly for Pressed Down; it was like their poetry was being axed by the Man of God.
But I didn't voice my feeling; I suppressed it.
I needed to grow up too.
I was to renew my mind, "casting down imaginations and every high thing that exalteth itself against the knowledge of God".
I was "to be subject unto the higher powers."
The Ministry had grown more mature.
The Ministry wasn't for everyone; it was for those who were truly seeking an accurate knowledge of the Word; it was for the committed believer, the disciple.
Sometime during his reign as second president of The Way, Martindale had the Household of The Way quit using the metaphor of a tree and its parts.
During Martindale's tenure, The Way Tree became almost a stump.
It's very small now in comparison to what it once was.
It was mostly a lie anyway.
***
Click here to listen to I Am A Leaf by Pressed Down: Link to I Am A Leaf
Click here for more of Pressed Down's music: Link to more music
my cell phone in a sun room on benton creek, 7:45 pm
non-subject:an alternative version reality
***
If a leaf could think, what would be its version of reality?
If the leaf hung high on a tree, the ground below would loom large and vast; that is, if the leaf could see beyond the leaves located below its own perch.
If the leaf hung low on the tree, the ground would not seem as vast as if the leaf were higher. The low leaf's field of vision would be more limited than the higher leaf.
At one time in The Way Ministry, followers were called "leaves."
One of the Ministry's bands at the time, Pressed Down Shaken Together And Running Over, wrote and performed a song entitled I Am A Leaf. Part of the words in the chorus were, "I am a leaf, on a mighty tree..."
I liked the song. It was tender.
Leaves are tender, in the sense that a leaf can tear easily. Leaves are strong in the sense that they cling to their twigs and branches when winds are forceful.
We, as individual followers of The Way, were Leaves on The Way Tree.
The Household Fellowships were known as Twigs.
A group of Twigs formed a Branch.
A group of Branches formed a Limb. Typically one US state comprised a Limb, such as the Limb of North Carolina, or the Limb of Wisconsin, or the Limb of Ohio.
An entire country was called a Trunk.
The Roots of the Ministry were only at Ministry locations.
We called them Root Locales.
The main Root Locale was Headquarters in New Knoxville, Ohio.
The Root at Headquarters is where the Research Department was located.
Headquarters is where Doctor lived, and where Craig lived, and where the top leadership lived.
Headquarters is where the Word was worked, where Doctor and the research team intensely dug into the greatness of the Word.
From Headquarters, the greatness of God's accurate Word sounded out around the world.
All together, we, the Household of believers, were The Way Tree.
In nature, a leaf gets its nourishment from the tree on which it grows and from the tree's roots and ultimately from the the soil in which those roots are grounded.
Leaves need sunshine.
A healthy branch produces fruit.
If a branch is not producing fruit and is damaged, sometimes its best to cut off the branch to help the rest of the tree.
In The Way there were two genre of fruit.
One genre was the fruit of the spirit listed in the book of Galatians in the Bible. Love. Joy. Peace. Longsuffering. Gentleness. Goodness. Believing. Meekness. Self-control.
The other genre of fruit were new people, recruits - new Leaves on the mighty Tree.
I recall when Rev. Martindale, the second president of The Way, criticized Pressed Down's song; he made fun of it.
I recall him boldly proclaiming something like, "Who wants to be called a 'leaf!?'"
It seems he thought it was silly.
It felt like Martindale thought we, the Household of Believers, had grown beyond the "Tree" terminology.
At the time I felt badly for Pressed Down; it was like their poetry was being axed by the Man of God.
But I didn't voice my feeling; I suppressed it.
I needed to grow up too.
I was to renew my mind, "casting down imaginations and every high thing that exalteth itself against the knowledge of God".
I was "to be subject unto the higher powers."
The Ministry had grown more mature.
The Ministry wasn't for everyone; it was for those who were truly seeking an accurate knowledge of the Word; it was for the committed believer, the disciple.
Sometime during his reign as second president of The Way, Martindale had the Household of The Way quit using the metaphor of a tree and its parts.
During Martindale's tenure, The Way Tree became almost a stump.
It's very small now in comparison to what it once was.
It was mostly a lie anyway.
***
Click here to listen to I Am A Leaf by Pressed Down: Link to I Am A Leaf
Click here for more of Pressed Down's music: Link to more music