Swish, Swoosh

non-subject: silence
aww ~ 2/26/14
****

I wonder how dark was the night before light pollution?
I've read that Venus used to cast shadows upon the earth.
That no longer happens; too much artificial light now illuminates the night.

I wonder how quiet was the earth before the hum of electricity?
I recently read about a room where a person can sit and hear their own heart beat.
Complete silence must be eerie; complete silence exists only in a vacuum.

I wonder if our senses have become muted or mutated as we have modernized?
With so many tiny noises droning 24/7, is our acuteness in hearing more or less or the same compared to predrone?

I wonder if our vibrational sense, our intuitive sense, has become garbled due to the internet information airwaves?
Does all that information bouncing from earth to towers to satellites and back again, does it somehow clog any natural, vibrational, intuitive-type, information airwaves, if such a thing exists?

If we could physically see all these internet-information-highway-communication airwaves swirling around us all day and all night, what would we see? Tangled knots or harmony?

Large waves.
Small waves.
Almost flat waves.
Choppy waves.
Circular waves.

All sizes of waves, crisscrossing everywhere around us, all the time.

I wonder if we humans detect these waves, with an energetic sense?
Beginning around 2001, I would regularly ponder, If man can make devices that communicate information through the air; surely God designed us with some sort of sense to do the same. That's not such a far-fetched concept, is it?

I wonder if all these waves affect our animal brothers and sisters?
I wonder if our animal friends can physically see any of our man-made-internet-communication airwaves?

Silly thoughts, maybe; but I do wonder.

Under water is the most quiet place I have experienced.
The same cannot be said for our marine animal friends; they hear things we cannot.
I've read that we modern humans have developed deadly, submarine sounds.

I don't enjoy swimming on the water's surface, but I do like swimming under water.
At times I've wished that my body could grow gills and fins and transparent eyelids so I could swim under water as long as I desired.

At one time my developing body did possess something like gills; my limbs were webbed buds; my eyes were covered with a transparent film.
I was encased in a nurturing womb.
I wonder if I heard any deadly sounds?

Dancing Giraffes

Beginning sometime in the 1990s and up until 2006, I wrote goals on a monthly and weekly basis.
Maybe it's time to start again; maybe.

**********

February, 25, 2014

"What can I get for you today?" The barista's friendly smile shines; her genuine desire to serve comes through clearly in her voice and demeanor. I always feel welcome here.

"Well I first want to transfer this Gift Card to my Gold Card," I reply.

"We can do that,"she energetically responds.

I hand her both cards, and she transfers the invisible money from the $50 Gift Card to my Starbucks Reward Gold Card. I received the free $50 Gift Card in the mail this week from Discover. Every couple months I redeem my Discover Credit Card "cash back rewards" turning my $45 reward into $50. I like this free money that credit cards started paying to their members some years back.

I order an Americana Coffee with steamed soy and a Spinach Savory Square.

Once they are ready, I carry my coffee and pastry to the round table outside where I had lain my leather book satchel. Though there is a chill in the air, I want to enjoy the last bit of sunshine for the day.

Most folks would probably call my leather book satchel a shoulder purse. But I'm not a purse person; I carry a hip pack instead of a purse.

My leather satchel was a gift from Hubby. He bought it for me on one of his trips to Nicaragua. He always buys something from the Nicaraguan artisans when he visits there. This fine leather piece was introduced to him by one of his Nicaraguan friends.

I look through my satchel.

• One 8-1/2-by-11-inch, 250-page, peacock-feather-colored, hard-bound sketch book
• One tin of 24 Faber-Castel colored pencils
• One plastic zip-lock baggie with different colored pens
• A second plastic zip-lock baggie with pencils, a pencil sharpener, small scissors, a tiny stapler, a staple remover, paper clips
• A third plastic zip-lock baggie with empathy-emotion regulation cards; and a rainbow-colored, life-balance, mindful-meditation yantra wheel 
• One mindfulness-meditation manual
• Two 10-by-7-1/2 inch tan-colored, soft-bound Moleskin journals
• One 10-by-7-1/2 inch purple-colored, soft-bound journal
• One 8-1/2-by-11-inch, tattered, green project folder

I retrieve a pen from the zip-lock pen-baggie. I pull out the purple journal and turn to the next blank page. I peruse the last entry.

"September 23, 2013." Over five months ago. I remember writing this while sitting at a cement picnic table in the woods at Rocky Knob in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

I write today's date and time and place: "February, 25, 2014. Starbucks on Robinhood. 5:15ish PM."

I scribble my meandering thoughts. It dawns upon me that since my last visit to this particular journal, I'm not living in the pain I had been. Though I'm still fatigued, I don't have the extreme fatigue I suffered before. But I am less fit now than I was in September.

From my satchel I pull out the 8-1/2-by-11-inch tattered, green project folder. On the front cover is a white stick-on label with the word "Goals" written from my pen on the label. I open the folder.

On the inside flap of each cover is a pocket. In each of the pockets, written by my pen on loose leaf paper, are goals and life mission statements dating back as far as 1996.

In the middle of the folder, three brad clasps combine loose leaf notebook paper on which, over a decade ago, I'd begun an index for my my then-journals. One of my many unfinished and probably never-to-be-finished projects.

I see-saw back and forth perusing my past goals and then scratching out my current thoughts in my purple journal.
I pause and ponder and sip my coffee and finish eating my pastry.
I notice a lone black bird soaring high in the crystal blue sky.
Beyond the bird, much higher and more distant, a white contrail leaves its wake in the blue.

Such a contrast, the bird and the jet.
Birds nor jets write goals; they just soar.

I turn my attention back to my past scribblings...

"September, 2003.
...I am a tall, graceful giraffe.
From my perspective the view is fine.
I can see to the left, to the right, behind, and ahead.
I love to move, especially run.
I love to stretch.
I stretch to the tallest limbs for my nourishment.
I am aware and observant.
I am open and free....

...Every day is a day to dance.
Every day is a day to commune.
Every day is a day to listen...to what is said and to what is not said.
Every day is a day to itself and I determine to dance for that day.
As I teach my children to love themselves, I teach me to love myself...."

The Authority...

Initially I blamed myself for Professioinal's verbal and psychological harms toward me.
As is my manner, I gave him the benefit of the doubt, including when he blatantly lied to me; after all he is human and makes errors.

And he was the authority in the field of emotional wellness.

His cognitive-based, task-centered, client-focused therapy approach was about as objective as one can get in the mental health field.
He had written many excellent articles on spiritual and emotional abuse, on recovery, on re-discovery.
He'd been quoted, interviewed, referred to multiple times by people in his specialized field.
He had years of counseling experience with, what he claimed, thousands of people.
He had the knowledge.
He had the schooling.
He had the official License.

In our counseling sessions, his tone of voice, his words, his ideas all conveyed balance and understanding.
Surely, his expertise about me outweighed my expertise about myself.

Yet, in a culminating instant, I became a traitor.

According to Professional's words...
I was the dishonest one.
I was the one who destroyed our friendship.
I was the one who had no compassion toward Professional's dilemma.
I was the one who was unable to carry on an intelligent dialog.
I was the one who alleged hidden motives toward Professional.
I was the one disrespecting boundaries.
I was the one who betrayed him.
I was not trustworthy on any level.

Professional's words were daggers plunged into my heart and then twisted - back and forth, back and forth.

Yes, I was the one to blame.
Yes, it was my fault.

I became non-worthy of communication.
Professional wanted nothing to do with someone so despicable and untrustworthy as I.
Neither could I any longer participate in the support group where I'd been a founding member, and I couldn't even tell the other members why.

I was like garbage, a throw-away.
Not even worthy of recycling.

A vortex opened wide and tried to suck me in and swallow me.
Had I chosen to not speak up, I may have become digestive stew.

******
Daggers
(A poem written on August 2, 2010)

Had a hard day today
A friendship died
And I'm very confused as to why or how

I endeavored to open the door
To talk, to understand
But the door was shut with my face in it

It hurt

Apparently I am responsible for the death
The friend told me
"You destroyed our friendship"

And I don't even know how I committed the murder

I never want to burden a friend
With the responsibility that they need to defend me
I don't make a good defense barrier

Maybe that means I am a rotten friend
Maybe I can't be trusted
And now my heart wonders

Can it trust itself again


08/02/10

..I am stunned by it all. I feel raw and numb at the same time. It will take some time to not shake inside. That shake that comes when I feel I can't trust myself.

****

(Daggers, which includes some added context, was initially posted on Parchment Anthology in August, 2010.)

Licensing Board Ruling

I wrote Part One to a series I might finish and might not. I entitled the maybe-to-be-continued series, The News.

But, I don't know if I'll get around to the rest of the installments, however many there might be. I seem to excel at starting things I don't finish. I think I need a clone...and more energy. That said, there are projects and contributions I do finish.

The News, if I ever continue the series, is in regard to receiving the news from New York State about the Licensing Board's ruling on John M. Knapp, my former mental health therapist who specialized in cult-recovery on whom I filed an official complaint in late September, 2010. It's a long, complex story...like most life stories. It is a narrative I never imagined I would experience...like so many life narratives.

Lately, as I've moved through each day, I've had the thought, "You are still alive...today. You have made it this far. That's quite an accomplishment." There are no guarantees that any of us will see the next moment. I think this reality must hit home more clearly as we humans age. I wonder if other animals have a similar sense?

The NYS Licensing Board made its ruling on January 14, 2014. I learned about the ruling on January 15, 2014. The ruling was made public by the State Board sometime during the week of February 10, 2014.

The Ruling (link): John Knapp was found guilty of professional misconduct; including negligence, incompetence, on more than one occasion, and unprofessional conduct. His license was revoked.





As the news has gotten around, I've received some comments of "congratulation" from folks who have been aware of or were involved with the Knapp fiasco. I understand the "congratulatory" sentiments and appreciate them. But, for me, when I received the news, I did not nor do I now feel any sort of congratulatory sentiment. It wasn't "feel good" news. In fact, I felt dirty when I got the news. I wrote a blog piece the day I received the news expressing part of how I felt as the news settled in.

In this piece I'm typing at this moment, I had thought to try to share some of the emotions I've gone through in regard to this entire scenario...emotions involved probably for anyone that blows a whistle, as small as my whistle was in comparison to much bigger whistles.

But now, as I'm typing, I realize I won't get that far with this blog piece which I'll entitle Licensing Board Ruling. Perhaps the rambling thoughts about the series of emotions and thoughts that trickle through and avalanche upon a whistle blower will come out later. I would like to get them down on paper at some point, my thoughts without reading what others have written about whistle blowers.

I never wanted to be in a situation to blow a whistle. It's not fun...at least not for me and I doubt for anyone who blows a whistle.

Here is a link to a blog post written by Monica Pignotti, PhD, announcing Knapp's license revocation: Update: John Knapp’s NYS Social Work License Revoked.

RIP Little Big Man...

Little Big Man was found yesterday, 2/20/14, lying on the ground at Grayson Highlands State Park, Virginia. His breath had passed from him, his heart completely silent.

Photo by Elizabeth Wegmann 

Some of my favorite photos of the Highland ponies are found on Elizabeth Wegmann's Photography Facebook page. My current favorite album that Elizabeth has posted depicts Little Big Man and Fabio, two lead pony stallions for two Highland herds, declaring their territories, displaying their strength. Fabio has been around the Highlands for years. Little Big Man was new at the time. That album can be found here: Fabio and Little Big Man Confront Each Other

Click here to see Elizabeth's album tribute to Little Big Man himself: Little Big Man RIP

Photo & caption by Elizabeth Wegmann

From my understanding Little Big Man was new to the Highlands; this was his first winter there and a tough winter it has been. I don't know where he lived before the Highlands. I spoke to and photographed and briefly videoed Little Big Man in January, 2014. I've included my couple photos below; I haven't yet figured out the how-to of transferring videos from my iPhone to elsewhere.

I'm thankful I got to meet you, Little Big Man. You will be missed and your freedom remembered.

Little Big Man, January 20, 2014

<3 Sun Was Surely Sinking Down, January 20, 2014 <3

The News, I

On January 15, 2014, I check my email updates on my iPhone.

One of the email subject lines reads, "I have news about the case where you testified in ALBANY." The sender is the New York State Prosecutor that worked the licensing case regarding John Knapp, my former mental health therapist who had specialized in cult-recovery.

I had been having a great day. The sky was clear. I was still feeling well physically from the epidural injections a week prior. Hubby and I had spent a wonderful evening the day before with my daughter and her boyfriend celebrating Daughter's twenty-sixth birthday. Life was good.

But upon reading the subject line, my stomach becomes queasy, my hands begin to tremble. I swallow back the queasiness bypassing the lump in my throat.

God. Here it is. Why am I responding like this; I haven't even opened the email. Carol, this is probably a normal response. Just open the email. What can the worst be? That the state ruled he is totally innocent? What if that's the case? Does it change any of the facts? Can you handle if that is the ruling?

I don't open the email right away. Instead I greet my dachshund friends to take them for their midday walk, my hands trembling and tears now trickling.

"Hey Jasper-doo and Isabelle. How are my buddies?" I ask in my doggy voice which is similar to my little child voice.

Jas & Bellie respond with delight. Tails wagging, bodies dancing in circles. We are good friends. They seem to understand my trembling as they patiently await their collar buckling.

I accidentally put the wrong collar on Jasper and then put on his correct collar. Now he has on two collars. "I'm sorry Jas. Thanks for being patient," I say as I remove the wrong collar and put it on Isabelle, hands still trembling and tears trickling.

Before we exit the door, I click on my iPhone and its magical screen illuminates. I click the email app. I open the dreaded email.

It reads:
"Can you email me back and let me know when and where I could call you? I am at work between 9:30 am and 3:30 pm."
It is signed with the prosecutor's name and phone number. The current time is around 2:00 pm.

In the previous couple years the prosecutor and I had communicated by phone, by email, and face-to-face when I served as a witness for the State in the Licensing Board hearing regarding Knapp. Her communications were always direct and professional and short. It was good to meet her face-to-face at the hearing. I saw her smile and picked up her genuine concern for people and for truth.

After reading the email, the tears increase, the tremor continues. The queasiness in my tummy subsides and my heart slightly races. My adrenal function kicks in. The lump continues in my throat.

Okay Carol, get a hold of yourself, I thought as Jas and Bellie and I proceed out into the beautiful, sunny, cool, Carolina-blue-sky January day.

Hikers Only, IV

January 27, 2014

I proceed with cautious awareness, the dark lifeless house off to my upper right and pine trees on my left. The two eyes shining through the night approach me slowly from the rear of the house and then stop at a safe distance to observe this odd one-shining-eyed-creature crunching through the woods on two organic legs assisted by two steel trekking poles. I am able to recognize that the eyes belong to a domestic cat and not a dog. I am relieved but still approach with caution.

I see some cement cinder blocks and wooden pallets in the yard. I think to myself, Oh boy, a typical backwoods North Carolina yard. Who knows what kind of rusty things might be strewn about. As I make my way through the yard art, my headlamp picks up some barbed wire right at my shin level. I carefully step over it. The hood of my green parka, which hangs down my back side, catches a barb. I attentively detach it. All the while I make Mike aware of my surroundings. He continues to respond, his voice and tone supportive and reassuring as it pipes through my Bluetooth earpiece.

"I see what looks like a gravel driveway," I inform Mike.

"Excellent! You're not far from the road now. Just follow the driveway about 1/4-mile and you should be at the road. We have a ranger on the way to meet you."

"Okay. Will do. My phone is down to 3%," I respond.

Mike and I chat as I follow the gravel driveway. It ascends up a small hill and curves to the right and then back to the left.

The trees part and the sky opens. It's a crystal clear night; stars dot the black abyss above me. The wind has picked up and sings its mysterious call of the wild, though I'm not really in the wild.

"I see the road...and a mailbox!" I exclaim into my Bluetooth voice piece. A few more yards and I'm able to read the number on the mailbox. "Number 400," I let Mike know.

"Bravo! That's right where we want you to be. The ranger is about fifteen minutes out. Just wait at the mailbox. I'll stay with you until he gets there or your phone dies, whichever happens first."

Within seconds of the word "first," my phone goes black.

I stand beside the mailbox at the edge of the country blacktop road staring at the stars, listening to the howl of the cold wind. I pull up my green parka and slide my arms into the sleeves. I recall 31 years ago as Stan and I hitchhiked across the Texas Panhandle; we stood at the side of the highway in the wee morning nighttime hours gazing across the barren plain listening to the wind drone as it pushed tumbleweeds in the cold November air of 1982. There were no cell phones, much less iPhones, then.

After ten minutes, headlights approach. I make sure the driver can see my headlamp. The vehicle is a white SUV with an emblem on the side door. It's the Park Ranger. The vehicle stops and I climb in.

"Hey. Good to see you. I'm Josh," the Ranger cordially introduces himself.

"Hi," I respond. "Gooood to see you too. I'm Carol."

Josh gets on his radio and lets Mike at the Communication Center know that I'm in the vehicle and am fine.

"Can Mike please call my husband and let him know I'm safe?" I inquire.

"Sure thing," Josh responds.

After Josh disconnects from Mike I express my embarrassment and gratitude. "I'm so sorry about this and so embarrassed I got lost. I've hiked Mountain Trail something like fifteen times. Thanks for coming out and getting me."

"No problem at all," Josh responds. "I apologize that the trail isn't marked better. We have about one person every month that gets lost in that area. That's why we are blazing a new trail. The way that trail is now, a hiker can barely distinguish the current trail from the rest of the forest, and the red dots are fading."

I don't mention to Josh that I did hike part of the new trail being blazed and that I don't like it as well as the old trail.

As Josh drives, we chat about hiking and the weather. I don't recognize the blacktop road we are on. It is not the road where the gravel, horse-unloading, parking lot is located.

"I'm glad you were able to make your way out of the woods," he says. "The temperature is dropping quickly and snow is coming in later tonight. Again, I'm sorry for that trail being in rough shape. We are doing our best to get it up to par."

"I appreciate all the work you Rangers do. And again, I'm sorry for getting lost," I respond. Both of us are owning our responsibilities. If only the world at large would do the same, we could have peace on earth.

After a few turns on the country roads and a few minutes we arrive at my 1999 gray Ford Explorer affectionately named Edward, parked on the side of the road near the horse-unloading area, alone in the dark, awaiting my arrival.

"Before you get out, I need to get some information," Josh says.

"Sure," I respond expecting Josh to pull out a computerized tablet or a pad filled with eight-and-a-half-by-eleven-inch official forms. But instead he pulls out a three-by-five-inch top spiral notepad with its lined paper and a pen from his shirt pocket.

No official forms.
No computerized tablet.
Just good ole pen and paper.

My heart warms and smiles, feeling a certain connection to the past, a type of comfort almost - before cell phones; before computerized tablets; before complex, detailed record keeping. For a moment, time seems to stand still.

Josh writes down my information in his small pocket notepad.
We exchange cordial good-byes, thank yous, and well wishes.

I exit the official State Park SUV.
I unlock Edward with its remote control and open the back hatch.
I place my trekking poles over the blankets and other items strewn about Edward's cargo area.
I close the hatch and walk around the left side of Edward.
I open the door, climb into the driver's seat, and plug my iPhone into its car-phone charger.

****
Click below for Parts I through III:
Hikers Only, I
Hikers Only, II
Hikers Only, III
****

Hikers Only, III

Monday, January 27, 2014

The sun had set.
Dusk had risen.
Darkness was on the horizon.

I stood on the side of the mountain having lost the trail, feeling so very stupid. Carol, how could you be so dumb?!?

With my iPhone, I had called the Ranger Station to inform them I had lost the trail. I called three times. No answer.

Dang it. I need to call 911. After I get hold of someone, I'll text Hubby and let him know. The power on my smart phone read "22%."

On my iPhone screen, I tap "911" and tap "Call." A female voice comes into my right ear through my Bluetooth earpiece, "911. What's your emergency?"

I respond, "Hi. I've lost a trail on the south side of Pilot Mountain."

"Okay. Are you in any danger?"

"No, not in any danger. I have water and proper clothes and my head lamp. I called the Ranger Station, but there was no answer. My cell phone has 22% power left."

"Do you know if you are on the Surry or Yadkin County side of the Park?"

"No, I don't know. I was on Mountain Trail which comes out at the road where the parking lot is for horses."

"Okay. We'll get you out. I'm trying to get a lock on your phone. I'm going to call Surry County since we're not yet sure which county you are in. I'll keep you on the line while I call."

While the female operator is getting in touch with Surry County, I try to access my text ability on my phone to send Hubby a message. Usually I can access it while on a phone call. But, on the 911 call, I can access nothing except 911.

"Hello, mam?" the female voice is back. "I have Surry County on the phone with us now."

"Hi Miss Welch. What trail were you on?" the man from Surry County inquires.

"I was on Mountain Trail. It's not in the main park at Pilot Mountain. It goes down to the parking lot where horses are unloaded."

"Hmm. Are you near Canal Trail?"

"No, not that I know of. I've never heard of Canal Trail."

The male operator and I speak for a moment about my possible location. His name is Mike.

"Okay we have a lock on her phone," the female operator from Yadkin County chimes in. "You are in Surry County Miss Welch, so Mike will take it from here. Good luck!"

"Thank you!" I reply.

"Okay, I have you on my radar, and I see where you are. Do you have a compass?" Mike asks.

"No. Only on my iPhone, but I can't access anything except the 911 call."

"Do you know which direction is south?"

"Yes; I'm pretty sure."

"Okay. Head south."

"Yes sir. Will do."

Mike is kind as we chat on the phone and I share with him how stupid I feel, that I've hiked this trail around fifteen times. He responds that it can happen to the best of hikers reassuring me not to feel embarrassed. But I still feel embarrassed.

"Is there a way you can call my husband and let him know you have me on my cell?"

"Absolutely. What's his name and number?"

I give Mike Hubby's name and cell phone number. I hear Mike speak with someone else in the communication room. The someone else calls Hubby.

"Okay, we got in touch with your husband. He's on his way from Statesville to Winston. I let him know we'll update him and that you are in good hands and that we are going to get you through the woods."

"Thanks."

"Now, as you head south you are going to come up on a wide open area," Mike directs me.

"Okay, I'm not there yet. My power is down to 18%."

"No problem. We are going to get you out of there before you run out of power. I'm trying to get another lock on your phone."

We chat as I hike through the darkness and layers of leaves. While my headlamp illuminates the forest trees, I look for any of the red dots that mark the trail. How can there be no red dots? I'm still in wonderment that I lost the trail.

Mike is cordial as we talk about hiking and the woods. He is keeping me company. I feel I'm in good hands. I don't have any fear really; I know that I'm not that far from the road. I'm also keenly aware how easy it is for a hiker to lose her bearings and end up going in circles, especially in the dark.

After another fifteen minutes Mike gets a lock on my location.

"Okay, I have a lock on your phone again. You are headed in the exact direction I want you to go. Good job! You aren't too far from the open field. Just keep going south."

After a couple more minutes, I spy the field.

"I see it!" letting Mike know. "I know this field. The trail is to the east over the big mounds of dirt. But I'll not try to find it, I'll keep heading south."

I am tempted to hike over the humps to find the trail; I'm still embarrassed that I lost the trail and I know it's just on the other side of the humps. I abandon the temptation quickly. Plus, I wonder if there might be rusty barbed wire hiding in the hump-brush that may surprise my shin. My headlamp can't pick up everything in sight though my trekking poles would probably hit any wire before my shin would hit. I stick with my southbound, unmarked route with Mike as my guide.

I walk out of the field and into some thick brush. I move my head up and down scanning my headlamp over the ground and the space in front of my body.

"My phone is at 10% now," I inform Mike.

"We got you," Mike responds. "We'll get you out before you lose power," he reassures me again. "You are going to come up on another big wide open area in a few minutes. It's a bigger field that the previous one."

"Okay." We continue to chat as I head south for another ten minutes.

"I see it!" I approach the next field and come upon a large steel gate with wires three tiers high behind the gate and continuing around the field attached to posts. I inform Mike, "It's gated and has an electric fence that looks well maintained. The fence is three wires high. I can't get over it without risking touching the electric fence."

"Okay. Turn to the right. Stay as close to the fence as you can. You are going to come up on a house. We have been calling the house to let them know a hiker is approaching from the woods, but we've not been able to get an answer."

"Will do. I don't want anyone coming out with a shot gun." I stop momentarily to retrieve my whistle from my hip pack. My black referee whistle hangs on a thick red-twine necklace. I place the necklace over my head and around my neck.

"Do you have pepper spray?" Mike asks.

"No," I reply. "I left it in the car."

The dark house comes into view. There are no lights on.

"I see the house! Uh-oh, I see two animal eyes. I hope it's not a dog."

There is no barking, so I think it's probably a cat. But I won't know until I'm closer to the house.

"Be careful," Mike responds. "I'm right here and you aren't far from the road. Stay as far away as you can from the house."

****
Click below for Part I,Part II, and Part IV:
Hikers Only, I
Hikers Only, II
Hikers Only, IV
****

Hikers Only, II

Monday, January 27, 2014

Most of Mountain Trail isn't distinguishable from what seems infinite corridors appearing as could-be trails that wind through the trees. Red dots placed on certain trees blaze the true trail.

The forest floor and the trail, for most of its 2-1/2 miles, is covered with layers of fallen leaves. A hiker doesn't consciously register the crunch-crunch sound of her footsteps; like a train that passes day in and day out, the crunch blends with the air one breathes, not consciously noticeable.

Today as a hike, I notice the leafless trees towering above me in all directions. I notice the charred trees left from the 2012 wildfire. A scripture enters my mind. "I see trees as men"...or is it "I see men as trees..."

A poem begins to take form in my thoughts. I stop to try to type the lines into my "Notes" app on my iPhone. All I do is get irritated with the tiny keyboard and that I can't enter the letters-to-words quickly enough. I stand in one spot and pivot in a small circle as I click ten photos with my iPhone of the tall, slender, towering, bare trees. Maybe I can remember the lines to my poem..."Let there be trees, and it was so..." I repeat the remaining lines over and over, only to later forget them.

When I arrive at the section on Mountain Trail where forest shrubs and large boulders make the trail more easily identifiable, I figure I am about 1/4-mile from the trail head where it intersects with Grindstone Trail. I survey the sky to figure how much daylight I have left. Forty-five minutes maybe? I better head back to the car. I'll be sure to follow the red dots and not the red flags on my way back.

As the sun dips lower in the sky, the temperature drops. I take off my scarf and my sleeveless pink vest I'd changed into earlier when my body had gotten heated. My bare torso again feels the chill of the air. I pull my black cowl-turtleneck over my head. I don my pink vest over the black shirt and wrap my gem-tone, multicolored scarp around my neck. It's my favorite scarf that my children have me for Christmas a few years back.

I hike, being careful to look for the red dots on the trees.

But, as my feet crunch through the layered leaves, I become absorbed in thought and in the music going in and out on my Bluetooth.

It must have been twenty minutes later, I look up. Where are the red dots?

I turn off my Pandora music. I about face and retrace my steps. No red dots.

Damn it; I lost the trail. Carol. Gawd. Okay, those dots must be around here somewhere, or the red flags that mark the new trail. If I keep heading south, I'll run into them at some point.

But I don't.

Stopping and looking around, I sigh. There's a dry creek bed. I can follow that down until I see some red dots that cross the bed. I can't be far from the trail and I know I'm not that far from the road.

I attempt the dry creek bed for only a few yards. The leaves are too deep and my footing unsure of how far down in the leaves my weight will take my feet. With my luck some rocks or sticks will trip me. I abandon the creek bed for the forest floor.

The last of the sun's circular rim disappears; I fish my headlamp from my hip pack. Another sigh. Oh fuck. At least I have cell service. I'll call Hubby and then I'll have to call the rangers. Damn it. How embarrassing.

It's around 5:45 and Hubby would be getting ready to leave work. His commute home is forty-five minutes. Mountain Trail is another forty-five minutes from home. That puts Hubby at least 1-1/2 hours away.

I tap the numbers for Hubby's cell into my iPhone. "Hey. I think I have a problem; I've lost the trail."

"Okay. Are you alright?"

"Yes. I'm not in danger or anything. I can keep hiking south and I'll find it. But, it's getting dark and I only have 22% worth of power left on my phone. I better call the rangers. I am so embarrassed."

"Let me look up the ranger's number and text it to you to save your cell battery. No need to be embarrassed."

Within a minute I receive a text with the phone number. A few seconds later I receive another text, "No answer."

I call the number three times. No answer.

****
Click below for Part I, Part III, and Part IV:
Hikers Only, I
Hikers Only, III
Hikers Only, IV
****

Hikers Only, I

Monday, January, 27, 2014

Oh my, a warm Monday like last Monday. Supposed to be in the 50s. I really need to get the 1099s done. God, I abhor paper work and record keeping. Carol all you have to do is sit down and tally how much you paid to each of your contractors; Hubby will do the rest. I know, I know. But I can do it tomorrow. I can hike today; go to Pilot Mountain. It gets cold again tonight and supposed to ice and snow tomorrow. Go hike while you can.

The 1099s were again put on the procrastination list.

After my pet-client stops, I headed north on Highway 52. Pilot Knob came into view, a giant rock against the crystal blue North Carolina sky. Pilot Knob's Indian name is Jomeokee, which means the "Great Guide" or "Pilot."

Today I'm not going to the Knob, but rather Mountain Trail, a five-mile round-trip hike which I've trekked probably 15 times. It's a great training hike with various kinds of terrain, from flat to steep to rocky to small-stream crossings. I've hiked it in daylight and in darkness. I've hiked it alone and with others. But I have rarely run into other hikers; maybe that's partly because I usually hike on weekdays when most humans are at work.

I don't think I've ever seen any deer along Mountain Trail, but perhaps some of the night eyes I've seen were deer staring at me. I have seen turkey on the trail. Mountain Trail is the only place where I've seen a turkey take off in flight. One time when taking a break and sitting on a rock, I heard a loud rustling noise. I peered in the noise direction and I saw a turkey running and then lifting off the ground! I was stunned; I had no idea turkeys could actually get off the ground in flight.

I take the Pinnacle Exit off of Highway 52 and then take a few more turns making my way to the Corridor parking area near the entrance to Mountain Trail. This parking area also serves park visitors that want to ride horses. To the south of the parking area are horse trails; to the north are people-only trails. Mountain Trail is on the north side.

In the gated parking area, on the south side, sits one lone compact red car. Though the gates are open when I arrive, I park outside the gates on a stretch of grass beside the small country road. I've parked here many times before. I'm never sure what time the rangers will close the gates; I don't want to risk Edward the Explorer getting locked inside the gates.

After I park, I get out of the vehicle and collect my hiking gear.

I check my hip pack for my headlamp, batteries, whistle, tissue, and inhaler. I put on my green parka over the shirt I'm wearing, a black cowl-turtleneck with sleeves that stop near my elbows. I clip my hip pack around my waist and put one filled water bottle in one of the bottle-carrier side pockets on my hip pack. I then pull my arms one at a time out of my green parka sleeves. My hip pack secures my parka holding the bottom part of my parka in place at my waist as I allow the upper part of the parks fall down my backside. I stuff my light-weight, mixed-fabric, pink vest into one of the parka sleeves and my scarf into the other. I put my Bluetooth in my right ear and tune in Pandora on my cell phone. I pull my purple and black Isotoner Smartouch gloves over my hands and grab my trekking poles.

As usual, I'm a lone hiker on the trail. I often hike alone. I rarely get scared on a trail. If I do, it's usually when I am closer to a road; I feel safer deeper in the woods. But Mountain Trail is not a deep-woods trail. Still, statistically, I'm probably safer hiking on Mountain Trail than driving on an interstate.

About twenty minutes into my hike I've worked up a sweat. I stop and look around; no one in sight. I take off my turtle neck. The cool wind brings a chill to my bare torso. I put on my light-weight vest. The cool wind is picking up, but the sleeveless vest gives relief from the stuffy turtle neck. I stuff the turtleneck into my parka sleeve.

I continue the northwest trek along Mountain Trail. Off to my left I see a bright yellow sign with black letters: "Don't got this way. You WILL get lost!" Trailing from the sign are small plastic red flags on wire stems stuck into the ground. They must be making a new trail. Okay sign, I'll stay with the old red-dot blaze trail.

I become lost in thought and in music as it streams into my Bluetooth, though reception goes in and out. After awhile, how long I'm not sure, I notice my surroundings. Where am I? There should be lots of rocks and certainly I should be at the corridor sign by now.

I look around. Oh geez. I somehow intersected the red-flagged new trail. I don't like this new trail. I feel like a mountain goat with my feet sideways on the mountain like this. And I miss all the rocks. Oh well, this trail probably intersects with the red-dot old trail.

Another 1/2-mile or so I intersect back with the red-dot trail. Much better. I'll be sure to follow the red-dots out. I don't like the new trail. I hope they keep the old trail once they finish blazing the new.

****
Click below for Parts II through IV:
Hikers Only, II
Hikers Only, III
Hikers Only, IV
****

Less Noble

Sometimes I read why writers write, or why bloggers blog, or why people publicly share their stories.

Recently, I've read (again) that people share to warn others, to help others, to inspire others.

In one piece I recently read regarding the why and how-to of memoir, the author went into the reasons for memoir...one of the main reasons being to teach lessons of life, or something to that effect.

Huh? Is that one of the main reasons to write memoir? If so, I'm obviously an outsider.

I understand that learning about life lessons can be a result of reading memoir. But it's not why I read memoir; nor it is why I choose to share parts of my story publicly.

I didn't read further in the article; I was already turned off.

I don't blog to necessarily teach.
I don't blog to necessarily warn.
I don't blog for some noble or altruistic motive.

Why do I blog? I've asked myself that questions thousands(?) of times.

I write because, at least for now and for past decades, writing is like breathing to me. I attribute journaling to having a profound influence in my life.

But journaling is private; it is not for public eyes.

Why do I now make many of my pennings public on a couple little-known blogs among millions?

As I've written in other blog posts, the answers are multifaceted.

This morning in my blog search box, I typed "why do i blog?" and clicked "Go!" That was a vain attempt; I quit counting the results at 50-something blog posts that showed up.

To quote a few snippets from a few past various blog-posts dribblings...

• "...One facet, currently, and perhaps the main facet, is to give voice and (dare I add) to find my voice...whatever that exactly means at any given moment...Why do I like the color purple? Why do I like chocolate?"
• "Is it a selfish act that I speak out loud? Is it a selfish act to write out loud?...Perhaps part of my coming forward has to do with the deafening silence from the places beyond me of which I have no control..."
• "...Again, I find myself back at the same question I have asked myself 1000 times. Why do I blog? Why do I put my inner thoughts on public display? Why does an artist display their art for others eyes to see, ears to hear, hands to touch?...What an ugly world it would be if we chose to not be."
• "...Sometimes I want to shout with all my lungs can muster, 'Don't hold me down!' And then quietly state, 'Let me be me.'...What I write may not be popular. What I write may sound unreal. What I write may bore someone to tears. It doesn't matter. It's my story. For me to write is part of my life. I cannot hide it in my journals and in secret places anymore."
• "I was thinking last night that perhaps I am "done." Perhaps I am done writing....But what then would I do? I thought I had so much to write about. My doubts are currently high. Not that they were low before. I have continually struggled with the gremlins in my head telling me I make things up and questioning my motives as to why I write what I write."
• "... Whatever is written and read, the reader interprets as the reader will. The reader brings their life experiences with them to the page....Why do I, Carol, write publicly?... This is something I come back to again and again. If I were to create, design, display a poem or a piece of music or work of art - why do I put in on display? That would be a good question for any artist, would it not?..."

But today Carol, why do you question this again? To that I have an answer.

Because I again read someone's reasons for public writing which are to teach and educate and share life lessons.
And I then feel my reasons are less noble.
And they probably are.
And that is okay.

Sympathizers

I'm not big on reading celebrity tabloids. When I do read them, as well as other events that make the news, I often think about the millions of untold stories that never make public news. An example: when I read about shootings, I often think about the young boy or girl shot down on an inner city street that day. I feel sure it must happen on a daily basis, but the victims or event are not newsworthy; so we don't read or hear about the event. (I realize not every shooting can make the mass media news, but that makes the little-known shooting no less significant to the surviving family and friends.)

On February 1, Dylan Farrow published an open letter stating her adoptive father, Woody Allen, had sexually molested her when she was a child. Prior to reading that letter, I had heard somewhere along the way tidbits about the abuse allegations which first came out toward the mid-90s. Other than that, I was ignorant.

The open letter got my attention. It is well written. It is sincere. It is direct. The letter makes one nauseous that such heinous acts occur and that they go unpunished.

A few of my thoughts after I read the letter and feeling sick to my stomach...
God, what a horrible thing to live through.
To come forward like this, she must be exploding inside, no longer able to tolerate the silence and to witness the abuser receiving accolades.
I wonder if others will come forward? I wonder if they will be believed?
I think of [various names withheld]. [Names withheld] ended up cutters and will struggle all their lives.
Wasn't Mia Farrow one of the ladies Maharishi made sexual advances toward?
Dylan is bringing this up 20 years later. Could this be a case of false memories? But it doesn't sound like she went to a therapist that implanted false memories.

That last question drifted in my mental space. Some might think it cruel to even consider that question, especially in response to such an open letter which puts the author (who has suffered great trauma) into such a vulnerable and triggering position.

Why would I question such? There are layers to that answer.

A few tidbits of the layers:

• I have a very close friend who was falsely accused of sexual harassment.
• I have read many an account of false accusations that have ruined lives.
• I learned about 'false memories' first via Jeanette Bartha, who has lived her own hell and came out the other side. Since learning about Jeanette's story, I've read others and have conversed with some of those people as well as with Jeanette. (Jeanette has written a book which I look forward to reading once it is published.)
• I stood up for a friend who was falsely accused (but not of sexual abuse or harassment). The result was that I got scapegoated by the friend's accusers, and I lost some friends as a result. (Granted, I stood up for that friend clumsily but as best I could at the time.)
• I have been the recipient of publicly damning and false accusations; once it is done, it is done. I could only state my case in response. What people believe is up to them. Regardless, it's a hard lesson to learn and live and one that I think the falsely-accused most likely never forgets. It's a hard pill to swallow (at least it has been for me) that people whom one thinks one knows are actually a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

A day after reading Dylan's open letter, an article from The Daily Beast which was published five days before Dylan's open letter came across my cyberscreen. This article fills in some details about the Allen-Farrow family environment at the time (toward the mid-1990s) of the initial Woody Allen sexual abuse allegations. I then looked up and read a bit about Mia Farrow and I was left wondering if she is a possible manipulator behind the scenes. I think that the author of The Daily Beast article probably wanted to leave that impression regarding Mia. If so, it worked (which then caused me to question The Daily Beast article). [Of course, there are now many articles on the subject hitting the cyberscreen.]

I have witnessed people, who have questioned (with good reason) certain allegations in regard to something as horrendous as sexual abuse, get labeled as "rape or pedophile sympathizers" or as "pedophiles" themselves when it is the farthest thing from the truth. Such labels can be extreme conclusions made possibly from projection; or trying to make sense of one's own trauma; or because of cultural memes, to name a few possible reasons.

It's never easy for victims to speak up. It takes lots of soul churning and sleepless nights and gut wrenching "what ifs."

Neither is it easy to speak up for the falsely accused. More soul churning and sleepless nights and gut wrenching "what ifs."

I think questioners are more likely sympathizers with truth...and with victims...and with the falsely accused.

The Next Book

How do I explain to myself so-called "answered prayers" or what I have referred to as "God moments?"
If I were to tally "answered prayer" versus "unanswered prayer," on which side would the scale weigh heavier?

*****
In The Way, all prayers should "line up with the Word." God's will is always health and prosperity, so as a Way believer I didn't pray for "thine will be done" on matters in which I already knew "thine will."

"Thine will" regarding health and prosperity was stated clearly in III John 2, "Beloved, I wish above all things that thou mayest prosper and be in health, even as thy soul prospereth."

Therefore, as a Way believer I thanked the Father for having already met my need through the work of His son, my lord and savior and brother, Jesus Christ. I confessed my need met as a present reality, and I prayed thanking God for the healing that Jesus Christ had already earned for me, earned for mankind.

If I didn't receive healing or a physical need met, there must be a breakdown somewhere on my end. For some reason I must not be meeting the criteria of III John 2; that is, my soul (mind/emotions/intellect) wasn't prospering. Believing fell into the category of soul. If I didn't receive, I simply wasn't believing big enough.

I could "build my believing" by "putting on more of the Word" which meant more study of the scriptures, more retemories, more silently and personally speaking in tongues, more giving, more witnessing the Word to others, more fellowship with like-minded believers. After all, light casts out darkness. God is all light and in Him is no darkness at all. God made himself manifest through His written Word, the Bible, and through the Word made flesh, Jesus Christ. Those alone were the only true beacons that can cast out darkness. Sickness was dark. Sickness was death in part or in whole. Sickness was never God's will.

But why with so much accurate Word, why were not more Way Household believers prospering and in health?

My neighbors, the Speers, were "unbelieving believers." That's what we in The Way called Christians who did not have the accuracy of the Word like we did. Even though the Speers didn't believe the accuracy of the Word, they always seemed in good health and seemed to have their need met, and they had this laid-back approach to life of which I wished I had more. I liked them. They must just have big believing. After all the law of believing worked for saint and sinner alike, regardless if they were Christian or not.

It must have been around the year 2000 as I perused the self-help section bookshelves at Borders for my next book. On the bottom shelf toward the left I saw it, The HeartMath Solution.

"HearthMath." That's that the organization I read about in Pearsall's book and in that educational article about how when people shake hands the brain waves of one person will line up and match the heart waves of the other person, or something like that.

As my manner was, I pulled the book off the shelf, found a chair, and began to read. Then I'd decide whether or not to buy the book.

By the time I was into the first chapter I was already highlighting. I was engaged and intrigued.

The heart, can literally think? Not linearly, but emotionally. When I point to me, I don't point to my head; I point to my heart area. When I feel love or gratitude or sorrow, I don't feel it in my brain; I feel it in my heart...and sometimes my gut.

I was already quite familiar with the language of emotions from other books I'd read. I already felt and believed that my mind was all through my body not just in my brain, in the sense that my nervous system was communicating all the time throughout every system of my body. I was already entertaining the idea that intuition was a real sense, just like our other senses...even though that thought didn't quite sit well with what I knew about devil spirits and the Word. I had assigned intuition as a man-made counterfeit for the spirit of God working in situations and people. Intuition gave man the glory when it was God at work in the situations, and God should always get the glory. Intuition was at best ego; at worst devil spirit possession.

Do I dare continue down this path looking into intuition as a possible reality?

The electro-magnetic field radiating from the heart is about 5000 times greater than that of the brain. Magnetism attracts and repels. Maybe that's the key to receiving, maybe there is a physiological side to this "law of believing."

Gratitude is one of the strongest heart power tools helping heart rhythms come into coherence. The Word commands over and over to be thankful. The Word says the heart is where believing is generated, "for with the heart man believeth." And believing is what appropriates results. I build my believing by putting on the thoughts of the Word. "As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he." It doesn't say, "in his brain;" it says "in his heart."

Could it be that as I learn to tap into this heart intelligence that I will build my believing and thus bring to myself healing results and answered prayer via that magnetic power of the heart? Do I dare even mention this to anyone? It seems so out there.

I spent over two years working that HeartMath book. Reading and re-reading and checking out other books and reading and re-reading about the role of emotions in physical healing, about the placebo effect, about spontaneous healing, about cellular memory, about the heart as a thinking organ. I bought a physiology coloring book to try to broaden my understanding of my autonomic nervous system and how it communicates.

Toward the latter 90s I had thought, If I can learn to somehow retrain my autonomic nervous system, maybe I can get well.

****
How do I explain to myself so-called "answered prayers" or what I have referred to as "God moments?"
If I were to tally "answered prayer" versus "unanswered prayer," on which side would the scale weigh heavier?

Maybe I'll write another post in the future addressing those questions. And maybe not.
****