entry ~ room to room

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March, 2005.

As I hiked the five rugged miles along Mountain Trail, I pondered, "room to room."

The woods have different rooms along this trail.  Part of the trail is rocky as my feet balance between the small granite bumps. Larger rocks are scattered through the woods. They luminesce green in the rain; the moss glows. I've been told moss grows only on the north side of trees.  I don't think that's true.  I wasn't sure which side was north for the moss as it glistened on the large rocks.

These rocks.  I figure they came from the Jomeokee knob. I've been told it was once a volcano. Does lava still boil under the dome?  Will their be a time it will erupt again, spewing rock and lava, sculpting a new landscape for others to hike?

Rooms.

Their are no leaves on the forest trees; spring has just dawned. There is no foliage across the ground in this particular room, this part that isn't as dense as the forest room where the trail winds in and out of laurels and rhododendrons and pines.  This area has tall trees of poplar and elm and oak.  Some of the trees have met their demise, now strewn naturally across the forest floor where they will feed the soil for years to come as their clothing and veins slowly become dirt. Oh the sounds they must have made when they fell.  KABOOM!

I once heard a tree like that fall in a forest.  I thought a trailer and car had gone off the edge of a cliff. The sound awoke me around 2AM in pitch black while camping.

Rooms.

Often when I walk in woods, I think of leprechauns.  I wish little fairies were real.  I wish they could fly me to the far side of the rainbow.

Often when I walk in woods, I think of eyes staring at me.  Eyes of bears or birds, chipmunks or squirrels, deer or coyote.  We have coyote in NC.  I've not seen one, but I know folks who have.  Tim has killed more than one on his property.  The coyotes are coming closer to the cities, so are the bears.

Forest rooms. Dense woods or scattered trees or bald vistas.

There are no walls between these rooms and the doorways are wide.

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Spongy

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Today, Wednesday, March 24, 2010.

Cocooning day. Hormone headache. Tummy tilt. Gums tender. Legs rubbery. Mind sloppy. Depressed.

I thought about pushing through it all, mustering up energy and strength, taking a 7-mile walk around the lake, going out into the sunny day, letting my mind and body know who's boss.  Instead, I laid on my bed, curled up under the covers, and slept, awaking 2-hours later. The time 5:15 PM.

Do I rouse myself, go out into the sunshine and walk?  What if this happens in May, on my 120-mile hike?  I may have to walk then, especially if I'm in need of water and I'm not near a water source.  Gawd, what a sorry person I am.

My thoughts were tempted to delve into self-berating.

Earlier in the day, as I was endeavoring to push or not push, recognizing my symptoms, noticing the depression, I asked myself, Carol, what would you do if you had young child who had these needs?

I would take her in my arms, cradle her, comfort her, and rock her in the rocking chair.  I'd stroke her head.  I'd offer to play with her or to read some fun picture books.  I wouldn't think she was of despicable character or think she was vying for attention or that she was selfish and lazy.

Why not give yourself that same TLC Carol?

Later in the day, after my nap and awaking around 5:15 pm, I lay in bed looking out my window.  Sunshine.  Garage roof vents slowly spin.  Weeping cherry tree in full blossom.  Tall white pines in the back woods sway.

The day doesn't wait for me. 

Do other people feel as badly about themselves when they have an episode of illness? After all, this is illness, isn't it? 

Or do I berate myself more than most? Is it because of indoctrination, trained to think low toward my self, to condemn my self for not being able to believe for wholeness, to label my self unworthy and weak?

Give myself credit.  I worked long hours yesterday, up at 6:30 and to bed at midnight.  I hiked 16.5 rugged miles over the weekend. I at least got dressed today, made my bed, handled an overdue bill. 

Recall Carol how it used to be?  How you once could hardly function at all on these type days? Feeling like you had taken 3 quaaludes, unable to think, getting lost on a simple trip to the store, losing credit cards, sitting in the doctor's office crying unable to retrieve words while through sobs choppily making yourself try to describe how your body felt, "I feel like my connective tissue is disintegrating."

Butter died Monday.  I learned about Tom's death over the weekend.

Why can't I have more compassion toward my self? 

I can. 

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Borders

non-subject: "outside me"

aww ~ 03/17/10

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I wonder if I can even write tonight.

Sometimes I feel I should write to a form - a form of memoir, that memoir isn't memoir unless it paints a specific scene. Sometimes I feel I'm less creative when I write scenes; I sometimes feel that I have to think more linearly to write a scene.

I think I like writing in and out of scenes; at least for now.  Isn't that how my mind works anyway?  

My mind doesn't track just one thought. It weaves in and and out, like going from room to room. That's what I do in my home, constantly changing rooms.

My body is like that, in and out and moving within itself.

I think of the mind being all through the physical form, the body. I don't think of the mind as being limited to my brain, but rather laced throughout my biology directing, orchestrating, pumping, signaling.

I'm going absolutely no where with this piece of scribblage. 

"Absolutely nowhere." Hmm...I don't think such a realm exists, do I?

I finally got to Borders Bookstore this afternoon around 5:15. I had wanted to get there earlier. 

I had also wanted to walk at least a couple miles before heading to Borders. I never did the walk. The night still holds time to perhaps get a mile in before bedtime.

I meandered through Borders to find a place to sit, a place I'd feel intimate with.  

I used to like the back of the store where once sat a wooden table with wood-slat chairs; it could seat six. I called the area my grotto, that wooden table surrounded on all sides by travel books. Prior to the wooden table, there was a 1950's Leave-it-to-Beaver Formica-top table with matching chairs. I had liked it even more than the wooden table. Beaver's table was a marbled green color and could seat four.

Now there is no table. A couple years back, management decided to rid the store of my grotto space.  Us table visitors, poets and journalers and book travelers and dreamers, were disappointed and dispersed.

Today, as I persued the store, I found a black faux-leather upholstered chair. It sat near the edge of the children's section in the rear of the store, its back to the front of the store. Behind its back stood a bookshelf, of what kinds of books I'm not sure. In front of it, on the back wall, were parenting and pregnancy books. To the right as I sat in the chair were how-to educational books, from unschooling to public schooling. To the left was a walkway leading from a hall to the main store area, a walkway separating the children's section from the other store areas.

This would be my intimate spot for an hour, in this faux-leather chair at the back of the store at the edge of the children's section.

I pulled out my composition book, one I bought recently for my new life with my new goals. I'm working on listing goals and dreams, endeavoring to find my purpose, what it is I want now. Endeavoring to spend time doing what I want instead of what others want of me.

I think I've discovered that what I want is space to create. Physical space. Mental space. Emotional space. Commitment space. Relationship space.

As I sat in the black faux-leather chair I noticed the carpet that the chair rested upon. This carpet in the children's section pictures outerspace with heavenly spheres. I don't see an earth but rather gaseous-type planets like Jupiter and Saturn. There are what appears to be distant tiny galaxies. A few star-shaped entities are floating in the tapestry, but not many. The backdrop to the planets and heavenly spheres is colored with amorphous-type shadows of deep blue and black; though not totally amorphous as the patterns repeat themselves across the carpet.

This outerspace carpet in the children's section is edged by a 15-inch border of black carpet delineating the kid's space from the rest of the store. The rest of the store being mainly the adult space where the carpet is all the same color, a speckled-dull-neutral gray.

The 15-inch black carpet boundary brought to mind the asteroid belt in our solar system, separating the inner planets from the outer planets.  

The 15-inch black carpet boundary reminded me that our imaginations of childhood can become stifled into an adult dull, speckled, neutral grey.

As I was leaving the store, I walked the children's section to see if the 15-inch edge borders all the outerspace carpet area.  It does.

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Leaving and Returning

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Grief isn't empty, though it may feel that way at times. I've learned for me, that grief is very full.

Grief is alive and longs to be heard. Voices rise from the graves via our own voices. It's not just the graves of humans which have died, but our own graves, parts of us we misplaced or were stolen.

It cries out in tears, in rage, in illnesses, in pain, in addictions, in laughter, in art, in every corner of our lives, every rainbow, every storm.

If we only allow grief its substance, to not be afraid of it. If we do that, perhaps we will grow to honor it and welcome it and allow it.

There is always something better. There is always something worse.

There is always more within, within the very heart and soul and body in which we move and dance.

Dancing always brings to mind leaves, as they blow, as they fall, as they nourish, as they grow.

Leaves. I wonder if they are called leaves because every year they leave their tree. 

Perhaps the new spring leaves are returns.

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Out There

non-subject: "nothing better out there"
aww ~ 03/15/10
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Of course the first thing that comes to mind is what my husband used to say. What I used to say. What other former Way followers used to say. What current Way followers may still say.

"There is nothing better out there."

There is nothing better, no Word of God more pure, no doctrine more accurate, no truer truth to be found, outside the "Household of The Way," outside the "walls of Zion."

We were fed and we swallowed. The "walls of Zion" were our protection from the Adversary.

When catastrophe struck outside the Household, it was the victim's fault for having left the walls or having never been there to truly understand the "greatness of the rightly-divided Word of God." They were open game for the devil and his cohorts.

When catastrophe struck one of the faithful inside the Household it was due to the victim's unwaivering stand on the Word. Their stalwart, dog-soldier, staked-in-Truth foundation brought on attacks from the Adversary, the Devil, the Old Serpent. His spiritual power ruled the systems of the world and he was always after the Word and the true believers. If the faithful victim had the proper believing, they could overcome the circumstance.

Samuel was around 20 when he had the car wreck. Samuel was alone and drove into a tree that apparently sliced the car in half. Speculation was that he fell asleep behind the wheel. I think he was dead on arrival.

Samuel was a faithful believer in the Way Household, a good student at college, an empathetic young man. His parents were faithful Way Corps grads.

The tragedy was explained in its tidy box, even by Samuel's dad. I heard him with my own ears, at Samuel's memorial service, state that Samuel got tricked by the Adversary and wasn't listening the night of his wreck. If Samuel had had his spiritual antennae on, he wouldn't have wrecked.

It was Samuel's fault, his lack of believing.  We were all culpable to such; no one was immune.

How very tragic to have to have tidy answers for all life's bizarre events.

I wonder if Samuel's dad was simply still in shock. I hope he was able to grieve. The Way wasn't too big on allowing folks to grieve. Grieving was to be limited, thirty days was the rule of thumb. After that, time to move on, get over it, live life to the fullest.

That's what Doctor taught from the Old Testament when God tells Joshua, "Moses my servant is dead!" Eastern custom for grieving, we were taught, was thirty days.

So the fuck what. Why should we allow customs to rule our inner hearts?

Within a couple months after Samuel's tragic car wreck, I was sitting beside Samuel's mom at a leadership function. We were all eating together at a restaurant. The seating was arranged so that a private conversation could be had between persons seated side-by-side.

She began sharing with me how she was doing; she was struggling. Of course she was.

She had been having a difficult time accepting the struggle, honoring the grief, until Emogene from Way Headquarters gave her permission to grieve, saying it was o.k. to grieve; it was normal.

Of course it's normal.

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Click here to read an introduction to memoir: Journey through Memoir: Introduction

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Books, Brian, Borders

The following was written in March, 2010, and originally posted on a different blog as part of a series. The series remains incomplete.

The same story was approached sometime in 2008 or 2009 as Brian at Borders.
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The ache in my soul echoed.  My wearied cry to God dripped, "Bring...someone...to...me..."

Again at Borders. Now Spring, 2005.

It'd been one-and-half years since my conversation with the black gentleman which had prompted me to google The Way International.  I hadn't run into him ever again; he must not have been a regular at Borders.

I was like a fixture.

Again I sat in my usual spot, my grotto, where I'd often meet other travelers along life's trek.  My grotto, a table surrounded by books on three sides.

One side was the back wall of the store, lined with shelves. Books go almost to the ceiling. A railed rolling ladder can be scooted back and forth to reach the highest shelves. The two other sides of books are housed on seven-foot tall wooden partitions with wooden shelves. The partitions are perpendicular to the wall and parallel with the long sides of the wooden table where I sit. A reader could travel the world at that table surrounded by the travel and culture books. 1000 Places to See Before You Die is always prominent on the eye-level shelf.

But I'm not reading a travel book; I'm reading The Artist's Way.  Another attempt to pour something, anything, into the vast, gnawing void in my being. I was beginning to feel like a shell. I had to continue to search; I couldn't crater.

I couldn't let myself be consumed by the gnaw, could I? I'd almost rather die. I felt almost dead. Numbness was becoming a norm, between the void and the endeavoring to embrace gratitude bringing to mind all the good in my life. Why couldn't the good satisfy me?

I glanced up from my book and there he stood, lean and over six-feet tall.  "Brian?" I asked surprised and somewhat delighted.

I hadn't seen Brain in at least ten years.  Back in the early 1980s, Brian had been one of my spiritual partners when I was in The Way Corps.  I don't recall if he sponsored me in the 10th Corps or 13th Corps.  I failed both my Corps attempts, making it into my interim years both times.  My companion, shame, so deeply brought on by my decisions to AWOL The Way Corps twice, haunted me for decades.  Shame had stifled my heart, my intuition, my expression. Asthma had developed on the heels of that initial stifling. Shame had quite literally robbed me of breath.  I was learning though, discovering, longing to find me.

Brian turned around when he heard his name. Our eyes met. "Carol?" he responded just as stunned.

I stood up and we hugged, the friendly brother-sister hugs.  Brian and I were never attracted to one another in any other manner.  Our relationship had always been platonic.

Could this be it?  Could this be the "someone" being brought to me? Could I trust Brian?

Brian pulled up a chair at the table and we exchanged a bit of our lives for about forty-five minutes.  He had been made "mark and avoid" from The Way back in the 90s.  Since then he had checked out various Way splinter groups, but his feeling was that they were The Way rehashed.  He was currently following the teachings of Joyce Myer and was financially supporting her work.

Internally my heart sank, but I didn't let Brian know. God, this isn't helping me.  I was hoping one of the splinter groups could be a safe place to turn. Brian doesn't like the splinter groups.  I can't turn to someone like Joyce Myer; I just can't.  The wrongly-divided Word and unbelieving believers are not an option for me.

I told Brian that I was still with The Way, that it had changed.  "Mark and avoid" was no longer put in force and the Ministry was doing better. The hollering from the pulpit had ceased.  The micro-managing of peoples' lives had eased up.  I didn't reveal my anguish to Brian; I kept that boundary close to my soul.  I didn't reveal my cry for God to bring someone to me; I wasn't resonating with Brian on that level.

When we exchanged farewells and he left, I thought, Well God, that didn't help.  I guess there is nothing better outside the Household of The Way. I resigned myself to quiet desperation.

During our discourse, Brian had gotten my phone number. He called within a couple weeks, but I wasn't home at the time. He left a message with one of my teenage children, but he didn't leave a phone number where I could call him back.  He was interested in getting a copy of Dr. Wierwille's book Jesus Christ Our Passover.

Jesus Christ Our Passover had always been one of my favorite books.

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A journal excerpt from the day I ran into Brian.
April 4, 2005
"[...] What did I get from my conversation with Brian? The Way is probably still one of the best venues available for the Word and for fellowship.

Also that my vision for The Way is that it opens its doors so wide that people flow in and get healed. If it will open its doors, growth will happen. If it will move through the fear of "contamination" and fear of the Adversary's influence, flow will happen.

Ahhh...my life's purpose is flow...abundant flow."
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Click here to read an introduction to memoir: Journey through Memoir: Introduction
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Brian at Borders

The following was written sometime between 2008 and 2009.  I approached the subject again in March, 2010, which can be read at Books, Brian, Borders.
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An incredible emptiness had been in my heart for months; an overwhelming emptiness. The void was different from depression; but I hadn't been able to put my finger on it.

I cried. Similar tears of abandonment that had been duplicated almost daily over the past six or so months. Why couldn't I just live with it; what was wrong with me?

God, dear God, what am I going to do? I don't know where to turn or who to trust. You're gonna have to bring someone to me because I don't know! I don't know who or what to trust..God, please...

I felt hopeless. I felt a desperation that I simply can't convey with words, such a deep emptiness, a vacancy in my soul. I felt so stuck, so afraid, so very caught and perplexed.

I had read at GreasespotCafe (GSC) about various splinter groups that had formed from former Way followers. But I just wasn't sure about them. Would they too lead me somewhere I don't want to be?

At GSC, I had read various accounts of former Way followers. I doubted what I read. I knew I didn't want bitterness. I had asked God multiple times for protection from that mindset. I was afraid. How could I step outside "the Household?" What else was there? I couldn't go to a church; I had to stay with the rightly-divided Word. I didn't know who to believe. I didn't want to split up my family; if I left The Way, what of my husband and children? How would my children ever have the rightly divided Word? How would if affect them? What was it like outside the walls of Zion?

I felt so dead, so very dead

God, you've got to bring someone to me. Bring someone to me because I don't know; I don't know.

I was at Borders Bookstore, a regular local hangout for me. I sat in the back at a table either journaling and reading.

I looked up, taking a break from my task. "Brian?"

The tall physique turned toward me. "Carol?"

It had been at least 10 years since I had seen Brian.

Brian had been one of my sponsors when I was in The Way Corps.

Could this be the answer to my prayer? Had God brought Brian to me?

I stood up and we hugged. He pulled up a chair and we conversed. Of course we discussed The Way; I informed him that I was still involved. I did not mention my doubts, my emptiness, my prayer. Unknown to me, Brian had been made "mark and avoid" years previous. Since then he had not been able to find a surrogate spiritual home, though he had tried some of the splinter groups. He sufficed himself with TV evangelist Joyce Meyer.

We discussed health issues and some other personal life events. . We spent about 45 minutes or so together; I gave him my phone number. He got up from the table and continued his bookstore perusal.

My heart sank. Well, God, that wasn't helpful God. Maybe there isn't anything better out there. Maybe The Way is the best there is.

I went back to the pages journaling or reading, resigning myself to quiet desperation and a hole in my gut.

I had to hang on; I couldn't split up my family.....

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Click here to read an introduction to memoir: Journey through Memoir: Introduction

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To Hear with Different Ears

non-subject: "closed doors open"
aww ~ march 10, 2010
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I had prayed to God, telling Him, "God, I will not go to anyone to find out where to turn.  You have to send someone to me."

The void seemed bottomless; this hollowness in my soul; this plastic self I had become. My two most important commitments of life, my marriage and the Ministry, were false. I was a fake.

The priority and order of commitments were God first, then my marriage, then my kids.

I stayed in the marriage and I was staying with the Ministry for my kids. I didn't want to split the family up.  We were to be likeminded on the Word. I had to stick this out a few more years.

I'd waiver back and forth while hanging on to the doctrine, to the "household of believers." My husband John had said more than once, "There is nothing better out there," referring to a spiritual home.

There were no options outside the rightly divided Word of God.

But there were splinter groups, groups of people who had left The Way and started other ministries based on the accuracy of the rightly-divided Word. I'd read about some of them on Greasespot Cafe. Still, I didn't know where to turn or who to trust.

It may seem silly to people that I had such fear. The fear was real. How would my children get the Word? What if our family ended up divided?  What if the kids' lives crumbled; this is all they'd ever known?  Where would they learn the Word? Where would they hear the manifestations?

I couldn't imagine life outside The Way cocoon of knowing that one knows.

If I was going to leave, God...had...to...bring...someone...to me.  He had to make it clear.

I arrived at work at the King Baptist Daycare. I checked the office and grabbed the folder with my name on it, the folder where the daycare placed any notes or payments from parents. I carried it upstairs to the room where I taught preschool music, if one can really 'teach' preschool music. I never liked that term, "teaching" preschool music. I much prefer stating that I sing and dance with little people. We teach each other.

I glanced inside the folder and saw a sealed envelope with a stamp on it. That's odd.  Someone must have mailed in a payment. Hmmm...  I didn't have my reading glasses on so couldn't read the return address. It was time for me to start classes. I'll look at it after class.

I had a couple hours of music and dance with the little ones. I love their eyes and their imaginations. We can relate, me and little people, especially three and four year olds. They seem to always know exactly what it is they want and what they are communicating, if only us adults would learn to listen with different ears.

Once class was over and the kids were out of the music room, I went over to the tall counter to go through the folder updating payments. There was the envelope. The return address was Ohio.

What the hell is this?  How did they get this address at the daycare?

I opened the envelope. It was from Linda. Linda, whom I had shunned some five years previously when she and her husband and family had left The Way.

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Related post: I like the deep tone of buffalo drums...

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Convoluted

non-subject: "connection"

aww ~ 03/10/10

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I saw some photographs yesterday. Photographs of aborted fetuses.  I've never believed abortion to be murder.  I still don't think that, though sometimes I wonder. Do I think that it's not murder in order to relieve my own guilt, my own deed?

There is a difference to me between killing and murder.  To me murder has malicious intent, motive to harm, foul play. Perhaps when I had my abortion I was a victim of foul play. It's still difficult for me to lay blame at the feet of The Way for certain stuff in my life. 

In some of its actions The Way was criminal: cover-ups, abuse of power, sexual abuse guised as what a woman is to provide in order to bless a "man of God."

Sometimes I think it'd almost be easier if the sexual crimes were physically violent rapes. Instead, the "men of God" manipulated people who were indoctrinated to obey. I think some of the men knew what they were doing, intentionally manipulating, and some didn't. I'm beginning to believe that Dr. Wierwille was very aware. Makes me feel dirty, and I wasn't even a victim of the sexual "blessings" manipulation.

I feel dirty that I supported such, unknowingly; but still I supported it, for 28 years. Twenty-eight years is a long time.

I saw the photos of aborted fetuses yesterday.  Fetuses between 7 weeks and 12 weeks developed. The photos were of tiny severed hands and feet, of decapitated tiny beings, chopped spines.  I could see the finger nails on the tiny fingers. In one photo an eye was open on the head that was severed from the body. 

I wish I could remember how far along I was with my pregnancy when I had the abortion. I'm thinking it was around 8 weeks.  It's like a memory that is lodged in a closet in my head.

It's not lodged in my heart.

It hides inside a brain closet.  I see the wooden door with a black iron handle.  It's waiting for me to open it.  It's like even if I open it I won't believe what it has to show me.

My heart almost trembles.  My eyes wet with tears.

I sat in Janet's office in 2006, within a couple months after I'd seen the image of that olive-skin naked babe that I couldn't nurse because it was dead. Within a couple months after the dead-nursing-baby image and being doubled over in grief for seven to eight hours, a name for the babe kept popping into my head. I kept pushing the name away.

To my self I said, Carol, that's silly.  It's silly to even grieve something from 27 years ago. It's even sillier to name it.  You really don't absolutely know the gender.  Besides it never fully formed.  How can you grieve something or someone that you never knew?

But still I grieved, for months and months.  The grief wasn't just for the babe, but I think too it was for that whole time period and the loss of the relationship with Luke.

I contacted Luke to ask the names of his sons.  I didn't want to name the babe with one of the names Luke had already used.  The name that kept popping in my head was safe; none of Luke's sons were named "Alex."

I wrote Luke in an email and let him know. "Alex."  Luke never responded to that email.

He had mentioned in one of our conversations, that once a door is closed it is best left shut. I didn't take that to heart. I have too many closed doors.  I want them open.  I want to see. I want to remember.

I think that's part of the reason I felt rage toward Luke.  I never let him know the rage I felt.  I let my counselor, Janet, know.  I let a couple of my close friends know.  I wrote poems about the rage.

It's not an easy subject.  Relationships. Abortion. Indoctrination. Rage. Grief. Guilt.

And then feeling like I should just move on, like none of it ever happened.

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Click here to read an introduction to memoir: Journey through Memoir: Introduction

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Twenty-seven years and seven hours

non-subject: "something that changed"
aww: march 3, 2010

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On Twitter lately I've been following a lady as she tweets about her abortion.  It has caused quite a stir, attracting the national news.

People are so loud.

I'm not saying that's bad or good; it just is.  Everyone hollers their opinion. I wonder if people holler their experience.

I'm not sure of my opinion on certain things.  Sometimes my opinion changes.  My experiences don't change, but how I remember them might change. How I convey them. How I perceive them.  What I thought that I thought, when later I find out what I think, which then changes again down the road. 

I don't think I like loud. I think I like quiet more. To hear the quiet - even in the noise.  

I recently read a line by a guy named "Chuck."  Chuck wrote that his father used to say, "It was so quiet you could hear a rat pissin' on a cotton ball." Maybe that's what I'll have written on my tombstone.  But I don't want a tombstone; do I?

Abortion.

At 47 years old I sat on the toilet in the bathroom on a Saturday morning in July, 2006. I was thinking. That's probably where a lot of people do some thinking, huh?

Luke and I had a reunion the previous Saturday. Luke, my true love from over 25 years ago.  Luke, who told me on one of our getting-to-know-each-other-again phone calls that I had been his promised land; yet God had fed him with manna. Luke, whom after we laid our hearts bare and I stated how much the reunion had affected me, responded, "I'll meet you at the bottom."  Luke, whom after my husband met on the phone and I asked my husband, "Well how do you feel after meeting Luke?"  My husband replied, "I feel like I just met my ghost of 25 years."

Luke, whom at first politely stated his marriage was doing well, and later stating that emotional intimacy was lacking. I understand that and have experienced the same.  He said he wanted to jump in the car and drive from Maryland, pick me up, and drive off into the sunset.  But we both knew that wouldn't work. He loves his wife; they've raised a family together. I love my John, my husband. I never want to hurt him.

It's o.k. that I think of Luke.  It's been hard, our reunion. It continued to be difficult into 2009.  My last intensely-feeling-need-to-connect heart tug was in September, 2009. We spoke on the phone then.  Perhaps we'll touch base again at some point.  

I've watched videos of Luke on youtube, videos that have to do with his work.  His hands, that's what I notice.  Always has been.  I notice a man's hands.  To me the hands are the sexiest part of a man's body.  I like to watch hands.

I sat on the toilet that day thinking about the abortion from when I was 19. Luke is the father of that unborn life.  We were madly in love at the time, as 19 year olds can be.

The abortion came and went.  I treated it like a splinter. That's how The Way treated it, pretty much.  Whisk me away from my position on the field to hide and get the deed done.  Five days later, back on the field to "move the Word," to "do the work of the Ministry," to help take the "Word over the world."  Like it never happened, the abortion. But it did.

At 47 years old I looked at it, at that time in my life.  Not much emotion until I asked my body, the universe, God, or whatever.

I asked, "What was the gender?"

My thoughts answered, "Boy."

I asked, "What did he look like?" knowing full well the embryo or fetus wasn't a child yet. Knowing, logically, that it was a stupid-ass question about a life that had not yet taken full form.

My thoughts answered with an image, clear as any image can be.

For a few minutes I held that little naked boy.  Olive skin. Dark eyes. Head full of black hair.  He suckled my breast.

My thoughts said, "He's dead."

The next seven hours stricken with grief.

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Click here to read an introduction to memoir: Journey through Memoir: Introduction

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Tears Still Roll

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I was thinking the other day. Thinking. Thinking. Thinking.

What if The Way International crumbled?  I write much about my time in The Way.

What if GreaseSpot Cafe crumbled? I will soon be writing more about my experiences at that online forum.

What if the Worldwide Church of God, Scientology, Detroit Church, Transcendental Meditation Org, Energetix (et al), The Family, on and on....what if they all melted and ceased to be?

I've taken what I call a lay activist voice in regard to totalistic groups, groups which sweep their unacknowledged misdeeds under the rug dismissing people as objects to be used. [Some people experience similar tactics in one-on-one relationships without ever being involved in these type groups.]

I was thinking, "Carol, what would you do with your time if these type groups all fell and no longer existed?  Would you still speak up?"

Today my answer is, "Yes."  With a shrug. To borrow a phrase, "so the fuck what!"

STFW if they all fall. They still did what they did. People still suffered at the hands of unruly human merchandisers.

If every abusive, power-hungry, god-forsaken, manipulative, sanctimonious, jerk-wad system bottomed out (which is highly unlikely on this current earth), my experiences are still real. Others' experiences still happened.  People matter, damn it.

They matter.

I recently read Rilke again, from his compilation "Letters to a Young Poet." As I read, the salty rivulets rolled across my 50 years of flesh. I wiped the tears with the back of my hand. Then more tears came.

Rilke's words continue to stir me, "...ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple "I must," then build your life in accordance with this necessity..."

Yes, I must write.

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Pap Smear

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I hadn't had any children yet, had I? How did I meet the midwife-registered nurse who gave me those couple Pap smears?

Ahh, it must have been through the food co-op.  I found the co-op because I had so many food allergies.  My food allergies began to be diagnosed in 1984, before I had children.

My firstborn child came into this world in 1988.  My heart is moved when I write that. It was a hard pregnancy. So many stories. So many victories.

I discovered that pregnancy before the zygote had moved to my womb.  

In 1987, I ended up at the hospital emergency room and had to fill my belly with water for a sonogram.  I was having asthma trouble and possible blood spotting.

The sonogram revealed a life form in one of my fallopian tubes.

Thank God for Dr. Carpirossi, the OBGYN, who, disagreeing with the emergency room staff, diagnosed that I was simply in the very early stages of pregnancy. Otherwise that little zygote would have been removed, the ER docs suspecting it as a tubal. I don't know how that would have affected me.  I guess I would have gotten over it, like other things in life.

Dr. Carpirossi was correct.  The little zygote was carried to my womb and tucked itself into the warm, nurturing, soft flesh and muscle where it grew into a separate life. First an embryo. Then a fetus. Then a babe. Then a child. Then an adolescent. Now a young woman.

The midwife from before 1987. I wish I could recall her name. She lived in Bethlehem, which is on the northwest side of Hickory heading toward Taylorsville. It seems she lived in a large mobile home, but perhaps it was a stick-built house. The property she lived on was beautiful with pasture land and farm life. I liked her. She was married. She probably had children and homeschooled.  Many of the co-op folk followed that route. Most took the unschooling approach.

I lay on the bed and spread my legs, the way us women do when we allow a Pap smear. She kept gently reminding me to relax. I told her I was trying or not trying, whichever; I was doing my best. She had a lot of trouble taking the smear. I was so tense.

She asked, "I don't want to be nosy, but I have a question." She paused. "Have you ever been sexually abused?"

I answered, "No."  To my knowledge I hadn't been.

She continued, "I've done lots of Pap smears over the years. I've never run into anyone so tense as this. I'm not criticizing; I'm just letting you know."

I hated, despised, Pap smears. I don't think I know anyone fond of them. I thought it was normal to be as uptight as I was, 'frigid' and despiteful of the damn things.

I responded, "I did have an abortion once, in 1978. Maybe that has something to do with it."

That's all we said about that.

My Pap smear was normal.

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Click here to read an introduction to memoir: Journey through Memoir: Introduction

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