Is

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Sometimes (often?) I feel I don't fit in groups.  Well, more like I don't fit in "proper" groups.

I have felt I fit with certain poets and artists and writers.  It seems among the writers and artists with whom I resonate, motives aren't scrutinized.  It's like motives aren't really much of a theme; expression is.  Being is.

That's what grounds me, to be.  Let me be me.  Allow expression for what it is, expression.

I was thinking long and hard last night about people who are my closest friends.  We don't necessarily have expectations of each other.  And then I thought that probably isn't true.

Our expectation is for each of us to simply be. To respect the being. To honor it. To allow it.  To be.

Sometimes I despise that which is proper.

"Fuck the begrudgers. Feel speed ahead."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Note: Reread this hours later and notice the typo in the last sentence, "feel" instead of "full." Ha!  I like it.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Memoir, Art, Life ~ Love Affair

The following is originally posted here on October 31, 2009. Yet, since I've been adding links to the collection, I'm bringing it up again.
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Yes, I'm currently enthralled (in the the good sense) with this new-found love of memoir.

I recall in my early days of The Way Corps, I desired to 'master' (a word which I rarely and really don't like to use) the art of communication. Words fascinated me. I enjoyed word studies, which is when a person studies one word and its various usages in "The Bible." In junior high school, I loved (yes loved) diagramming sentences. As a hobby, I enjoyed perusing etymologies of words and phrases.

Here I am, decades later, writing and writing and writing and writing. It's a bit of an obsession, huh? *chuckle*

This new-found journey of memoir is, for me, like a treasure chest of precious gems - some that sparkle, others that are less noticeable.

Following are links, some authored by me and some by others, regarding memoir; regarding magic strokes upon the page which take form into landscapes of discovery, re-discovery, and beyond.  I'll add to it as I come across and recall some things I've read about writing memoir....

WRITTEN WORD 1 -- First Person by Fred Poole
~Writers are constantly being told to write what they know, but they are often steered away from that they know best, the writer’s own self.

WRITTEN WORD 39 - Writing of a Sort by Fred Poole
~...But something was lacking. At end of what I wrote I was precisely where I had been when I started. There had not been discovery, just a reiteration of matters already known.

WRITTEN WORD 59 - Summation - Play within a Play by Fred Poole
~...Tom, who became my spiritual director, was the person who gave as crucial spiritual advice, "Fuck the begrudgers," and Tom also wrote and spoke of stories as sacred, a person's actual stories, reflections upon stories, stories played off against other stories, stories changing – and guided me as I bluffed the academic affairs people to get credit for writing stories where they normally would require dry research papers.~

Any of the other works  in Fred Poole's "WRITTEN WORD" series.

Ice Breaker by Marta Szabo
~Every memoir – every good one – is a self-portrait, and the more blatant and honest it is the better. [...] There are other memoirs that claim to be blatant and honest just because they spatter blood and guts all over the page. I'm not talking about that....

Memoir, Art and What It's Good For by Marta Szabo
~....Writing memoir – discovering and saying distinctly your version of the facts – not through the disguise of metaphor, but in unmistakable scenes and concrete details -- makes you strong. To choose the stories that are important, not have someone tell you what they are. To write without obligation to family, schoolteachers, grammarians, or bestseller lists.

Words on Memoir by Susanna Sonnenberg
~ Thus, the two versions are both true and untrue at the same time. I guess I felt that I needed to make absolutely clear how deeply I revered the form of memoir, what a fascinating, personal expression it is.

Welcome to Memoir as Healing by Linda Joy Myers
~ Painstakingly writing about the darkest times in my life, putting those stories down on paper—bringing them into the light—liberated me from the emotional burdens of a lifetime.

Journey through Memoir: Introduction ...part I of my thoughts on memoir...
~ Both subjective and objective realities are substantial components of what shapes a person's life. Both have value and are 'true' in the sense of how an individual responds. Both leave an imprint, like a deer track through the woods.

Ink Not Dried ....part II of my thoughts on memoir...
~ An entire universe within itself, the depths of which are hidden until one decides to dive.  That is memoir, at least a snippet of it..

Do You Type with Eyes Closed? ...part III of my thoughts on memoir...
~ Let the fragments surface.  Allow the currents to rise.  Let the memories and stories live - to be embraced, not embalmed.

It's Relative ....me again...
~ ...my family of origin isn't separate from my involvement with my various relationships through the years.  But yet, in a sense, I have viewed my family as separate and rather nebulous really. 

~*~~*~*~*~*~*~

Moths, Dams, Anchors

August, 2005.

"Hello, this is Carol." I cheerfully answered our home telephone.

It was Debra.

~*~

Debra and I had taken The Way's Power for Abundant Living Foundational and Intermediate Class together back in 1977. At that time, the Foundational and Intermediate classes were presented as one class of fifteen three-hour sessions over a three-week time period. The first twelve sessions made up the Foundational Class which culminated with everyone in the Class speaking in tongues. The last three sessions, which were the Intermediate Class, led all the students into the manifestations of interpretation and prophecy.

Everyone in The Way speaks in tongues and most everyone interprets and prophesies.

Debra raised her three sons, for the most part, as a single mom. She always did her best to get all four of them to Fellowship. One year, she even took them all Word Over the World Ambassador. I think she was at an Advanced Class when she made that decision, for her and her boys to go WOW. At the time I was concerned; I was hoping she hadn't made an emotional decision thinking it was a spiritual one.

But she and her boys did it, returning to the Rock of Ages at the end of their year of WOW service to each receive their blue WOW Ambassador lapel pins. That's what WOWs got after their one year of volunteering for God, a blue lapel pin.

Children who served as WOWs were called mini-WOWs.  I think they received a special mini-WOW lapel pin.

The adult lapel pin is oval shaped, about one-half inch wide, gold-trimmed, with an embossed gold outline of the continents on a deep blue background. The pin represents our planet.

Small gold printed letters at the top of the pin read "WAY," all upper case. To the left of "WAY," in smaller italicized script, sits the word "The." Perpendicular to WAY and down the middle of the pin is the word "Ambassador," the letter "A" in the word WAY serving as the first letter in the word Ambassador. At the bottom of the pin, on either side of the letter "o" in Ambassador, are the letters "w" and "w." So that it reads "wow" across the bottom. All letters are lower case except for that one word at the top, WAY. The back of the pen is metallic gold.

WOW Vets would wear their pins proudly to Ministry functions; I know I did. Word Over the World pinned on my chest, on the left side, over my heart. I still have my pin from the one WOW year that I completed.

But of course the year wasn't about the WOW pin; the year was about growing spiritually mature and confident. It was said a believer could grow "ten years in one" when they went WOW. After I exited The Way I thought, Gosh, if a person physically grew ten years in one, they'd die.

John and I had helped Debra as much as we could through over a decade as she was raising her boys as a single mom. When she got married in the early 1990s, my young son was the ring bearer and my daughter was the flower girl at her wedding. She married Eric, a believer who had been with the Ministry on and off since at least the early 1970s.

Eric is a US Army veteran. In the early '70s on one of his practice paratrooper jumps, his chute didn't open. Amazingly he lived. He had to spend a year or so in a body cast and ultimately lost his right arm. The incident about the accident is recorded in the book The Way Living in Love, about how the believers at Way Headquarters had prayed for Eric helping believe for his healing. Forty years later he's still thriving, even coaches a swim team.

They've been through a lot, Debra and Eric. I continue to admire them both. Survivors and thrivers living each day with gratitude and gusto.

Back in the late '90s, they were put on four-months probation from The Way. After I left The Way I learned that there was a public meeting at that time. Debra and Eric were present at the meeting while their lives were examined and scrutinized. That's where they received the verdict that they were to stay away from the Household for those months until they got it together. They had to read the same Way articles over and over about their "opportunity," and then report in writing every week to the Way Corps Branch leader. That's what followers had to do during those years when they were put on probation. Apparently Debra and Eric passed the requirements of decontamination; they were allowed back into the fold.

In The Way we didn't have "problems," we had "opportunities." Opportunities to believe God. Opportunities to grow stronger.

~*~

I don't recall how mine and Debra's August, 2005, phone call started, what the subject was. But somewhere in the conversation the Ministry came up.

"Carol, what's wrong with The Ministry? What's happened to it?" Debra's voice had a longing sound to it.

My gut fluttered with moths. I was silent.

Would this be a repeat of mine and Dee's conversation from a month earlier at the Reliv Conference?

Lump in my throat. Bottom lip trembling. Hole in my gut. Tears gathering.

"Carol?" Debra broke the silence. The dam holding back my tears was cracking.

She heard my sobs and deep breaths. "Carol, what's going on?"

"Debra." The words made it past the lump. "There's stuff. There's stuff I've read online about the Ministry."

I felt dirty.

Oh God, what was I doing? I was allowing this secret I'd been keeping to seep forth. I didn't want to blame the Ministry. I didn't know how much of the sexual abuse allegations were true. I didn't know if Donna and Rosalie were lesbians. I didn't know if these people who had written accusations were liars, possessed, or honest.

Yet I felt some of the allegations were true, though I tried not to. I didn't want them to be true.

I felt sick to my stomach.

How could I have kept my mouth shut? Why hadn't I told Debra this stuff before? Why hadn't I told Dee? What was wrong with me?

So many people had already left The Way, in droves at times. Why we were just now, in this little corner of North Carolina, why we were just now seriously contemplating these doubts? It was like we had been kept in a cocoon, except for when Mike and Jane had been made mark and avoid back in 1995.

Yet even then, we chose The Way. "We have no friends when it comes to The Word." That's what Doctor had taught us; that's what the Ministry taught us. The Ministry was the Household, wasn't it?

We had all devoted our entire adult lives to The Way. Our money. Our time. Our energy. We all loved the Ministry. We loved Doctor. We loved Craig. Of course they made mistakes; they were men. But the love of God covers a multitude of sins, doesn't it?

"Debra, do you that know that Mrs. Wierwille is sick?" My words trickled out.

"No," she answered baffled and concerned. "How sick? What do you mean?"

"She's dying. She's in a nursing home on her last days. I don't know much. I've read that The Way wouldn't even let the Wierwille children on grounds to see her, when she was at the home place at Headquarters, before she went to the nursing home. But I don't know if that's true, if they weren't allowed on grounds."

Debra was stunned.

"There's more." I continued. "Craig had more than one affair. And there are three law suits. One of those suits was filed by Ron."

The dam had broken.

I shared about the hole I'd been carrying around inside for at least a year. I told her about GreaseSpot. I told her about the various splinter groups that had been formed by former Way leadership. Most loyal Way followers knew about John Lynn's splinter group, but few knew that there were other groups.

"It's not just me then?" Debra responded.

"No. It's not just you," my voice relieved, yet scared. Had I done the right thing by speaking up?

What had been our spiritual anchor for decades, was loosing its grip.

Peeking Between the Cover

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I'm in process of transcribing another journal. Again I am transcribing it in public, on the blog where I transcribed a previous journal.

The previously transcribed journal is from over twenty years ago. The current journal I'm transcribing is from five and six years ago.

And I thought the first transcription was difficult. This second one is much closer on the chronological timeline; there is not the distance there was with the first journal.

What interest me in both these journals is the mindset of the author. That author is me. It's an odd feeling to peer into my thoughts, to transcribe, to allow other eyes to stroke the words. Though I doubt many eyes will glide across them; still the thoughts are there for the peeking.

In this current transcription I am leaving out some entries, even full weeks of entries. I'm leaving out parts of certain entries; I indicate those parts with [...].

It can be a scary thing to look into one's own mind. To look at the thought processes of who I was just five and six years ago.

I have to remind myself that it is what it is and it was what it was.

My journals were and are my processing grounds of my perceptions, of other people, of events, of piecing life together, of trying to figure out the whys and the hows and the what am I to dos. They are not essays on life in the sense of final judgments and absolutes. They are essays in the sense of a work in progress.

Works in process are filled with experiments.

"Essay." The word has an intriguing etymology. A trial, attempt, weighing out.

There is no such thing as a failed experiment.
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Dimensions of Bliss

I keep saying to myself that I will write an essay about similarities between speaking in tongues, mantras, and effects of hallucinogenic drugs. I've experienced all three. There are parallels. But those parallels aren't straight; they twine.

I guess I could throw in something about the richness of group experiences, for lack of a better way of saying it. Yet, that aspect (the group experience) is a bit different from the three experiences listed in the first paragraph. The first three don't necessarily happen in a group. They can, but they are more intimate, more personal. Hmm, at least in one sense.

Yesterday, or maybe it was the day before, I wrote a memoir piece. As I was writing and putting my self back into the scene, I could see the relationship, I could feel the relationship, between a multi-level marketing gathering and a gathering of The Way International.

There were times in The Way, like attending The Way Advanced Class or experiencing The Way Corps or attending a weekend Way Advance, times I'd tell people that they'd have "to go to know," they'd have to attend the gatherings to understand the experience. There was nothing else to compare the experience to. The experience was like the chewy, caramel center of God's heart. It was rich and lush and deep. It was like another level of life. It was experiencing the breadth and length and depth and height. It was like another dimension for which there are no words.

At one time I thought that the "true" experience was unique to The Way, that the experience was the Body of believers lush with God's love, living what is called the "Mystery" in the book of Ephesians in the Bible. Any similar experiences, outside The Way, I once believed were counterfeit, were a trick of the spiritual dark side to lure one away from the "true" experience.

I now have a different opinion, about that.

Experience. Experience.

Come to think of it, my weekend of Transcendental Meditation rounding had a similar feel. Hm, no surprise.

Well then, if it feels so good, is it wrong?

I don't think so, not necessarily. I think it becomes "wrong" when a person turns off their critical thinking skills. When one begins to think "this is it." When one believes that this is unique and cannot be found elsewhere outside that environment.

It's kind of like getting high, in that one can recognize (hopefully) they are high and that their perception is distorted. Or say, when a salesperson is convincing a buyer that she needs to buy that product right at that moment. That's a distortion, at least most of the time.

Perhaps I'll get around to sharing my experiences and the similarities between mantras, speaking in tongues, and LSD/et al. At times, they were all 'cosmic;' they all felt supernatural.

"Ema." That is my Transcendental Meditation mantra. I received it in 1975 when I was 16. Here, check out the mantra list! :-D

"Le quiote mai yuma hental." That's speaking in tongues (SIT). I first spoke in tongues in 1977 when I was 18. There's no list for SIT. I guess it beats mantras for originality. (No offense God.)

BTW, I still speak in tongues at times, especially when I am hiking alone in the woods. I'll make up tunes and sing too; I like it. It's quite "blissful" for me. ;-)

I guess people who are deaf and mute cannot speak in tongues? Or repeat a mantra? Hmmm...

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"Where is the love?"

Initially posted as Entry 16.

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Diane was my best friend in The Way.  Now we were in business together. We were both independent distributors with Reliv International, a multi-level marketing (MLM) nutrition and food-science company.  I had sponsored Diane into the business. I was doing o.k. with it.  I wasn't getting rich but was making some money and helping people with their health, something I was passionate about.

July, 2005. Diane and I attended the Reliv International Conference in St. Louis, Missouri.  We drove to St. Louis from North Carolina with three other Reliv distributors. The drive out and back were a blast. All of us, middle-aged women, loved to laugh and goof. Possum Junction, Indiana, was one of our guffaw stops at a little hole-in-the-wall gas station and sandwich shop where one could buy an "I ate at the Road Kill Cafe" tee shirt.

At one point on the drive to St. Louis I got into a wee-morning-hour conversation with the other three distributors, all of whom were Christians and trinitarians. The ladies and I discussed in depth the doctrine of the trinity. I, of course, was a committed non-trinitarian. That said, I no longer 'argued' the point. I had given up arguing scripture some years back; arguing was seldom fruitful.

Diane was asleep in the back seat of the van. I was wishing she'd wake up to help me out with the trinitarian versus non-trinitarian discourse. At the end of the hour-plus dialog Debbie, one of the ladies, stated to me, "What you've shared is so logical that thou almost persuadest me; but I can't give up what I've been taught as the truth, what I've known and experienced."

I felt proud that I'd represented God and His Son accurately. I gave myself a silent "'atta girl" pat on the back.

I felt what I had felt at other times. Thought what I had thought at other times. At other times when I'd witnessed the greatness of the Word to "unbelieving believers." Debbie chose her tradition over the truth, over what was logical. People are entrapped in religion, in churches, in illogic. Tradition over truth; religion does that. Fear binds. People are afraid to look beyond the boundaries.

"Unbelieving believers." That's what The Way called Christians who didn't believe the accuracy of the Word, Christians outside the Household of The Way.

I was no foreigner to multi-level marketing.  In the past I'd been an Amway distributor and a Cell Tech distributor.  Amway was o.k., except for certain aspects of the Britt Organization like when I was told the real reason to get people to a Britt/Miller Amway Conference was to get them to the Sunday morning service and get them saved. I didn't even attend the Sunday services.  When I was first introduced to the concept of MLM and to Amway, I thought Amway was to business what The Way was to Christianity; ie: The Way taught the true Christianity and Amway taught the true way for business to operate.  At some point I fizzled out on Amway.

Within a few years of fizzling on Amway, a Way Corps grad introduced me to Cell Tech, a company that distributes blue-green algae as a nutritional supplement. If a Way Corps grad endorsed it, it must be good. I was continuing to have chronic and serious health problems; so I gave it a try.  It helped for about 1-1/2 years; then it quit working.  I couldn't figure out if my body had developed a sensitivity to it, which my body was known to do, or if I had responded with a placebo effect and that effect had worn off. Eventually, I fizzled out on Cell Tech. I'd wonder if the same would happen with Reliv: at some point would the wellness benefits quit working; would I tire of it and fizzle out?

It was in summer, 2004, that I was first introduced to Reliv.  I experienced significant health results with the products. I liked the people and liked the company. I jumped on board as a distributor.

I was successful at reaching my business goals but had trouble buying into what was called "the Reliv way" or "the Reliv system."

"The Reliv system" was the way to build the business, the duplication process. To do that, I felt I'd be committing idolatry. I couldn't go all the way with "the business" and keep God and the Ministry first in my life. Nothing was to come before the rightly-divided Word or being especially good to the Household.

But by "sharing the Reliv opportunity" with Way believers, wasn't that being especially good to the Household? Some distributors viewed their Reliv business as a ministry in itself, helping people with health and finances. Couldn't I do that too? I'd try to convince myself.

From time to time Diane would bring up how she and I and our husbands would make money and travel the world together. I'd outwardly agree, but in my heart, I really didn't care about traveling or making it big in Reliv. Something didn't feel right, going all out with Reliv.

Why were things "all or nothing?"

Plus I felt Reliv products wouldn't help everyone; people's bodies might not respond favorably to the products. Reliv distributors were taught that the products always helped everyone. If someone's body reacted unfavorably to taking the products, the response was most likely a detox effect. O.K. I could mostly buy that. I'd been through plenty of detox programs myself and understood that aspect of the healing process. But Reliv wasn't the only way to wellness; that, I couldn't buy. I don't recall anyone ever stating that, that Reliv was "the only way" to wellness and financial freedom. But I felt it; perhaps I read into the message.

At the International Conference I spent time with some of the top producers in Reliv.  One of those was in my upline.  She asked me at a dinner, "So Carol, are you ready to go all the way with 'the system?'" I responded, "I might be getting there, but not yet, not all the way."

The conference was a blast. I thoroughly enjoyed myself, especially the final night with the banquet and dancing.  I danced my heart out. Diane loved to dance too; we were all over the dance floor.

And the people. The people.  The Reliv people were awesome.  They didn't doll up in bling and flash like I'd seen in Amway, but rather were down to earth and wonderful conversationalists.  There were people from various cultures mingling and enjoying good conversation and food, sharing stories and lives, phone numbers and hugs. One-on-one, people were relating, connecting.

It reminded me of how The Way used to be.  It reminded me of the gatherings The Way used to have at The Rock of Ages.  Craig Martindale had axed The Rock in the mid-90s. I missed those days. Since then, there had been no international Way gatherings except for Way Advanced Class Specials and some Way Word in Business Conferences.  But nothing for "regular believers."

"Regular believers." That's what Way leadership and faithfuls often called Way followers who were not at least Way Advanced Class graduates.

As I walked back to my hotel room from the final night of The Reliv Conference, from the dance and the celebration, my heart hurt. I missed relationships. What had happened to The Ministry?  Why was this gathering more fulfilling to me than a Way Advanced Class Conference?  What was wrong with The Way?  Or was it just me? Again, the same questions badgered me. Again, I felt the hole in my soul.

Once back at the hotel room, Diane was there.  Due to the way we had shared hotel rooms to save on expenses, Diane and I shared a queen size bed.  We lay down and talked about the conference, the people we'd met, the laughter, the tears.

Tears.  Diane looked at me, her eyes wet with tears. "Tonight reminded me of the old Rock of Ages." Diane had been in The Way since the early to mid-seventies.

I felt a lump in my throat. Though Diane was my best friend in The Way, I had not told her what I'd been reading online.

I again tucked all that away.

"Me too," I replied through the lump.

"What's happened to The Ministry Carol?  What is missing?  Something is missing."

My gut churned. I wasn't sure of the answer.  "I have the same questions Diane."  I ached.  "I think the love of God is lacking.  I think somehow The Ministry lost the love of God."

We talked a bit. But still I didn't reveal the things I'd read online. I wasn't sure of anything; I wasn't ready to share.  We consoled ourselves that we'd continue to stand with The Ministry, to put the love of God into our lives, that it was God's Household, that it had gone through growth pains and was rebounding.

Yes, I resolved to myself.  The Household is still the best thing around; it is the functioning Body of Christ.  I will stay faithful, won't I?

I loved Diane.  She had helped me through one of my scary depressive and anxiety bouts back in 2002.  During that time, she had called me every day for a few weeks until my medication kicked in. She'd talked me through steps. "Carol, are you dressed?"  If I wasn't she'd help me get dressed, talking me through it on the phone.  Once dressed, "Carol, go to the kitchen. Get out a bowl. Put salad in it.  Put the dressing on it.  Put the fork to your mouth."  All without judgement toward me.  At one time, she had been where I was at that point; she reached out to me with compassion.  She too occasionally had bouts, and I would help her during those times.

Three months later, after that July, 2005, St. Louis Reliv Conference, Diane would be the first person with whom, outside my family and The Way Region Leaders, I would reveal that I had left the Household of The Way.

"Where is the love?" The song again ran through my mind while a fell asleep on the hotel bed in St. Louis. The same song that had run through my mind some 21 years previously when I had been on staff at The Way Headquarters.

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

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Panel Wagons and Speaking in Tongues

With all my heart I craved to know God, like a hunger that couldn't be satisfied. That's the main reason I broke my engagement with Frank.

God.

A passion burned inside of me, an internal driven madness to become one with the Creator, one with the Universe, one with the Divine.  To reach God Consciousness. I couldn't give all my heart to a man and love God at the same time. I had to choose one or the Other.

I chose the Other. I chose the Divine.

God.

Plus Frank believed in an eternal burning hell for people who never confessed Romans 10:9-10. I had tried to believe. Sunday after Sunday attending church and singing "Just as I Am" in that twangy country choir and going forward to the altar in tears of unworthiness. Wednesday after Wednesday attending the Vashti Victory Baptist Bible study as we went historically through the Old Testament and the New. I found nuggets of Truth; maybe there was something more in these pages.

Sitting in the little Vashti Victory Baptist Church watching that movie about the motorcycle rider who wrecked and was sentenced to the lake of fire, "The Burning Hell." I looked around the country church sanctuary; children, as young as five years old, were watching the young man in the movie being sentenced to an eternity of fiery damnation.  My stomach turned.  What was I doing sitting there in silence? Didn't that mean that I joined in condoning this?  But there I sat, trying to believe, telling myself this was the truth; yet, my gut churned. Off. On. Off. On.

God.

It was so odd. Frank the handsome hippie with blond hair, blue eyes, and a gotee who played Neil Young on his acoustic guitar, who owned and raised chow dogs and drove a panel wagon hippie van where I'd give him blow jobs and we'd make love in the back of the wagon when we'd go wagon camping. This beautiful man with whom I was awestruck and so wanted to please, who loved nature and hiking.

Frank and I lived in a cabin that had no running water and no heat except the wood stove.  We took our dogs and visited West Virginia in winter, the Dolly Sods Wilderness and some of Frank's friends who lived in Horseshoe Run where sits, what I was told, the smallest church in the lower forty-eight.  Horseshoe Run in winter. Lots of snow. Quiet. A pub on the corner. A general store. Frank and I rode in a horse drawn sleigh; it was a regular in the winter in 1976 in Horseshoe.

God.

It was odd. Frank with whom I visited Skyline Drive with our dogs. We stayed somewhere close to Front Royal in a large old house of one of Frank's friends; I think his name was Dave.  The house had no indoor plumbing and was heated with a wood stove.  A fire road went up the back property and intersected with Skyline Drive.

It was odd.  This man I loved and was going to marry, this hippie four years older than I who liked the fact that I didn't shave my legs or underarms and that I didn't drink or smoke dope, though he did.  He talked of peace and love, yet believed that a loving God would punish people in an eternal blaze if they didn't except Jesus as their Savior.

God.

My desire for God Consciousness was greater than my desire to please Frank. So, at 18 years old, I moved out of the little cabin at the base of  Rocky Face. My heart ached; I had to cut my ties to Frank. I had to. If I was going to find God.

God.

I moved in with Tula, in her home to help care for her.  I stayed with her for about eight weeks.

Tula was in her 80's. Every Wednesday was laundry day.  Together Tula and I would use the wash board and the wringer washer on Tula's screened in wooden porch. She lived right outside Taylorsvile off Highway 16 going toward Wilkesboro, not far from Rocky Face Mountain and Vashti.  Tula and I would scrub and wring Tula's clothes and then hang them on the line to dry.

I returned to Transcendental Meditation for a bit, repeating my mantra over and over, attending a weekend of TM rounding in the luxurious golf haven of Pinehurst, North Carolina, in the eastern part of the state. Through the month of June, I'd lay on my bedroom floor in Tula's home listening to Ram Dass on a 33 LP...round and round.  "Be Here Now."  I'd go over to Larry and Sues in Vashti and help with the organic strawberry farm. Larry and Sue who were from New York and had come to the North Carolina Mountains to homestead, in a sense.

God.

I spoke in tongues later that summer; in July, 1977.  The Vashti Victory Baptist Church had taught speaking in tongues was of the devil.  But what I heard, at Resurrection Lutheran that July weekday morning in Charlotte at a gathering of about 20 women and Pastor Mirly, sounded heavenly. A few ladies gently singing one at a time in beautiful languages. I was captivated.

God.

Panel wagons, twangy choirs, eternal fires.

Wooden porches, wringer washers, speaking in tongues.

Taboo

non-subject: "guilty pleasure"
aww ~ march 31, 2010
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"Guilty pleasure." What comes to mind?

I thought about the words as I walked six miles on Monday.

My promiscuous year? That was not pleasurable. I relate with no fondness to that time.

How do I relate to it? With disgust. A few months prior, I'd AWOLed on my Way Corps commitment, leaving my Word Over the World Ambassador tour of duty high and dry.  I felt like a Judas. How could I ever redeem myself?

My first victim, Ben. I was 20; he was 30. I worked as a pub waitress; he was a loyal patron.

Pub closing time was sometime after midnight. Doors were locked. Employees cleaned. A couple regular customers were allowed to hang around late. Ben was one of those.

After my work was done I'd sit at the bar with others. Relaxing, drinking, conversing, flirting.  Liebfraumilch was my bevearge of choice.

I turned on my charm with Ben. He looked like a Ben, bearded and husky. He dressed nicely and wore cologne. We found ourselves in the backseat of Ben's BMW. I desired to please. He enjoyed the pleasure.

Over the next nine months I made my rounds choosing my desired prey. Ben, Max, Bobby, Terry, David, William, Mike, and that other guy of whom I can't recall his name. I'd weave between them, back and forth, numbing myself with alcohol and sex; driven by some sort of shrouded force to murder my unworthiness, to somehow feel needed, to feel valuable.

My sexual liasons between these men were private, secret.  We didn't discuss our trysts nor did any of them or I show public affection one for another, except for Terry.  He and I supposedly dated for a couple months.

At the same time, in my other life which was my same life, I lived in a Way Home.  A Way Home; that was what The Way called it when Way believers lived together and ran fellowships and "moved the Word" together. In this same life which was my other life in the Way Home, I taught the Bible at Way Fellowships which were called Twigs. We hosted Twig in our Way home; we, being me and Kathy and Nancy. I led songs and Twig meetings. I spoke in tongues, interpreted, and prophesied. I filled out "blue forms" which were the financial reports of "abundant sharing" that we received at Twig when we passed the horn of plenty.  All monies collected were sent to New Knoxville, Ohio, The Way Headquarters.

I witnessed the Word to my secret pleasure seekers, these men with whom I felt value. I pleased them; that made me valuable. I'd speak the Word to them; after all, I was 'free' in Christ.

All of them came to Twig at least once, except for Ben and the nameless dude.  Mike even took the Power For Abundant Living Foundational Class.

That time in my life is not a guilty pleasure. It's painful to recall. Dirty, confusing, murky. I used those men, my prey. They used me. Quid pro quo.

What was my guilty pleasure? Journaling.

I began in 1998, then 39 years old, to pour my thoughts and feelings onto the page. Emotions and inklings, deemed forbidden by my then belief system, slowly began to trickle forth. I hid them, these forbidden possibly-inspired-by-devil-spirit emotions and thoughts, I hid them between my journal covers.

Self-hatred. Illnesses. Pains. Cries. Dreams. Shame. Poetry. Longing for inclusiveness among people. Silently screaming for the freedom to express.

Promiscuity. Bible. Journaling.

Paradox. Hypocrisy. Taboo.

Forever grateful for tasting these pages, my 'guilty pleasure' until death do us part.

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