Will Gnats Evolve?

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As I was on my final hike of my AT backpacking debut, I came upon gnats.  

They hadn't been a problem in the previous 69 miles.  But as I descended toward Watauga Lake in Tennessee, where people are known to hang out as well, the tiny flying creatures appeared.  I don't like gnats in my eyes. Don't they know by now that by flying into mammal eyes they end their lives?  It would seem, by now, that their DNA would have evolved with an imprint to avoid such danger.  That of human eyes.

Imagine how very tiny a gnat's organs are. Miniscule. Yet complex. Amazing.

Amazing. Enthralling. Life changing.  Not gnats' organs. But rather hiking the AT. What an incredible experience.  And I only hiked 71 miles!  

The thru-hikers are a breed of their own.  Hiking 15 to 20 miles a day by latter May, most having left Springer Mountain, Georgia, back in late March or early April. Some left as late as May.  They get their hiking legs after about 3 weeks or so.  Or after about 300 miles.

My average was 7 miles a day. Ha! Son called me Pokey. My longest day was over 11 miles and my shortest day was 3 miles.  The three-miler was my first day on the trail over all the rocks beginning at Massie Gap in Grayson Highlands, Virginia. My pack weighed 44.5 pounds. Oh my god! Never again!!  (I hope I don't eat those words). I lightened the pack to 39 pounds once I got to Damascus. Still I'm gonna get it lighter. Yuppers.

So much to write. The Hiker's Inn. Shelter nights.Buzzard Rock. Rain. Elk Garden. Nights alone in the woods. Jim & Chris & Frank. Whodat (Ryan). Peter Burns with the boys. FAA retired gentleman who hit the trail some 5 days after retirement. Cliff. Sweet Tea (Georgia). The 82-year old thru-hiker. The guys from Savannah: "Mile quota down; smile quota up!" Seth & Chris, the physical therapists. Galilee Man. Slack packing. PUD. Taco the chihuahua, trail named Yellow Blazer. The man from New Zealand who gave me water. The folks from Texas who gave me water. Trail angels. The nights alone in the woods. The birds, so many birds. The achy feet. Tingy the dog who joined me for a few miles. Adam. McGyver. Ynot (Tony). Eddie from Lexington. 

Yes, there are definitely more males than females on the trail.

Tears. Gratitude. Appreciation. Missing my hubby and family.

So very aware of my physique. My body. My feet. My legs. 

So much to write about my little excursion that I'm sure I'll never get written. The material senses are limited when painting experience, but perhaps some will contour images in scribblings. 

And oh yes!  I shall do another excursion, probably mid to latter June.  A shorter version, as I can't take two weeks off work again.

Trail magic. It is very real.

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Heading on a Trek

I'm getting ready to be away from cyberville and technology for a bit. Thus I am putting blog comments on moderation.

I'm heading out on May seventeenishith for a lengthy hike (at least for me) on the Appalachian Trail. I am psyched!

I might approve any comments in the upcoming days or it may be sometime in June before I'll approve comments. I'll be pretty busy these last few days with final preparations.

Happy Trails to me...

w00t!!

Scientific Studies: TMO's sacred doctrine over person?

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What is on my mind this May night soon to be mid night.  By the time I click "publish post" a new day will have probably begun, though it will still be dark awaiting dawn.  

The dawn of sunlight. Dew mist across green sprouts.  Lilies open their cups. Spiders awaken to spin.

This time next week I will be among the crickets, but without a cyber screen. Instead I'll have screen-type webbing that hopefully will be allowing night breezes in.  That is hopefully the skies will not be crying. Teardrops from clouds to drip upon my small tent as I lie sleeping in my bag upon my pad, resting my by-then weary-sore feet.

Josh looked up the weather forecast for next week, on the trail.  The high is low 60's with rain. I laugh. What a grand way to start our hike.

I haven't walked with my pack the past few days. Life became busy. Today I suffered with my menstrual migraine, always an unwelcome guest.  My comforting thought is that at least I'll have the worst of it (hormonal difficulty) out of the way before the hike. I'll probably get a mild flare-up one or two days along my trek. Thus I am prepared for such.

I've been tweeting quite a few links regarding Transcendental Meditation. I am not fond of some of the attitudes of Transcendental Meditation Organization loyalists who insist that no one, absolutely no one, has adverse effects from meditating.  

A former TMO initiator allowed his responses to the new film "David Wants to Fly" to be posted online. The former initiator wants to remain anonymous. I read various responses to his response this afternoon.

Some people ridicule his response. Others agree with him. Some agree with part and disagree with part.  Hopefully and perhaps most people fall in the latter of those three categories.

Some appear to possess a desire to analyze his response as if it were absolute. They seem to want to pick it apart, to prove it true or untrue. Yet his response is neither 'right' or 'wrong' in a moral or even factual sense. How the film affected him, in the sense of his own life experiences as opposed to others, is ultimately his and his alone. It is true for him.  Someone else's interpretation is true for them.   

I think again of something I wrote some months ago about subjective and objective realities.  Both are true for the person who lives them, the impact each reality has upon that individual's life.

I got to thinking about Far Eastern thought being mixed with Western science. I thought of it in regard to how TMO loyalists constantly, and I mean constantly (at least from my experience), bring up the almighty (my term) "scientific studies."  It's like the scientific studies are what they worship, much like fundamentalist Christians worship the written "Word."  The doctrine prevails over the person.  In the case of the scientific studies, the linear results of said guinea persons prevail over another person's (or even the tested person's) differing experience(s).

It is still a type of doctrine over person.

And yet, I thought Eastern thought is supposedly less linear than Western?  Perhaps that ain't so.

And perhaps I'm wrong to not put so much absolute faith in Western science.  

I know my own healing and physical wellness comes about by listening to my own intuitive guidance, regardless of Western linear studies. Yes I utilize Western (conventional) methods. I utilize "alternative" (non-conventional) methods, even homeopathy and EFT. I endeavor (and think I do an o.k. job) to balance both conventional and non-conventional with an intuitive sense of what I feel will help me.

I much prefer HeartMath's model and approach regarding coherence over the Transcendental Mediation Organization's model.

But then, I'm only a mom in the laboratory of life. Without wires. Without test tubes. Without the proper Western scientific gadgets to prove what works for me. 

I think of Claire almost every week.  Just another thought that goes through my mind.

The end, regarding some of my thoughts on this May evening, almost mid night.

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Giant and Dwarf

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I sat on the ground. Small.

The large man beside me loomed upward. Like a giant Paul Bunyon. Yet unlike Paul, he wasn't kind, nor warm, nor approachable.

He was mean-spirited as he derided me rehearsing my worthlessness to my inner ear. I sat listening. The lesser.

He stood to my right. As I sat cross-legged. On the ground.

But I didn't fear him.

I looked up at his towering physique and his small head in the distance.

My eyes then gazed downward, at his feet. Giant feet.

"You. You are the boot."

For at least a decade, if not longer, when I would sink into what I referred to as "the hole," in my mind's eye which is more my heart's eye, the giant, laced army boot always awaited me. Awaited me at the top of "the hole."

"The hole." That deep, dark, damp, mold-ridden, all-encompassing vortex of hopelessness. A void. Yet not quite a void or a vortex. It seems I would fall in rather than be sucked in. And the hole had a bottom to it. I don't think of voids and vortexes as having a closed end.

At the bottom was a large rock where I'd lay, exhausted. I'd look up, feeling trapped, yet seeing light. I'd rest to gain strength for my ascent.

"The hole." A dry well. Red dirt walls with scattered protruding roots. I'd try to climb out; I always tried. I had to try. I could not give into suicide or utter despair. I had to pull myself up.

And when I'd get to the top, my fingernails caked with red earth, my hands sometimes scraped and bloodied, I'd feel "the boot" on my head.

"The boot." The giant, laced army boot. Stomping my head and pushing me down, back down into the hole.

I'd feel the words more than hear them. Words that came somewhere from that army boot. "You fucking moron. You good-for-nothing jerk. Asshole. Sorry excuse for a person." Then I'd feel the mocking laughter, laughing at me for trying to escape. "You'll never make it out."

I'd often hang on a root that grew out of the dirt wall that bounded the cylindrical 6-foot diameter, 30-foot deep dry well. Sometimes I'd end up at the bottom again. To rest. To gain strength for another climb.

During that decade or so, I'd sometimes make it out of the hole. And that only after the boot was no where to be seen. I never saw the body to which that boot belonged.

Until a few days ago in May, 2010. When I sat, in my mind's eye which is more my heart's eye, cross-legged on the ground.

And this time, for the first time, I saw the looming, gigantic, male body that went with that god-forsaken boot and his deriding words of shame.

And I wasn't afraid.

"You. You are the boot."

I wonder what I'll name him. I wonder if I can tame him.

I feel empowered that I never allowed him to tame me.

Perhaps I'll burn his boot(s) and throw him in the hole.

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A poem I wrote in 2008 about that boot: Despair
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Blipped Rant

I typically don't post (what I consider) "rants" on this blog. I often, but not always, find rants irritating to read.

That said, I'm posting (part of) a rant. An excerpt from one I wrote a day or two ago. As a rant, it has some language in it.

As I reread the rant this morning, I got to thinking about people's stories, the stories of our lives. In that sense, our stories are sacred. I like what I read on one of Fred Poole's blogs, a line from Tom Groome's thoughts: "[...]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 [...]"

I wish the world weren't so paranoid so that folks could share their stories without fear of others trying to sue, or squelch, or abuse for simply sharing their humanity. For sharing the way life happens. Yet I understand the reason for the fear of not feeling free to open up, to recount; sometimes the costs are too high for an individual. They may pay emotionally or physically or mentally or spiritually. That's not a fault or cowardice; it's just the way things are.

I think of a couple lines from a poem: "Perhaps we would be holier if we allowed with candid face ~ Our dirtied souls' exposures and open hands that offer grace."

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The rant (now partially blipped):

So I'm reading "The Cult that Snapped," for the first time.

I'm reading some over at GSC. I read what some people post and I want to respond.

But I know not to. I wouldn't even now how to approach posting at that place. It may be that I can't post there anyway. I don't know. The last two times I've tried to add to my blog over there, I couldn't...like it'd been disabled.

Right now I feel...hmmm....like...hmmm...like....hmmm....like damn it. I'm not a Wayite. I want to do something with my 28 fucking years in The Way. I want to be able to contribute to ex-Way folks experiences. Oh fuck.

My fucking brain goes down the path that GSC is the only place I can do that.

That ain't true, really.

I have to recall the emails I've received, the phone calls, from ex-Way folks...most long-timers like me....who've contacted me unsolicited and shared that my writings have helped them process some of their own stuff.

Right? Right.

GSC was an abusive place for me. Not only me, but for others as well.

[...blip...]
[...blip...]
[...blip...]
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[...blip...]

GSC behind-the-scenes drama. Secrets. Cover-ups.

Sticky.

I don't want those kinds of relationships. I had enough egg-shell walking in TWI.

So...calm down Carol. Yes, you'd like to post over there regarding certain issues that people are bringing up now, issues involving their own personal processing. Issues you can relate to as a long timer in TWI.

But, maybe Carol that ain't your place to do.  Apparently not, at least not at this time.

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One of my great uncles was named Rant. He's deceased now. There is a road named after him, Rant Drum Road. Or maybe he was a distant cousin of some sort. Regardless, Mom always referred to him as Uncle Rant.
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