Brouhahas .... and Karma

Earlier this evening, I read a post on a friend's FB page. That friend supports Phil Robertson and calls Jesse Jackson an idiot. I didn't comment; I don't have the energy. I like my friend, even if we disagree on certain viewpoints. Plus the dialog from some commenters had degraded into name-calling. (The commenters are mainly friends from my high school daze.)

My thoughts?
So here we have two extremes.
On one end is Robertson, far right; on the other Jackson, far left.
I can't genuinely back either.
If I had to choose between the two? Hmmm...if I had a gun to my head and would have to choose between Jackson and Robertson; I'd probably choose whomever the gun holder supports.
Neither Jackson or Robertson are worth dying over.
Are their differences worth dying over? Yes, perhaps; but it would have to be in a far more serious context.
I wonder who has more money, Robertson or Jackson? I wonder who has labored more for their money?

I first heard about the Phil Robertson drama about a week ago. The conversation went something like this:

Neighbor: "There's some controversy brewing about something Duck Dynasty Phil said."
Me: "What'd he say?
Neighbor: "Something about equating gays with beastiality and terrorists."
Me: "And that's a surprise to people?"

I've never seen a full episode of Duck Dynasty (DD). I saw partial parts of the show some years back while staying at a hotel that carried the A&E network. (We don't carry A&E on our home TV. We pay less than $10 a month and get about 15 channels.) I got a few chuckles at the DD snippets I watched but soon found myself bored with yet another reality show. I'm not a big fan of reality shows. I get enough reality on my own. I wonder how much "real" is in "reality shows?"

This past week I read some articles (including the GQ interview) regarding the recent DD and A&E brouhaha. My initial thoughts were along the lines of:

• Yup. That's what Robertson said. That's his opinion. Who would expect differently?
• A&E is a company and can suspend whomever it deems suspendible.
• Follow the money trail; ultimately showbiz boils down to money.
• I wonder if A&E has a policy regarding the speech of reality actors when those actors are offset?
• On the other hand, if A&E remains silent, that would be like an endorsement of Robertson's statements. Why not just make a response statement and let the chips fall were they may? Meh; the network made a judgement call.
• As far as the black-history statements, Phil plain old showed his ignorance. Sure folks were singing in the fields; including Robertson I reckon. That doesn't negate the voluminous historical accounts of black oppression in our country...nor the origin of some of their songs. I wonder if these folks have seen "12 Years A Slave"? Even though "12 Years..." recounts times before Robertson's days but was also "pre-entitlement and pre-welfare."
• Robertson's black-history statement would be kind of like me saying, "I never saw leaders in The Way abuse their power of trust with women. Those women where happy in The Way Corps."  Right (not).
• I wonder if down the road some sort of underbelly regarding the Robertson's will come out? I wonder if one of the Robertsons may be in the gay closet?

I am somewhat surprised that many of my high school friends (whom I've read on FB) have joined ranks with the conservative religious right. Many of those high school friends were sexers, druggies, and rock-and-rollers (SDRs). From what I've read Robertson followed the same pattern. Then again I was a young SDR and shortly thereafter became a young Bible thumper...before my high school friends followed a similar route.

I'm no longer an SDR nor a Bible thumper.

Neither do I believe in karma.

****
(Following is a link to an interesting article that addresses the damnable so-called-what-goes-around-comes-around  "Law of Karma": Komments on Karma.)
****

Love

non-subjecct: pain
aww ~ 12/11/13
****

Mom's rheumatologist's name was Dr. Payne.
Her final psychiatrist's name was Dr. Downs.
Sometimes she'd joke about the irony of their names.

Before Dr. Downs, she saw a psychiatrist whose name was Dr. Kim.

When I was hospitalized at Catawba Memorial Hospital after swallowing jimson seeds, Dr. Kim was my attending physician whom I only remember meeting after the affect of the jimson plant had worn off. I had been admitted to ICU on a Tuesday and hallucinated through sometime Friday. On Friday an antidote to the jimson was administered and I was able to sleep. When I awoke sometime Saturday, I looked around the ICU room. I was able to identify objects that my mind had warped into roaches and witch doctors and people and castles and arm casts and an aquarium and the passageway to the outside world beyond the hallucinatory asylum wherein my mind and body were trapped for four days.

I was released from ICU on Saturday or Sunday and was admitted to a regular hospital floor but not to the psychiatric floor. That's when I remember meeting Dr. Kim for the first time, though I must have met him in my hallucinatory state. I was puzzled as to why I was kept in the hospital for a one week observation; I felt perfectly fine. Each day for that week I would arise and dress in street clothes and take walks, including walks outside around the building and in the patio area of the hospital. My plastic bracelet identified me as a patient. I was fifteen years old.

I didn't see Dr. Kim again until sometime in my thirties. My brother and I went together for a consult with Dr. Kim concerning Mom after she had lapsed into a series of severe bipolar episodes. I wonder if Dr. Kim remembered who I was; I certainly didn't bring up what had happened some fifteen-plus years previously. My brother did most of the talking at the consultation about Mom.

Those were hard years, the years after Dad's wreck that left him paralyzed with quadriplegia. Mom became a wreck. In many ways caring for Dad was easier than maneuvering through Mom's mania and depression.

Yet, what a strong woman Mom was. She cared for Dad almost the full thirteen years of his quadriplegia. Day in and day out. Bathing Dad; dressing Dad; changing his condom catheter; making sure his bowels moved; cutting his food; holding his drinking glass so he could drink from the straw; lifting Dad from his bed with the Hoyer Lift and then swinging him around and lowering him into his wheelchair and then positioning him so he could sit comfortably. All the various details of life. Buttons; zippers; hygiene. Day in and day out.

Mom was the one who found a used camper for sale and had it set up at Green Mountain Resort in Lenoir about 45 minutes from the home place. All Dad's equipment had to be hauled along so Mom could dress and lift and feed and care for Dad. Mom would drive herself and Dad in the converted cargo van and spend multiple nights at the camper. Mom bought Dad the wooden card holder so they could invite friends over and Dad could play bridge.

Mom couldn't give up caring for Dad, and it drove her to extremes. But she loved him, probably doing more than most people would do in a similar situation. She couldn't bring herself to have Dad admitted long term in a care facility.

And Dad, he too was a trooper. He would cry from time to time. He probably cried much more in private; tears that others never witnessed.

****

Added note: Home health did come by three days a week in the mornings for some of the years. My brother and I lived close by and also helped in the care of Dad. My sister lived out of state and would help whenever she came to visit. But Mom was the one who was always there, and she carried most of the burden. It was a labor of love.

Companion - Number 1

aww ~ december 4, 2013
non-subject: something appeared

******
I don't talk about it with anyone except my husband, John.
And even then, I rarely bring up the subject.
Until last week when I opened up to my good friend, Leah.
******

I vacationed alone again this year. John was supposed to go, but he ended up having to work. I'm thankful he has a good job. At least he isn't in the armed forces where he'd be physically away for months at a time.

John helps me load my traveling gear into the 1999 gray Ford Explorer for my week-long trip in the Shenandoah Mountains of Virginia.

In order to fit my bicycle into the Explorer, we lay down the back seat so that the cushiony seat-back that supports passengers' backs kisses the cushiony seat that supports passenger's buttocks. John helps load my bicycle. I direct him that the rear tire of the bike goes in first, then to tip the bike at an angle to the right and roll the angled bike backward toward the front of the Explorer, then to lay the bike on its left side so that the chain faces the vehicle ceiling, then to turn the front tire and handle bars toward the ceiling so that the back hatch of the Explorer will close. After the bike is stable, we load my other gear: a box of food, a couple small coolers, various size overnight bags, a toiletry bag. I had divided my toiletries and clothes in smaller overnight bags so we can place them around the bike and not disturb the gears or the chain. I'll get someone to help me unload after I arrive at the resort condominium where I'm staying.

I leave that afternoon on the five-to-six-hour drive north. It's a pleasant drive. But, like so many times since our kids have become adults, I am solo in the vehicle.

It's okay Carol. This is just the way it is. You are used to being alone. Maybe you'll enjoy yourself more without John on the trip. You'll be free to roam as you please. You can write. You can meet people, strike up conversations about their lives. That's what you do.

And that is what I did - venture alone and talk with some folks.

On Monday I visit Luray Caverns and the Garden Maze. I decide to walk the Maze before I enter and tour the Caverns.

The Maze paths are about 4 feet wide. On each side of the path grow eight-foot-tall evergreen hedges that resemble cypress or cedar type trees. While walking the one-acre maze, I meet the Maze owner and designer. His name is John. John and I talk for about 20 minutes as he shares how he moved to Virginia from the northeast in the latter 1990s. He took up residence in the Shenandoah area and designed and landscaped the Maze. He shares, giving me directions to a place I could ride my bike down by the Shenandoah River. It's not a bike route per se, but rather country roads, a place the locals know about.

Next, the Caverns. I've toured Luray Caverns at least two times in the past. It's always an awesome walk; the majestic stalactites and stalagmites mesmerize my soul and intellect. They grow one cubic inch every 120 years; some of them are over seven million years old. Wow, just wow.

Within this belly of earth, Dream Lake mirrors the ceiling and looks like an unreal 3-D city of limestone castles. The appropriately named Cathedral has been the sanctuary for some 450 weddings. The Catherdral houses the world's largest musical instrument, the Great Stalacpipe Organ. Stalactites covering 3-1/2 acres from the surrounding caverns act as the organ pipes. I ask the young man who is our group's tour guide lots of questions; he's very knowledgeable and seems to enjoy sharing the history and facts.

As my eyes examine nature's limestone sculptures, I wonder if others notice how much the sculptures look like human body parts and organs...penises, the labium and folds of a woman's vagina, tongues and tonsils and the digestive system. These seven-million-year-old growing rocks are like the inner organs of the earth and its reproductive system.

I can think of nothing in nature that consists of straight lines; it's all curves and swirls and folds and dips and mounds. Straight lines are man made.

Awakening

I open my eyes this morning after a full night's sleep.

I am alive. I feel rested. It feels good to feel rested.

I had taken a sleep aid last night so I could sleep the whole night through.

I arise to relieve my bladder. Simply by getting up, I am reminded of the disability in my hands and arms and feet and ankles. After relieving myself, I lay back down.

It can be a good day, Carol. You can get some things accomplished today.

Yesterday I accomplished very little in relation to what I could have accomplished had I not been grieving and fatigued.

I lay in bed and lift both arms perpendicular to my body. The action to raise them causes the regular continual pain in my biceps; I can feel their weakness. I bend my arms at my elbows...up and down, up and down. I lower my arms again feeling the pain in my biceps. One at a time, I touch each finger on both hands with their corresponding thumbs. I make a fist formation with each hand. Fist-making too is painful and I am unable to make full fists. I look through the holes in each fists like they are binoculars. I unfold my hands and examine the recent lump on the back of my right hand as I run my left fingers over the lump. The lump used to be on the outer side of my right wrist; it moved sometime in the last month to the back of my right hand.

In my mind's eye, I see Dad, see him moving his arms back and forth, back and forth, as they dangle down over the armrests of his wheelchair. He used to move his arms back and forth often; it was about the only part of his body below his head that he could move.

As I move my own arms, I realize how much it must have meant to Dad that he could move his arms, giving him some sense of control, to feel the little bit of strength that was left in his limbs. Dad was labeled an "odd quad." His spinal cord sever was at C-4. He shouldn't have been able to move his arms, but he could. He couldn't move his fingers though.

I arise and walk down the hall and down the stairs. I take one stair at a time due to the tenderness in the soles of my feet and the shooting pain in my right ankle. I remind myself that my feet will feel much better shortly; they improve as I go about my day. I enter the kitchen.

I assemble the blender to make my morning smoothie: water, apple cider vinegar, tart cherry juice, grapefruit seed extract, powdered nutritional supplements for inflammation and general nutrition and hormones, beet powder, green veggie powder, frozen blueberries, and immoglobulin powder. With all my strength I pry the cap off the vinegar bottle. I use the wooden cover end of an ice pick like a hammer to secure the lid back onto the bottle. I combine all the ingredients and whir my smoothie in the blender. Using both hands, I pour the mixture into a glass and insert a colored straw into the deep purple beverage. I fill another glass with the herbal tea I brew every other day; the tea addresses fatigue. I eat a handful of pistachios to get digestive juices going to prepare my tummy for pills: quercetin, vitamins C & D, fish oil, probiotics, garlic, mixed boron and calcium, Theracumin, prednisone. I pop a sublingual vitamin B-12 under my tongue and let it dissolve. I try not to despise that I spend most all my personal earnings on supplements to either counter the side effects of prednisone or address the nerve damage and inflammation.

As I go about my morning, I hear myself grunt and groan. I don't like it. It's a habit that has come about due to the pain and weakness in my arms and hands. I hear myself whispering, "Okay Carol, you can do this," as I make my body work to put up the vacuum cleaner and pick up the bottle of laundry detergent and make the bed and pull my shirt over my head and brush my hair and engage in some simple stretching exercises. "Come on, come on, come on; work," I whisper in quick succession, reminding my hands and arms to function.

I am unable to use my palms for resistance - they are too tender and weak. Sometimes I feel like an ape when I engage in certain floor exercises. I curl my hands in an almost fist and use the back of my hands with my knuckles to support my body and absorb the pressure as I lift myself off the floor.

Nerves. I never really gave them much thought in regard to physical strength. It seems I equated physical strength with muscles and ligaments and tendons and bones. But Dad was weakened and paralyzed due to the most severe kind of nerve damage - severing. My limb nerves are inflamed at the spinal cord, at least that is the current diagnosis. The nerves are damaged. The inflammation causes weakness and pain in my limbs.

I cry. Then I remind myself, I can at least move my hands and my arms and my legs and my body. Don't give up Carol. Keep that spark of hope. Find joy and laughter in little things. Gratitude, gratitude.

Don't Stop Believing?

I continue my course away from theism. Part of that saddens me...that I seem to be heading further down the road of non-belief. I let go a little at a time. It's not that I set out to deconvert; it just seems that is the path I end up on as I read about and/or ponder the heavenly father and only begotten son and creator god questions.

In the recent past I've referred to myself as a "hoper;" that is, I have hoped that there is more to this life...that hopefully there is an afterlife or reincarnation or eternal life or the universalist belief that all will be reconciled. But, that hope feels more and more like a fantasy.

Hmmm...interesting that I "feel more and more" rather than "logically conclude more and more" that something akin to an eternal bliss and merciful justice is fantasy. Perhaps one of my fears is that if I cease hoping, that I will close the doors to so many wondrous and serendipitous occurrences of life, that the mystical feeling will cease. No way. Just thinking about the universe contained in one tiny cell and all its intricacies is awe-inspiring.

I've pondered recently if I can believe in reincarnation as a natural occurrence (not supernatural). Then I think, "Why in the hell would we be reincarnated if we can't remember the previous re-incarnations?"

One of the books I'm currently reading is Trusting Doubt by Valerie Tarico. I recently finished the chapter on blood sacrifice. Blood sacrifice has never made full sense to me. It was always one of those questions on my "back burner." I'd tell myself the whole spiel about God being just and having to redeem us on legal grounds, etc. But I could never fully reconcile a god who desires life (and not death) with the scripture "without the shedding of blood there can be no remission of sin." I would wonder why; why is shedding of blood the qualifier? The only answer I ever came up with was because that is what "God says."

My why question was just one of those things I'd have to wait until the return of Christ or until I was more spiritually mature to understand.

*****

Added note: Here is a link a website that Valerie Tarico manages: Wisdom Commons; "...an interactive website that seeks to elevate our shared moral core, sometimes called universal ethics. It is a place to find and discuss information about virtues that human beings generally agree are important like generosity, compassion and courage. As a user or member, you can search or input quotes, proverbs, meditations, stories, and essays from many traditions...."

Facebook Drain

I've grown tired of Facebook. Last week I called it "Fakebook." Yesterday when talking on the phone with a friend I stated, "Facebook is starting to drain me."

Yet, I don't feel that "Facebook drain" when I comment on blogs or on a couple online forum sites that I currently visit.

I've pondered, asking myself, "What is it, Carol, that you find irksome about the god of social internet connections, Facebook?"

Some of my thoughts have been....

Information overload. When I click on my FB timeline, a waterfall of information streams along on my computer screen. Some of these rolling tidbits are promotions for services that search engines have decided I might be interested in. Most are updates from my Facebook friends or conversations they are commenting on. Some are updates to conversations I have commented on.

Relationship overload. Or more succinctly put, emotionally-invested-relationship information overload, which ties in with the above "information overload." I feel some sort of obligation to respond to friends' updates about their personal lives. If I were face-to-face with people in a room, I wouldn't feel pressure to acknowledge/share with twenty folks almost simultaneously. This was one reason I deleted my first Facebook account a few years back...the feeling of obligation to respond to folks' updates. But with so much scrolling in front of me, I have to turn off the faucet.

Ticker spy (my term). Fakebook's damnable ticker feed on the right side of the screen. I don't like it. I can hide the feed so I personally can't see my ticker feed scrolling by giving me updates on which of my friends are posting where and liking what, but that's not what I dislike about it. My dislike? I don't want all my friends to know when I post on someone else's timeline or conversation or when I 'like' something. It irks the hell out of me. Again, if I were face-to-face, I'd be conversing with one to eight or ten people. That's about all a person can converse with at one time unless you are on a stage interacting with an audience

Facade. I am not as genuine on Facebook as I am on a forum or on my blog. I mean, I don't lie or anything like that. But on Facebook I share very few deep things going on in my life. I will share some depth on my blog and on the online poetry forum where I am a member. So what is the difference between those and Facebook? Facebook is actually private so only my Facebook friends can see it; my blog is public. Why do I feel I can't be myself on Facebook with my two hundred plus friends? Is it because I feel I can't be as genuine with them as I can with strangers on the world wide web whom I will probably never meet face to face? That seems crazy. Is my discomfort due to the old approval syndrome and caring too much what others might think about me? (Most folks are thinking about themselves, not others.) One thing may be that on my blog, readers have to come find me instead of my life rolling through on a newsfeed or ticker scroll. Hmmm...I guess when I post on Facebook, I feel like I am advertising my personal life. For some reason I don't feel like that on my blog. But, it is almost the same thing. Or is it? Hmmm.

Difficulty with and/or lack of options with Facebook. If I want only certain people to be able to see what I post on FB, I have to designate the not-seers instead of the seers. That's too much work. I'd love to be able to block my comments and likes on the ticker feed. But I don't think there is an option for that and even if there is, it's more detail work; most folks are already detailed beyond reasonable.

There are good things about Facebook...

I've connected with folks I may otherwise not have connected with.

I have had some fun conversations.

I get to read all sorts of weird news, but I could access that from a web search.

I can read my very liberal friends' updates to get the liberal viewpoint. I can then read my very conservative friends' updates to get their viewpoint. Both usually have links to articles, where I read more on political mishmash which (again) I could get from a web search.

Why do I feel the need to justify my irksome dislike with the Facebook machine? (rhetorically stated, mostly)

I realize the problem is not Facebook, but rather my interaction with Facebook for which I am totally responsible.

Facebook feels too invasive for me these days....like something prodding me to behave a certain way. Again, my issue, not Facebook's. (I am too easily influenced. Bah humbug.)

Drains. Probably time for some of my homemade drain cleaner. I make it with baking soda, cream of tartar, and salt. Vinegar and hot water swish the mix down the drain and gurgle the clogs away.

Vinegar, what an odd thing to use as a metaphor. Vinegar is used as an ingredient in natural insect repellents. Hmmm, I'm probably already naturally repellent.

It is Written

aww ~ 11/18/13
non-subject: familiar feeling

*****

November, 2013. This morning I read the story of Adam and Eve and Jehovah Elohim and the serpent. I read it aloud, though only my ears were listening. I read as if I were reading a Cherokee tale about creation, or a Greek god tale.

My mind still tries to find ways to interpret and make the Genesis tale "accurate" and "true." As my mind ventures in that direction, I pull myself outside the story and peer into the story as if I had never been an indoctrinated true believer. When I enter that never-a-Bible-believer-fly-on-the-wall position, I am free to fly from one side to another; observing, listening, being. I don't have to make the story "fit." The story is what it is, a tale being told by an ancient human trying to make sense of the suffering and the blessing.

There was a time, before my Bible believing days, when I didn't believe the Bible to be any more special than any other religious book. At that time I didn't have to become the fly on the wall; I was the fly on the wall. At that time I didn't have to step outside myself from a recent-past decades-indoctrination of a boxed-in inerrant interpretation of scripture. At that time, in order to believe, I had to squelch my worldly senses; I had to reign in my doubt if I was going to be one with God.

November, 1977. I drove down the one way street in Hickory in route to The Way's Foundational Class, Power for Abundant Living, PFAL. I wanted to believe. I wanted to know God's will for my life. The "green card," which every PFAL student signed when the student committed to and paid for "The Class," promised I'd be able to discern truth from error. Then I would know God's will for my life.

"I am the way, the truth, and the life. No man cometh to the Father but by me." "I am the way, the truth, and the life. No man cometh to the Father but by me." "I am the way, the truth, and the life. No man cometh to the Father but by me."

As I drove alone in my five-speed silver-gray Mercury Capri I recited those words aloud over and over and over crucifying my doubt. Those were Jesus' words. The feeling of uncertainty in my gut was just the adversary trying to trick me out of the Word.

"If ye continue in my Word, then are ye my disciples in deed. And you shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free."

There was only one way to know God, and that was through Jesus Christ.

"Submit yourselves therefore to God and resist the devil and he will flee from you."

When Jesus was tempted by the devil, he responded with "It is written." I had to train my mind to think the Word, the Word, the Word, and nothing but the Word.

"I am the way, the truth, and the life. No man cometh to the Father but by me." "It is written."

Hadn't God led me to these people, Bill and Dan, who had moved to Hickory in August setting up a Way Home to move the Word? And the WOWs, Word Over the World Ambassadors, had also arrived in Hickory in August. "The Class" was being run at the WOW's apartment on 2nd Avenue.

What about the love of God I felt at that first Twig fellowship? I was uneasy at first when Bill called on people to speak in tongues and interpret, but it was decent and in order like Corinthians said speaking in tongues should be. I had experienced the harried Charismatic and Pentecostal meetings; Twig fellowship with The Way was calm. It was like God was speaking directly to Bill when Bill would run the meeting and teach.

What about how I had met Bill and Dan at the health food store when they were witnessing there to my friend Gretta? Wasn't that an answer to prayer? Gretta and I had been truth seekers together. And here we were in the PFAL class. And Janet too. One night at the bar Fast Company, I told Janet I had found the truth. She listened intently and then flushed her dope down a toilet and went to Bill and Dan's house telling them, "Carol told me about ya'll." And now we were sitting through PFAL together.

Yes; The Class, The Way, Twig Fellowships, the Way Home, WOW Ambassadors. It all had to be answers to prayer. This had to be the way back to the garden. This had to be the truth. I would not let my doubts or feelings get in the way. After all God honors believing, not feelings.

"I am the way, the truth, and the life. No man cometh to the Father but by me." "It is written."

Meandering Orbits

Since the incidents beginning in 2010 with my former cult-recovery therapist, John Knapp, I have changed...not necessarily for the better. I trust myself less (again); I trust others (especially strangers) less. I endeavor to glean the lessons learned from the Knapp encounters and from Knapp's attempted public smearing of my character. I have questioned whether or not I deserved Knapp's wrath filled with falsehoods; after all, I brought it upon myself by coming forward. But, I didn't lie. Knapp outright lied making up fantasies.

I wonder if I will ever blow another whistle if I am in a position to do so? I've paid a personal price with the little whistle I blew regarding Knapp. About the only reasons I find worth that price are the couple other ex-clients who have come out of the woodwork since latter 2011. Recently in a phone conversation, a friend who is an activist regarding mental health practitioner abuse, stated, "Carol, it wasn't a small thing. Just think how many people you stopped from being injured by that man." Well, maybe.

Yet, the ordeal (as small as it was/is) has had a dampening affect on me that I've found hard to shake off.

Changed. It's not just what happened with Knapp; there are also the unpleasant incidents with health professionals in 2012 and 2013, and then I question if I am the problem. Do I not communicate well? But then, I've read story after story of others with peripheral neuropathy who have gone through similar (and much worse) medical roller coasters trying to get a proper diagnosis and help. I'm fortunate that I found a good neurologist (at least so far) after only one who turned me away telling me I didn't have nerve damage sending me out his door in pain with no remedy and suggesting I might want to try acupuncture. I hit bottom at that point...BAM! The event did catalyze some creative ways to maneuver the circumstances...and I did maneuver.

Then there was the incident with a cat, when I misread the cat's insulin syringe and he died. How could I be so stupid? My heart still droops and my head hangs in shame. I handled it as best I could; I owned my error and I did all I could to save his life.

For decades I have struggled with thinking I'm unintelligent. I've struggled with self-confidence. Yet, when I have mentioned this to others, they've been surprised. The responses are that I come across self-assured and they would never have thought I had such doubts about myself. I used to think everyone had such doubts. I've since learned that isn't so.

These days, I'm much less open than I once was, less likely to wear my heart on my sleeve. I find myself avoiding close relationships with others. I'm tired. Maybe it's part of aging. Perhaps I've grown relationship lazy.

I've wondered if I prefer,for the most part, the company of dogs and cats and trees and plants rather than people because there are no facades with the four-legged and leaved; there is nothing to prove. I don't feel the perceived need to explain myself for whatever season or reason.

Two great equalizers that help me through the storms of self-doubt are gratitude and paying life forward. They take my focus off my own vulnerabilities and onto a wider horizon of humanity and history. Surely the small deeds appropriated in the quiet of our hearts and closets have an impact that reverberates, however small.

Arles

non-subject: a dream of Paris
aww ~ 11/12/13

*****

Oh how I fell in love in high school with Van Gogh's paintings, particularly the paintings of Arles. Van Gogh's work seemed to move and flow. The curves and the swirls became alive for me, like the paintings themselves were movement.

In tenth grade, using oil pastels, I created my own replication of Van Gogh's A Cornfield of Cypresses. I matted the piece but never framed it, at least that I recall. I gave the oil pastel to my then-boyfriend, Ron also known as Fatman. He hung the piece on his bedroom wall. I don't know where it landed after Ron and I broke up.

In my home now, a gold-framed 42-by-30-inch reproduction of Van Gogh's Irises hangs on my den wall. I spied it years ago in a local department store, passing it by, dismissing it. But it whispered to me until I bought it, even though I bought it from a department store. I didn't care that it was a reproduction. I liked that it wasn't a print; but rather that someone's hands had painted it.

Over the decades as I watch landscapes while walking or riding my bike or driving in the car, I regularly think of Van Gogh - his paintings and the little bits I have read about his life. The feeling of being foreign in this world, of not quite fitting anywhere, of being a part of but not a part of it all. Anguish and beauty.

When night falls and I gaze up at the stars with wonder, my rendition of Don McLean's song Vincent will run through my mind.

"Starry, starry night.
Paint your pallet blue and gray.
Look out on a summer's day.
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul.
...Now I understand
What you tried to say to me...
How you suffered for your sanity...
How you tried to set me free...
They would not listen; they did not know how...
Perhaps they'll listen now."

*****

Vincent by Don McLean

Starry
starry night
paint your palette blue and grey

look out on a summer's day
with eyes that know the
darkness in my soul.
Shadows on the hills
sketch the trees and the daffodils

catch the breeze and the winter chills

in colors on the snowy linen land.
And now I understand what you tried to say to me

how you suffered for your sanity
how you tried to set them free.
They would not listen
they did not know how

perhaps they'll listen now.

Starry
starry night
flaming flo'rs that brightly blaze

swirling clouds in violet haze reflect in
Vincent's eyes of China blue.
Colors changing hue
morning fields of amber grain

weathered faces lined in pain
are soothed beneath the artist's
loving hand.
And now I understand what you tried to say to me

how you suffered for your sanity
how you tried to set them free.
perhaps they'll listen now.

For they could not love you
but still your love was true

and when no hope was left in sight on that starry
starry night.
You took your life
as lovers often do;
But I could have told you
Vincent
this world was never
meant for one
as beautiful as you.

Starry
starry night
portraits hung in empty halls

frameless heads on nameless walls
with eyes
that watch the world and can't forget.
Like the stranger that you've met

the ragged men in ragged clothes

the silver thorn of bloddy rose
lie crushed and broken
on the virgin snow.
And now I think I know what you tried to say to me

how you suffered for your sanity

how you tried to set them free.
They would not listen
they're not
list'ning still
perhaps they never will.

*****

God Ponderings

non-subject: a fantasy world
aww ~ 11/13/13

*****

What do I write today?

The non-subject prompt for the writing workshop tonight is "a fantasy world."

Gods and goddesses. I'm currently reading a book entitled Walking on the Wind - Cherokee Teachings for Harmony and Balance. The author shares regarding the beliefs of the Cherokee, part of which includes a triune god committee sometimes referred to as Chota-auhnele-eh, which means "Elder Fires Above" or "Red Thunder Beings." Uhalotega, also called Ogedoda, is the "head of all power" or "great beyond expression." This Great One has two children, Atunutitsu and Usgohula, which are the Great One's helpers. Together they are the three eternal beings which have always existed.

Like most other religious beliefs, the Cherokee belief assigns divine purpose to each event and circumstance in life.

To somehow make suffering meaningful, mankind finds or develops spiritual explanations for the suffering. If we assign divine meaning to suffering, then we naturally assign divine meaning to other aspects of life - to that which is beautiful, to serendipitous encounters and what seems like mystical patterns, to seemingly answered and unanswered prayers, to that which is "great beyond expression."

Sadly or not, I seem to believe less and less in a theist god, that is a god who intervenes on behalf of its creation. So if there is no theist god, what about a deist god, which is a god that created the natural world and then takes its hands off, so to speak, allowing nature to take its course? But why would a creator create and then let the creation spin on its own without any relationship whatsoever to that which it created?

What if the interventions that appear divine are simply natural occurrences that happen due to energy forces of which we currently have no means to scientifically measure, so we figure there must be something supernatural at play? That doesn't mean the event is not fantastic. Eye sight is not supernatural, but oh how fantastically awesome it is to behold with our eyes the beauty of that which can be seen.

What if reincarnation is something that occurs, but is a natural process...like leaves that fall in the autumn that feed the earth for new leaves to grow in following seasons? What if the new leaves are reincarnations of their former 'cellves?' Stupid analogy; yet, life is filled with seasons and cycles. But why oh why, if we are reincarnated do we not recall our previous lives?

Like other religions The Way teaches a blame-the-victim doctrine. When suffering befalls it is because an individual or group of individuals are believing negatively which results in negative consequences; or a person or group isn't living the accuracy of the Word of God and they thus reap consequences due to wrong doctrine or being out from under God's hedge of protection; or the person or group is living within God's will but the adversary, the devil, wants to thwart the greatness of the Word of God in that person's or group's "ministry" so the adversary attacks said person or group and because of lack of the person's and the community believing, tragedy falls - in other words, the mortals missed revelation somewhere because God will make a way when there is no way. God had to have informed them and they just missed hearing God's voice.

In past decades of living with chronic illness, I was a good Way believer; that is, I mainly blamed myself for my illnesses. But then I would quickly retemorize Romans 8:1, "there is therefore now no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus," and then I'd feel bad about condemning myself. It was a vicious cycle. The Way's "law of believing" boasts the formula, "confession of belief yields receipt of confession."

These days I seldom fall into the pattern of blaming unfortunate circumstances on my lack of belief or on my negative believing or on walking outside the will of God. Sometimes I blame stuff on my stupidity or that I "should" know better by this point in my life. But blame doesn't help; accepting things as they are does help. What is is all I have to work with at any given moment...with or without divine intervention.

All that said, there are times I still long for the fantasy of Father God to be true, and there are times I petition the universe for help.

Sometimes the universe answers.

*****

Smoking

non-subject: smoking
aww ~ 11/06/13

*****

Mom said she didn't inhale. Maybe she was telling the truth; usually her cigarette hung from her teeth as they bit the butt. I don't recall seeing her inhale, but the butts wore lipstick stains indicating that at least sometimes she inhaled.

Dad smoked a pipe and an occasional cigar. He usually sat in the family room in the rocker by the window that gave a view to the pasture behind the house - the pasture that grew weeds and grass and trees and briars and poison ivy and jimson weed and polk berries down by the creek. Heavy laden cherry cigar or pipe smoke would linger in the middle of the room as sun light shone through the window. As a child I liked to watch the heavy smoke sit like fog undulating ever so lightly like it was alive. The hanging smoke had a mesmerizing effect, surreal. It reminded me of the ocean.

I don't know for sure when Mom and Dad gave up smoking. I don't recall Dad smoking after his accident in 1983, but perhaps he took a few puffs from time to time. It seems Mom too smoked less, eventually giving up cigarettes altogether.

As a teenager, I only tried cigarettes a few times. I didn't enjoy them. What was the point of smoking a cigarette? To me the whole point of smoking anything would be to get high. I could get high by hyperventilating and entering a dreamlike state. When I was around 14, in one hyperventilating session at the Community Center in the girl's bathroom, I ended up lying on the cold tile floor against the cold tile wall, my body tingling and my mind numb with no memory of the previous 30 to 60 seconds other than it seemed like time had stood still.

Another time when I was around 14, Beth and Tricia and I smoked tea leaves trying to get high. Tea leaves only burned my throat.

One time Beth and Tricia and I opened some Contact capsules and separated the tiny colored pellets contained within the capsule. We had been told that swallowing only one of the colors, seems like it was the red pellets, would give us a buzz. It didn't work.

I tried smoking mullein in my 20s after I developed asthma at age 22. I'd read mullein relieved asthma. It made no sense to me how smoke could relieve asthma. It didn't work.

I understood the point of smoking pot; the purpose was clearly to get high. I smoked pot only for about six months when I was 14 and 15. I smoked a lot of pot during that time...morning, noon, and night. Sometimes we laced our joints with added THC. I gave up pot after the jimson weed incident; jimson weed changed my chemistry or neurotransmitters or something. After the jimson weed nightmare, pot made me extremely paranoid.

So I abandoned pot for chemicals and psychedelics. No physical smoke was involved in psychedelics.

*****

Manipulations

non-subject: haunted
aww ~ 10/30/13

******

I am discouraged. I again feel I am groping along trying to find answers for the nerve damage in my limbs.

I thought, I hoped, I wanted to believe that I had found an osteopath with whom I could work; but I've had too many red flags. I've now had five appointments with her; but I didn't receive my first osteopathic manipulation from her until my fourth appointment, two weeks ago. Her manipulation, which was a deep tissue massage on my arms and wrists and hands, surprised me. At the time all I said was, "Is this okay for damaged nerves?" I was already on the table, face down; she was pulling on my arms and hands. It was painful. I endured thinking I've hurt before with body work when the pain is temporary and in the long run beneficial. Plus I didn't want to offend her. Maybe this process was okay?

Back in February my hand surgeon had directed me to not receive massage on the damaged nerve tissue, that compressing the nerves could make the damage worse. I recognize that is his opinion based on his experience and knowledge. I recognize that a different kind of practitioner may have different experience and additional knowledge. Yet his expertise was contrary to the treatment I was then receiving from the osteopath, and I wasn't quite comfortable with these two contradictory opinions floating around in my head.

Years ago I saw an osteopath; he was my general practitioner. His approach helped me incredibly. Together we navigated the chronic issues I had at that time - severe asthma and allergies, various unexplainable pains throughout my body, hormone issues, fatigue, depression, mood swings. It took a few years, but I got well. I was able to wean off all my medications and eventually don a backpack and hit the trails. To my recollection, his osteopathic manipulations never involved deep tissue massage but rather subtle manipulations on my spine and limbs. I especially benefited from cranial sacral therapy. But, I didn't have nerve damage back then.

The contradictory information between my hand surgeon and the current osteopath isn't the main issue I have with the current osteopath; my issue is the communication aspect. I feel that the current osteopath has to put me in my place. There is an air of authoritarian ego. I picked up this ego-type signal at my first appointment with her, back in July. I set it aside, thinking the signal was just me with crossed wires projecting. But, the static has continued with each subsequent visit. I've considered and pondered that the problem could be me, maybe I'm not communicating well. Perhaps that's true.

But Carol...how many times have you been through this scenario dismissing your gut, giving yourself less credit, thinking another knows what is personally best for you? How often has that been the right thing to do, to go against your gut? How often has it been the wrong thing to do?

I was supposed to receive another osteopathic treatment yesterday, but I had questions and wanted to make sure I had communicated clearly regarding my symptoms and diagnosis. So instead of a treatment, I had a consultation with the osteopath. I think she took offense to my concerns.

The past week, I've taken to asking my heart to help me and guide my next moves in regard to my health. Part of that asking has been when I fall asleep. I say to myself, "I will recall from my dreams what I need to recall." Trying to tap my unconscious, thinking maybe therein I can find direction. It's helped before, why not now?

I have had three recurring dreams in the last five or so days. Each time, I am in a car, driving in reverse and the brakes do not work efficiently. With my foot I press the brake. It gives some resistance but not enough to stop the car. I am not traveling at a high speed, but still I can't stop going backwards and I can't stop the car with the brake.

The other night, in my dream, I was able to stop because I ran into another car. Last night, I was able to stop because I backed into a field of dense grass and the natural cushiony pillow of the thick grass stopped the car. I can't recall how or if I stopped the car in the first dream.

As my son picked me up yesterday from my osteopath manipulation-turned-to-consult appointment, he asked, "Is this doctor a narcissist?" I was taken aback by his question; I had shared absolutely nothing with him about any of my appointments and the red flags.

"Why on earth would you ask that?" I responded.

"The name of her practice, 'Chambre de la Vie.' What kind of doctor names their practice that?"

It is an odd name for a doctor's office.

********

The Darkness

aww ~ october 23, 2013
"the darkness"

*****

Darkness.
Is a magical place when in the woods, at night, amongst the deer, amongst the night sounds of crickets and tree frogs, the starlight, the moonlight, critter eyes that peer curiously through the woods.

But.
If in the darkness the woods are totally quiet when there are supposed to be crickets and such, the essence is quite unnatural. If I am not diligent, fear can take hold and sleep never comes, ears listen for every little crack and crumble, as I lay alone in my tent. Such surroundings present an eerie ambiance.

Darkness.
Is a tunnel with no light at the end. All I have is perhaps a candle or low flashlight to traverse the elements. The darkest elements are the corners of my psyche, emotional snares that, in the moment, seem impossible to conquer.

"Conquer" is probably not the right word. I don't "conquer" life. I don't really like that word - "conquer." For me "conquer" implies conquest.

I am unable to conquer darkness.

I am able to move through darkness, feeling my way, slowly putting one foot in front of another. The conquest is not over the darkness, but rather, over my perceived inability to move. I must keep moving. It is fine to rest awhile. But I must get up again and move.

I rode my bike today along a mountain trail among the autumn leaves in the Shenandoah. These are old mountains. The hills vibrate with wisdom and gentle slopes, again reminding me that the wilderness is.

I rode, hiking and pushing my bike along some of the rockier parts of the trail, to a huge meadow. There were no humans. Fifteen birds of prey circled the sky nearby. I dismounted and sat in the meadow.

The sky was filled with gray, billowy clouds. The air was chilly; I put on my purple and black gloves. The breeze kissed my cheeks. Like so many times before, I breathed in, tasting home. I felt centered, connected. I was cheating a bit because I was listening to music in my earpiece. Grateful Dead. Then Steely Dan.

I looked around.
I could see no human eyes, though there may have been some in the distance somewhere.
I arose and I danced,
Alone.
In the meadow.
I smiled.
I love the earth.
I love the heavens.
Even though I know both can be unforgiving.

I remounted my bike.
I rode through and out the meadow.
And down the mountain.
I called aloud to the crows.
I called aloud to the woods,
The sky,
The critters that might be peering.

After fifteen minutes I arrived back at the dirt parking area where I had parked my 1999 gray Ford Explorer. When I had left the parking area earlier to embark my ride, there was only one other truck. Now there were six.

A lone man was standing by his army green pick-up truck to hide himself from the road on the other side as he pulled up his pants to get ready and warm for his ride. He didn't hear or see me approaching from the mountain trail. I saw his fleshy buttocks. I shouted, "I see that!" And I laughed. At first he was embarrassed, but then he laughed too.

His name was Billy. He too is a hiker and backpacker along the Appalachian Trail. We chatted a bit.

Yes, home.

I love the woods, even in their darkness, and especially in my own.

Two more John Hartford songs...

As a youngster, I had unknowingly seen and listened to Hartford on the television show, Glen Campbell.
When I was around 15, my brother turned me on to the album Aeroplane. That's when I learned who John Hartford was, and the tunes and lyrics and voice were forever etched into memory.
We listened to vinyl then.

(I was unable to get the lyrics below to format properly, but at least they are legible.)

First Girl I Loved by John Hartford
I was in love with you, well-before I knew,
it meant more than just wanting to be with you
I used to look for other girls that looked like you
But the laws of nature said, 'forget it, son'
'least that's what somebody told me
I worried about it a little bit, but that's all
I dreamt that you were Joan-of Arc
And I was Don Quixote
And everywhere we went the world was tin-foil
But I gave up dreaming, and became a priest
It put it right out of my system
I worried about it a little bit, but that's all
Now you used to play the guitar
We worked in a country band
I hung out down on the river bank, on Sunday
Your brother was my closest friend,
he drove a pickup truck
he used to bring me home sometimes, from high school
Now I was fifteen, oh the very first time
Love broke completely inside me
We were young, and we were learning about it together
And we had enough of what we thought we'd need
Of those well-known secret fables
We worried about it a little bit, but that's all
I regret my life won't be long enough
To make love to all the women that I'd like to
Or least of all, to live with the ones I've loved
And I've never regretted a love affair,
except one and that's all over
I worried about it a little bit, but that's all
Now I heard you lived a-way up north
Your kids are fat and plenty
And I haven't seen your brother since a-way last Easter
And if every other girl in the whole wide world
Was just a little bit more like you
I'd worry about it a little bit, but that's all
Now you used to play the guitar
We worked in a country band
I hung out down on the river bank, on Sunday
Your brother was my closest friend,
he drove a pickup truck
he used to bring me home sometimes, from high school
*******
Back in the Goodle Days by John Hartford

Some day about twenty-five years from now,
When we've all grown old from a-wondering how,
Oh we'll all sit down at the city dump,
And talk about the Goodle Days.
Oh you'll pass the joint and I'll pass the wine,
And anything good from a-down the line.
A lot of good things went down one time,
Back in the Goodle Days.

Chorus:
And the Good Old Days are past and gone.
A lot of good people have done gone on.
That's my life when I sing this song about
Back in the Goodle Days

Sometimes I get to thinkin' that we're almost done,
And there ain't nothin' left that we can figure out.
And I guess it must have seemed a lot more like that
Back in the Goodle Days,
But when ya gotta go, ya gotta go.
There's always somebody don'tcha know,
A-hangin' round a-sayin' "Well I told you so",
Back in the Goodle Days.

*chorus*

Oh we'll all join hands and we'll gather round,
When that old guitar starts to make that sound.
A lot of good things went down down down,
Back in the Goodle Days.
We's in love with the people that we hadn't even met,
Out for anything that we could get.
Oh we did it then and we'll do it yet,
Back in the Goodle Days.

*chorus*

Lunchin' with Gus

One of my best friends is named Gus.

Gus is ninety-one years old in people-years. In dog age, he is thirteen years old.

Most weeks I visit Gus Monday through Friday at the lunching hour. I enter his quiet home located in Gus's quiet neighborhood. I check the different rooms where Mr. Gus likes to dawg. He's almost always asleep, usually snuggled under his blankie on his doggie bed in the den. I don't wake him right away; I like to sit with him momentarily while he slumbers and dreams.

When ready, I'll address him softly, "Hey Mr. Gustard. You ready to wake up?"

If he doesn't budge, I'll gently give a light push to the side of his cushiony doggie bed. He'll then raise his head slightly peering out from under his snuggly blanket.

"Hey feller. How you doin' today?"

"I'm doing dandy Miss Carol. It's good to see you." Gus replies with his face and eyes and ears.

"It's good to see you too Gus. You wanna get up and go outside?"

Gus arises and gives a dachshund doggie stretch.

Gus is a brown dachshund with a gray face. He is missing a front tooth but manages to eat just fine which is evident by his stocky body and his belly.

Once he is stretched and ready, he usually runs to the door. When Gus runs, its more like a skippity-hop. His front legs land on the ground one after the other, but his hind legs hop landing at the same time.

I carry Gus's leash in hand and open the door. Gus jumps down the small step onto the small, squared, red-brick front porch. He then hops down another step onto the half-circle, red-brick stoop. One more downward hop, and Gus gently lands on the red-brick, winding sidewalk that leads from the home to the concrete driveway.

Gus walks into the grassy front yard at the edge of the sidewalk and relieves his bladder. Then its hopppity-skippity-hop down the brick sidewalk, onto the driveway, and up to my 1999 gray Ford Explorer; unless I've ridden my bicycle that day. If I've ridden and parked my bike in the driveway, Gus isn't quite sure what to do. But with the Explorer, Gus always wants to go for a ride. Most days we don't go for an Explorer ride; Gus needs to walk and skippity-hop to get some exercise.

As Gus bounces up and down on his front legs and exchanges looks between me and the Explorer door, I carefully pick him up so as not to hurt his back.

"It's not an Explorer day today, Gus. You know you need some exercise."

Gus doesn't mind.

I carry him on my left side, his body supported with my left arm extended under his belly up to his neck. My right hand comes across and interlocks with my left hand at Gus's chest to a form a stable arm-bed for Gus. Gus rests in my arm between my upper left torso and left hip.

I speak with Gus as we walk into the short, dead end, paved street and take a left turn. We cross another street and make our way toward what I call "the green."

"So are you having a good day Mr. Gus? Maybe some neighbors will be out today."

Many of Gus's neighbors are elderly; and we oftentimes visit with at least one neighbor. All the neighbors know and love Gus. It'd be an odd person who didn't love Gus.

Once we arrive at "the green," I walk across the small, square-with-rounded-corners grassed and treed area. A concrete sidewalk winds through the middle and connects with the concrete sidewalk that goes all the way around the outside of "the green." On the west side of "the green," three red-brick steps ascend to a red-brick sidewalk that leads to a raised gazebo. The gazebo has twelve white pillars, three at each corner, that support a black peaked roof. Three wooden park benches sit in between three of the pillar sets.

Gus and I bypass the gazebo area. I walk, Gus in arm, to the east end and sit on the wooden bench under some pin oak trees. I place Gus on the bench on my left side, his head at my thigh.

"Miss Carol, I must lick your hand you know. Nothing personal; I'm a dog and that's what us dogs do."

"That's fine Gus."

I massage Gus's back and chest. I rub Gus under his collar and around his ears.

"If I were a dog I'd get real tired of a collar. I bet that feels good doesn't it Gustard?"

After our ten-minute bench routine, I carefully place Gus on the ground. Gus's back can be finnicky so I always try to keep his back properly supported.

Once on the ground, Gus usually puts his nose in the air to catch scents and breezes unless he is distracted by the sight of a neighbor or squirrels.

Gus decides our direction. Most days I don't have to put Gus on leash. But some days he wants to skippity-hop into any open garage in the neighborhood; those are leash days.

Some days, we slowly walk and meander. Other days Gus hoppity-skips around or across the tiny park back to his house.

Once we are in route to Gus's house, he is in the let's-get-there mode. "I'm ready to go inside Miss Carol. Come on!! I want to play 'Paw!'"

He hops up the two small red-brick steps from the red-brick sidewalk onto the small red-brick porch. I open the door and he hops up the third small step into the house.

Gus hoppity-skips across the wood floor to the kitchen cabinet where his dried, low-fat liver treats are kept.

"Barkity-yelp!" "Barkity-yelp!"

Liver treats are the key component when we play "Paw."

Once Upon a Dining Room

aww ~ 9/25
non-subject: "leaving home"

*********

I sit in our dining room which we no longer use for dining. Instead, I have the maple dining room table flush against the east wall. I use the table as an office desk. My mother-in-law sold us the table for three dollars over twenty-five years ago. Three dollars; she's funny like that. One time we paid her one dollar for a car, a Buick LeSabre.

There are no windows on the east wall of the dining room. Vertical-lined stripped wall paper in alternating hues of greens and maroons and taupes stretch from the cream-colored chair rail to the cream-colored molding at the ceiling. Beneath the chair rail the drywall is painted a cream color down to the cream-colored floor molding. The floors are natural oak. Natural oak toe molding lies at the base of the cream-colored floor molding.

A black iron candle holder, with a mirror at its center and a cream-colored candle in front of the mirror, hangs in the center of the east wall. Catty cornered to each side of the candle holder hang two different five-inch by seven-inch gold-framed prints; a couple red roses in each print. On the south end of the east wall, a Thomas Kinkade cottage puzzle print hangs in a gold frame. The unassembled puzzle came with our house purchase when we bought the house in 2003. I assembled the puzzle, glued it, framed it, and hung it.

I sit at the end of the table on the south side with the Kinkade puzzle print to my right. The wall perpendicular behind me extends our for about two feet. Then a six-foot wide doorway opens into the living room. But there are no doors and no evidence of hinges, just an open doorway. The wall picks up again for another couple feet to corner at the west wall of the dining room which we no longer for dining.

Flush against the middle of the west wall sits the china cabinet that I inherited from my Aunt Flossie. Or maybe it belonged to Uncle Bright. The wood is dark; I guess a cherry stain and maybe cherry wood. I don't know enough about the design to know if there is a known design label for the handles on the drawers and lower cabinets; they are an oval-shaped metal with oval indentations. The same pattern was prevalent in Mom's furniture. I speculate the style was once in the Drum family. Drum was Mom's maiden name. Mom was one of thirteen children. Flossie was her oldest sister; Bright was one of her brothers. The china cabinet displays china and crystal behind its glass doors.

The south corner of the west wall catties a small cabinet, about chest high, light-colored wood. I picked it up from Mom's place after she died and my siblings and I sold the home place. It holds some office supplies.

In the north corner of the west wall is another doorway, large enough for a single door. There are no hinges or evidence that there ever were hinges; just an open doorway that leads into the kitchen.

From my chair I face the north wall. Two paned window sets rest in the north wall, twelve panes in each set. I have no curtains in my home; I have blinds. I don't like curtains. These blinds in the dining room which we don't use for dining stay fully drawn so that nothing but transparent air covers the windows. I have a tassel hanging from the hardware of each window set. A two-and-one-half inch by one-and-one-half inch glass art piece hangs with the tassel on the west window. A small tree is painted on the small glass art piece.

Both windowsills are lined with ten pieces of miniature block art made by various artists, most of whom I know. There is one small bronze sculpture of a soccer player and another of a small boxer; each sculpture was made by some village folks in Africa. Two colorful wooden bird whistles sit on the windowsills, one whistle on each sill. Both whistles were made by some folks in Nicaragua where my husband visits and will sometimes bring home small tokens from local Nicaraguan artisans. Two small sculpted vases sit on one windowsill.

Except for the whistles, all the art pieces on the two windowsills are crafted by Artomat artists; so is the small glass art piece that hangs from the hardware in the west window.

On a music stand in the middle of an right beneath the two windows, a twenty-four-inch by eighteen-inch black framed photo is displayed. The photo was taken by my son. It's an incredible photograph of a lake mirroring the giant mountains and sky from his backpacking trip to Glacier National Park in 2012.

To the left of the photo and music stand, a small empty thigh-high curio cabinet sits on the floor. A salt lamp which I seldom turn off sits on top of the small cabinet.

To the right of the windows, a lawyers book shelf with glass doors catties the east corner. I bought the book shelf and put it together. Right now, children's picture books line one of the shelves. It's the only piece of furniture in the room that I paid more than three dollars for; well, except for the music stand.

On top of the book shelf a giant oriental fan is spread displaying its floral print on gold paper with bamboo reeds. In front of the fan sits a potted ivy silk plant; an Artomat block miniature painting of my dog-friend Jethro; and an analog table clock that ticks.

I like the sound of the tick-tock.

The WOW Handbook: "What is expected of WOW Ambassadors?"

"Natural leadership ability" was one of the written qualifications to enter The Way Corps - a commitment to a "lifetime of Christian service."

"Natural leadership ability" was not one of the written qualifications to volunteer as a Word Over the World Ambassador. "Word Over the World," "W.O.W." - that was our goal. Each one reach one.

What were some of the qualifications to go WOW?

• A heart to serve and obey the Word.
• Must be a graduate of the Power for Abundant Living class.
• Sign the blue WOW registration card.
• Submit a short essay about why I want to be a WOW.
• Attend WOW training.
• Bring with me to commissioning and onto the field a certain amount of cash. (Was it $300? I can't recall now.)

A WOW Ambassador made an out-and-out commitment to serve for one year on "special assignment" in the area to which the volunteer was assigned by Way International leadership, a commitment to work a part-time job at least 20 hours per week but no more than 35, a commitment to witness the Word at least 40 hours per week, a commitment to perform the "five basics," a commitment to abide by the guidelines outlined in the WOW handbook.

The "five basics" included reading the Word daily, speaking the Word daily, abundant sharing of time and finances weekly, speaking in tongues daily, and fellowshipping with like-minded believers daily. I thought the "five basics" were a no-fail system. As long as I did the five basics, I couldn't fail. God had to honor the five basics.

What were some other expectations of a WOW?

• Up by, not at, 7 AM and in bed no later than midnight each day.
• Each morning spend at least 30 minutes privately and personally reading the Word and speaking in tongues.
• Attend and be intent in the WOW family meeting each day.
• Dress and present myself in a manner that is acceptable to the general community where I have been assigned.
• Marital status remains the same for the one year. Married couples cannot get pregnant.
• Each week, take off one day from my secular job and from witnessing.

In my 1980-81 WOW handbook, I recorded personal notes. Listed below are a few of those notes from the page entitled "What is expected of WOW Ambassadors," :

These principles are things to achieve - goals.
I decide as a coordinator to do God's will (these principles) and I will (we will) be like Daniel 1:15, 18-20.
Just do these and the pressure will be taken off me.
"Make these things law." ~V. Finnegan
If I am counseling all the time, I am doing something wrong [and] my focus is not on my WOW commitment.
If you have a need, witness.
These are not guidelines to condemn ourselves.
No pregnant mothers. Ask my married couples what kind of birth control they are using.

The 'Ministry' year was 1980-81. I was 21 years old. I had been commissioned as a Word Over the World (WOW) Ambassador to serve for one year in Torrington, Connecticut.

*~*~
My blog entries about The WOW Handbook

• The WOW Handbook: Out-and-out Commitment
• The WOW Handbook: Romans 10:14 and 15
• The WOW Handbook: "What is expected of WOW Ambassadors?"

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Felt Dream

9/23/13 ~ Journal entry
Sitting at a picnic table
Alone in the woods
Rocky Knob
Blue Ridge Parkway, VA
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Why do I like to be alone in the woods?
There are no expectations.

I think it is impossible for me to carry this mindset into life in the city. Expectations scream everywhere my eye and ear turn.

Was it Thoreau or Emerson who went to the woods? I'm thinking it was Henry David. Knowing me, I'm probably wrong. Maybe it was Ralph Waldo. For now I can make it up and say it was "Ralph David" or "Henry Waldo."

I wonder how old he was when he went to the woods? If I search and find "Why I went to the woods" will I finish reading it? It seems there is also a chapter entitled something like, "Why I left the woods."

I've never read Walden.

Regardless, I know I love the woods.

Sometimes I think I should burn every book I've written. I've written at least 13 journals, or in other words, books. Other times I think that I should maybe read through my journals, polish the prose a bit, and see what comes out. I could call it "Condensation."

I wish I still had my journal writings from my late teens when I found The Way. But I discarded those writings some years after I joined The Way; those writings were devilish to my true believer heart. I was to forgot the past, declare it null and void.

The Way. The Way. The Way.
Such a simple name. Such a complex subject.

A few weeks ago I bought a new-used bicycle. I've been able to ride it a few times. I've ridden nine-ish to twenty-ish miles each time.

Last week I had a rough week emotionally and physically. But the one day I was able to ride my bike was a good day. As I rode along the paved greenway between two giant fields of yellow and white and purple wild flowers amidst green stems and leaves and foliage and amber grasses that were tall and feathery and swaying in the breeze, I smiled. My heart felt a ray of hope.

This is my element. Here, in the fields, in the woods - this is where I feel at home, where I feel I fit. It is where I am supposed to be. Surely, surely, surely, I will get well enough to be able to backpack again.

My heart swelled with that ray of hope. Maybe it is false hope, but at least I felt hope.

Some six-ish miles later, still riding my bike on the greenway, not smiling now because I was having to work a bit harder and I was more aware of the pain in my hands and wrists and arms and knees and feet, the cursed neuropathy pain, I was especially cognizant of the pain I felt where my covered steel braces on each hand make contact with the handlebars. The neuroapthy pain is seldom intense; it's most often low-level pain. Yet, it is a constant companion, along with the weakness.

Aware of the pain, I thought of backpacking, especially of thru-hiking the Appalachian Trail. For a moment I felt the trail...the long monotonous miles, the pain in my feet and legs from hiking, the hassling rain, the barren aloneness in the green tunnel, the harsh and unforgiving elements of nature, the satisfaction of a day well hiked, the company of trail companions - other hikers from all over the world with whom a camaraderie is known without ever having to speak a word, the stories shared, the authenticity of being in the unforgiving woods. The woods only care about the woods.

I know the harsh and barren reality of a thru-hike. Yet I still want it, all 2184 miles.

And then, I cried, knowing the reality that my dream may remain only a dream. Sometimes I think it doesn't matter anyway - it's just a dream.

Claim to Fame

In the past few days, a comment on toss & ripple brought to mind when my children were young and we found a baby squirrel whom we nurtured until he was adopted back by a momma squirrel. At the time, Dorothy Moore contacted me and asked if I'd write the lead article for the then-upcoming issue of the Moore Report International (MRI). It's my only claim to homeschooling fame. Ha.

I don't know how to scan things into my computer and currently don't feel like learning how, so I took a photo with my phone. Below is a the photo of the front cover of that issue of MRI. The photo in the 1995 article is of my daughter feeding Squirrely.

It's Just Semantics....

I realize any readers of toss & ripple may not be interested in the following regarding John M. Knapp, aka Johnny Profane.

Some may say, "Knapp is inconsequential. What he states really makes no difference." And that is probably true. Yet, my life still has residual effects due to Knapp's past abuses. I cannot speak for any others who experienced his mistreatments.

Will he again act out at some point within his new circle of influence? Maybe; maybe not; maybe he already has. From my experience and from what I've been told, Knapp somehow manages to erase his past misdeeds and weasel out of accountability for his words and actions.

The following are a couple more current falsehoods Knapp states. It's just semantics, of course.

• An article entitled Musicians Kimmie & Johnny Catch on with 'Cowpunk' in a June, 2013, issue of the Indianapolis Monthly states that John M. Knapp (aka Johnny Profane) "...worked as a therapist counseling cult survivors, although he eventually lost his license due to a lawsuit."

• Johnny Profane (John M. Knapp) states on Twitter and elsewhere that he is a "defrocked therapist" indicating that his license to practice therapy in the mental health field as a social worker was revoked.

Knapp is not "defrocked" nor has he "lost his license" nor was there ever a "lawsuit" resulting in said loss of license.

As of 9/12/13, Knapp is still listed as a Licensed Master Social worker in NY state, but his status is "NOT REGISTERED." (*See screen shot below.) "NOT REGISTERED" does not mean that his license is revoked. It means that Knapp didn't re-register and that his "registration has lapsed without explanation." Without registration he cannot legally practice as a social worker; but he has not "lost his license" nor been "defrocked." If he had lost his license, his status would read "LICENSE SUSPENDED," "LICENSE REVOKED," or "LICENSE SURRENDERED." Could he re-register if he tried? I do not know. I would hope not.

There was never a lawsuit against Knapp regarding his therapeutic services. In October, 2010, I filed an official complaint with NY state, a complaint is not a lawsuit. The complaint was investigated and NY state's Office of Professions then informed Knapp of its findings and proposed charges. In November, 2012, a hearing was held before Knapp's Licensing Board. Knapp did not show for the hearing. As of yet, no determination from the state has been declared regarding any disciplinary action against Knapp or regarding Knapp's license. It is possible that no disciplinary action will be taken against Knapp.

Regarding any lawsuits against Knapp: in September, 2011, a small claims suit was filed in NY against Knapp by one of Knapp's previous employees for non-payment to said employee. The employee won the case, and Knapp was served the judgement. Within a week or so of being served, Knapp skipped state without ever paying that employee or responding to the judgement. To my knowledge, that is the only "suit" filed against Knapp. It did not result in losing his social worker license.

I guess by advertising that he is "defrocked," Knapp may want to impress that he is a rebel who bucks the system. If he advertises about the real "suit" (as small as it was) where he never paid a previous employee...well now, that might just give the wrong impression.
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*Screen shot as of 9/12/13 from the NY State Office of the Professions Verification Searches online public site:

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February, 2014, update: On January 14, 2014, NY state reached it's ruling. Knapp was found guilty of professional misconduct; including negligence, incompetence, on more than one occasion, and unprofessional conduct. His license was revoked. Link to ruling on the NYS website: LINK
****

I still want a yurt ....

non-subject: bringing it together
aww: september 13, 2013
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I am no longer the warm open person I used to be.
I used to say, "I wear my heart on my sleeve."
I don't do that anymore.

For the most part I stay distant from forming close relationships with new people.
I don't have the same passion I once did...to reach out, to offer help to others.

Have I become calloused and cynical?
Or am I just dampened, doused one too many times to silence the embers that spark the fire?

As I sit on my back porch, this night of September 11, 2013, I hear crickets and tree frogs. A symphony of sound coming from our small spread of backyard woods. Woods that if I had the money I would clean up and plant bamboo and erect a yurt for my private space, away from my home where work of some sort or another always seems to be calling. Laundry, dishes, bills, scrubbing, dusting, vacuuming, organizing, sorting, placing. Little of which I do in much fashion the past 5 years.

I keep telling myself that I must get my home in order. Yet, I avoid it.
The task looms large.
The task reminds me that I am growing old.
The task will bring up all the unfinished projects I once started.
The task will resurrect the many different self-employed businesses in which I've dabbled...from multilevel marketing sales to preschool music to miniature art to pet sitting.

Some 15 years ago Susan, a fellow eclectic-homeschooling mom in Lunch Bunch Learners, the Greensboro homeschool group, stated to me that she was "a generalist." Like me, she wasn't an expert at anything but knew a little about lots of different things. At the time I thought, "Finally I have a label for what I am - a 'generalist.'"

When I get around to the monumental task of decluttering my home, I'll have to make decisions. Not general decisions, but specific. I'll have to form opinions about what to keep, where to put it, what to give away, what to recycle, what to trash. I doubt I will sell any of our stuff; I abhor having yard sales. I don't want to go through learning how to sell stuff online. Maybe I'm just lazy or maybe I'll change my mind from benefactor to salesperson; I don't know.

This dampening of my heart, this avoidance of having to feel, this loneliness that I have chosen - is that who I really am after all these years? If it is, can I accept that person as she is?  The past me, was that really me or was that who I was supposed to be?

Today I searched online for any wildlife rehab facilities in the city where I live in North Carolina. I found one. Volunteers learn the how-to of wildlife rehab and keep rescues in their homes until the animals are ready again for the wild. "I'd like that," I thought.

Then my critic chimed in, "It'd just be another thing you'd do and then get tired of. You'd probably only last for one animal. Why commit to that? You need to get your home in order, remember?"

The WOW Handbook: Romans 10:14 and 15

The 'Ministry' year was 1980-81. I was 21 years old. I had been commissioned as a Word Over the World (WOW) Ambassador to serve for one year in Torrington, Connecticut.

The WOW handbook, 1980-81.
Printed on the backside page of  'Dr.' Wierwille's introductory "Dear WOW Ambassador" letter sits Romans 10:14 and 15:

How then shall they call on him in whom they have not believed? and how shall they believe in him of whom they have not heard? and how shall they hear without a preacher?

And how shall they preach, except they be sent? as it is written, How beautiful are the feet of them that preach the gospel of peace, and bring glad tidings of good things!

Romans 10:14 and 15

I was a prolific note taker in those days. Still am to some extent. One of my subjects in high school was Gregg shorthand. I've used it through the years in my note taking.

Some of my notes from my 'Romans 10:14 and 15' WOW handbook page:

Root hog or die! Pin your ears back and move} all the new things are of God.

Life is dependent upon where that Word is in my life, not circumstances.

We need to lay that foundation deeper! Down to the rock. The WOW program is to build that foundation on the rock.

We are going to learn how to love people for the rest of our lives.

Problems in believing in each other stem from the fact that that person does not love himself. God is love!

Remember all God's benefits. Love people into loving themselves. 
Perfect love casts out fear, our only enemy. 
Overcome F-E-A-R by L-O-V-E by G-I-V-E.

PUT MYSELF IN THE OTHER GUY'S SHOES!

The greatest service we have for people in this ministry[of reconciliation] is the WOW program. 

We need to again start getting people born again and lead them into speaking in tongues. We do not need to wait until they take The Class.

The 'Ministry' year was 1980-81. I was 21 years old. I had been commissioned as a Word Over the World (WOW) Ambassador to serve for one year in Torrington, Connecticut.

*~*~
My blog entries about The WOW Handbook

• The WOW Handbook: Out-and-out Commitment
• The WOW Handbook: Romans 10:14 and 15
• The WOW Handbook: "What is expected of WOW Ambassadors?"

*~*~

The WOW Handbook: Dear WOW Ambassador

The 'Ministry' year was 1980-81. I was 21 years old. I had been commissioned as a Word Over the World (WOW) Ambassador to serve for one year in Torrington, Connecticut.

The first wave of WOW Ambassadors was commissioned around 1971. To my recollection 'Doctor' developed the WOW program based, at least in part, on his experience when he went to India in 1955-1956. Bishop K.C. Pillai had previously shared with 'Doctor' that the people in India would be open and ready to receive the power of God, and the bishop personally invited 'Doctor' to come and see. 'Doctor' and Mrs. sold all their belongings, entrusted their new born youngest child at the time to Grandma, and sailed to India to witness the power of God in manifestation unlike they had seen in the States due to "unbelief encountered..in the American churches." Their trip included stops in other countries. They left the USA in September, 1955, and returned in April, 1956.

The 'Ministry' year was 1980-81. I was 21 years old. I had been commissioned as a Word Over the World (WOW) Ambassador to serve for one year in Torrington, Connecticut.

'Dr.' Wierwille was a gentle fatherly figure. He was kind; understanding; accepting; humble; honest; a giver; a teacher; a servant; one who heard the still small voice of God; one whose life was a "living sacrifice" as stated in Romans 12; one who believed and taught that people are to be loved, not used. I believed he loved me as an individual. I didn't believe he was perfect; he was just a man prone to temptations like all of us. But he believed the Word. His life was "the Word, the Word, the Word, and nothing but the Word." He was the man of God of the world for our day and time just like the Apostle Paul had been for his day and time.

The 'Ministry' year was 1980-81. I was 21 years old. I had been commissioned as a Word Over the World (WOW) Ambassador to serve for one year in Torrington, Connecticut.

On the opening page of the 1980-81 WOW hand book is a letter from 'Doctor' to all us WOWs. He sometimes addressed us as his 'kids.'

Dear WOW Ambassador:

God bless and greetings in the wonderful name of our living lord and savior, Jesus Christ.

Welcome to the wonderful family of God's frontline spiritual athletes.

Your one-year commitment as a WOW is destined to bless your life as long as you live. You only, by your believing, can make this the greatest year of your life.

I stand with you believing for God's divine benediction and blessing upon your life. I expect to see you radiating the greatness of the love of God and the power of His holy spirit. You will make the Word live as a WOW to the extent that you live in the Word.

God bless. I love you. Remember, you are the best.

Sincerely,

In His service,

Victor Paul Wierwille

The 'Ministry' year was 1980-81. I was 21 years old. I had been commissioned as a Word Over the World (WOW) Ambassador to serve for one year in Torrington, Connecticut.

Unknown to myself and most of the Way 'saints,' 'Doctor' was busy gifting rings to certain women on his private motor coach. As the man of God he was under a lot of pressure. He had needs, sexual needs. After all, it was the age of grace; believers were free in Christ.