non-subject: Thirty-three years old
aww ~ 7/23/13
******
Thirty-three years old.
So many dreams.
Some have come true.
In my early twenties, all I really wanted was to marry a good man and raise a family. At the time, I wanted to raise my children in "the nurture and admonition of the Lord." What did that mean to me?
It meant my children would grow up to love the Lord Jesus Christ, to stand upon the rightly-divided Word of God; to know that that they know that they know that God is always good, that God never desires harm or sickness or death; but rather, that God's will is always healing and life; that above all else, God will never leave or forsake them; and that Jesus Christ paid the ultimate price.
One of my great fears was that one of my children would choose homosexuality. I believed all homosexuals were worthy of death and that to choose such a lifestyle was the lowest of the low. If one of my children were to choose that path, what would I do? Would I, could I, disown them, mark and avoid them, so they would learn the error of their ways and turn back to the rightly-divided Word?
To raise them in the nurture and admonish of the Lord meant they would learn to speak in tongues. They would take The Way's Foundational and Intermediate and Advanced Classes. They would learn to operate all nine manifestations: speaking in tongues, interpretation of tongues, prophecy, word of knowledge, word of wisdom, discerning of spirits, faith, miracles, and healing.
To raise them in the nurture and admonish of the Lord meant they would remain faithful in the Household of God which was The Way International, the functioning Body of Christ. All Christians outside the Household were part of the Family of God, but not part of the Household of God, the initiated ones who practiced and lived the love of God in the renewed mind in manifestation.
To raise them in the nurture and admonish of the Lord meant obedience to the Word which meant obedience to their parents and to Ministry leadership which would lead to obeying the Word and the still small voice of God. It meant being good to all mankind but especially to those in the Household of God, the Household of The Way.
To raise them in the nurture and admonish of the Lord meant they would marry another likeminded believer. Part of my responsibility was to help preserve the rightly-divided Word so it would carry on to the next generation.
To raise them in the nurture and admonish of the Lord meant that their temptations in life wouldn't be between what is good and bad, but rather between good and best. It meant I would teach them about Dr. Wierwille's life and all the men and women of God who had gone before so that we could be alive in this day and time in this country of the United States proclaiming the accuracy of the Word of God. For it was only the accuracy of the Word that set men and women free.
To raise them in the nurture and admonish of the Lord meant they would know that they know that they know that Jesus Christ was not God, but rather that he was fully man and the son of God. To believe Jesus was God was the epitome of idolatry. The devil would use that idolatrous belief in revealing the future anti-Christ when that anti-Christ would set himself up as God. What better way to pave the way for a man to proclaim himself as God than to have believers already believing that a man had been God 2000 years ago? To worship Jesus as God opened doors to homosexuality, mankind worshiping his own form.
To raise them in the nurture and admonish of the Lord meant that my children would know that they know that they know that the dead are dead, not alive in some afterlife. My children would know that when Jesus returns in the clouds at the time of the gathering together, that the dead in Christ would at that time arise from their sleep state. No one, except Jesus Christ himself, is alive until the day of the Gathering Together. After the dead in Christ rise, then any believers who are alive would instantly be changed and given their new bodies and would meet the Lord in the air. All other dead people, unbelievers and the Old Testament believers, would be raised later at the upcoming judgments in the future heavens and earth.
At 33 years old I knew that I knew that I knew.
But now at 54 years old, I know that there is very little I really know in comparison to the expanse of life and death, of god and spirituality. I no longer believe that speaking in tongues builds one up spiritually. I no longer believe that The Way is the true household of God. I no longer believe doctrines that I once believed, like the "law of believing." I no longer believe that the Bible, even as originally written, is anymore "God-breathed" than any other literature regarding spirituality and life, evil and good, and what resides in the heart of mankind and our future state.
What do I now believe? It depends on which day I ask myself that question.
*********
July 31, 2013
July 28, 2013
Quest
Tonight I googled "In quest of a quiet life."
"Quest."
I like that word.
Today has been difficult; I have felt completely drained of energy.
I've taken two naps both times awaking with the tingling feeling of wearing gloves where there are no gloves.
Even my feet were sore today. They've not been sore in a long time.
Peripheral neuropathy is sometimes described as having a glove-and-stocking symptomology. Before I ever read about that, I told my first neurologist: "I finally figured out how to describe what my hands feel like when I wake up. They feel like I am wearing boxing gloves."
However, I've never worn boxing gloves. But that is how I described my hands - like they were weighted and muted.
I am in process of down-sizing my business by 80%. The decision has been in process since February, 2013. Finally around June, I made the final decision to downsize. My business has been successful and outgrew my desire of what I want to oversee; actually it out grew what I have the ability to oversee. Son, who helps me run the business, is moving out of town this month. He and I and Hubby have been with my little business since March, 2011.
The past two and a half years have been quite a journey for me.
What have a learned?
Will what I've learned stick with me?
What is next for me?
Quiet? Perhaps.
What is next for my family?
I'll have some space and time...at least I hope so.
"Quest."
I like that word.
"Quest."
I like that word.
Today has been difficult; I have felt completely drained of energy.
I've taken two naps both times awaking with the tingling feeling of wearing gloves where there are no gloves.
Even my feet were sore today. They've not been sore in a long time.
Peripheral neuropathy is sometimes described as having a glove-and-stocking symptomology. Before I ever read about that, I told my first neurologist: "I finally figured out how to describe what my hands feel like when I wake up. They feel like I am wearing boxing gloves."
However, I've never worn boxing gloves. But that is how I described my hands - like they were weighted and muted.
I am in process of down-sizing my business by 80%. The decision has been in process since February, 2013. Finally around June, I made the final decision to downsize. My business has been successful and outgrew my desire of what I want to oversee; actually it out grew what I have the ability to oversee. Son, who helps me run the business, is moving out of town this month. He and I and Hubby have been with my little business since March, 2011.
The past two and a half years have been quite a journey for me.
What have a learned?
Will what I've learned stick with me?
What is next for me?
Quiet? Perhaps.
What is next for my family?
I'll have some space and time...at least I hope so.
"Quest."
I like that word.
July 26, 2013
Soul Lotion
I scrolled through the Facebook updates on my Facebook wall, or whatever it is called where I can read the updates my Facebook friend's post on their Facebook timelines.
Son's ex-girlfriend had posted a video of her recent mission trip to Nicaragua.
I clicked the play arrow and the digital slide show began its 12-minute journey.
No narration, only music as the backdrop behind each frame.
Young adults, mostly Caucasian.
Young children, Nicaraguan.
Smiling faces.
Shacks.
Dirt streets.
Singing.
Food.
Hugs.
Shovels.
Mixers.
Cement blocks.
Mortar.
Trowels.
Blue paint.
Linoleum floors.
Bright colors.
Protection.
Food.
Dirt streets.
Shacks.
Singing.
Smiling faces.
Young children, Nicaraguan.
Young adults, mostly Caucasian.
As I viewed the rolling photos put to music, I surmised that this mission trip was about more than teaching Jesus.
I was impressed that the mission was to build.
I noted the cement blocks as they were being stacked to form walls for a new central village building - perhaps a church building, but I don't know.
Such a contrast to the shanties in the village.
Why couldn't all the village families have better houses?
Maybe their houses are fine; it's all those families have every known.
A sturdy cement block structure with fresh colorful paint and perhaps even air conditioning, would provide respite for the village from the heat.
I could smell the sweat as the young masons laid block upon block.
I could feel the endurance of arising each day for the physical task ahead.
I could sense the deep satisfaction of a job well done.
I could touch the sadness when it would be time for the young people on their mission to depart.
I thought, "I want to build something....with my hands."
My inner dialog continued,
"Your hands are not in a physical condition to build something."
"Well, they could try. Sure, they would hurt a bit and they would tire and certain fine motor tasks might be impossible."
"Your hands and wrists are unable to lift heavy items."
"But they could get stronger as you would build something day after day, wouldn't they?"
"Maybe Carol as you take the action to build something...maybe...maybe...maybe...somehow in the process of building, your hands would be healed."
"But what if they aren't?"
"So what?"
Buildings are temporary; they fall.
Hurricanes.
Tsunamis.
Earthquakes.
Fires.
Relationships are eternal; they endure.
Security.
Love.
Kindness.
Courage.
Carol, remember that time after Dr. Piva gave Son Dr. Piva's huge baseball card collection?
You later told Dr. Piva, "I don't collect anything."
Dr. Piva knew of my journals; I was known to read from them at my appointments.
He responded, "You collect thoughts. You collect solutions."
All those scribbles on all those pages in all those books.
Letters.
Words.
Thoughts.
And even a few solutions.
All penned by hand, not typed from a keyboard.
Are not letters simply small drawings to symbolize ideas or scenes or thoughts?
I like to sometimes spell solution as soul-lotion.
*******
Son's ex-girlfriend had posted a video of her recent mission trip to Nicaragua.
I clicked the play arrow and the digital slide show began its 12-minute journey.
No narration, only music as the backdrop behind each frame.
Young adults, mostly Caucasian.
Young children, Nicaraguan.
Smiling faces.
Shacks.
Dirt streets.
Singing.
Food.
Hugs.
Shovels.
Mixers.
Cement blocks.
Mortar.
Trowels.
Blue paint.
Linoleum floors.
Bright colors.
Protection.
Food.
Dirt streets.
Shacks.
Singing.
Smiling faces.
Young children, Nicaraguan.
Young adults, mostly Caucasian.
As I viewed the rolling photos put to music, I surmised that this mission trip was about more than teaching Jesus.
I was impressed that the mission was to build.
I noted the cement blocks as they were being stacked to form walls for a new central village building - perhaps a church building, but I don't know.
Such a contrast to the shanties in the village.
Why couldn't all the village families have better houses?
Maybe their houses are fine; it's all those families have every known.
A sturdy cement block structure with fresh colorful paint and perhaps even air conditioning, would provide respite for the village from the heat.
I could smell the sweat as the young masons laid block upon block.
I could feel the endurance of arising each day for the physical task ahead.
I could sense the deep satisfaction of a job well done.
I could touch the sadness when it would be time for the young people on their mission to depart.
I thought, "I want to build something....with my hands."
My inner dialog continued,
"Your hands are not in a physical condition to build something."
"Well, they could try. Sure, they would hurt a bit and they would tire and certain fine motor tasks might be impossible."
"Your hands and wrists are unable to lift heavy items."
"But they could get stronger as you would build something day after day, wouldn't they?"
"Maybe Carol as you take the action to build something...maybe...maybe...maybe...somehow in the process of building, your hands would be healed."
"But what if they aren't?"
"So what?"
Buildings are temporary; they fall.
Hurricanes.
Tsunamis.
Earthquakes.
Fires.
Relationships are eternal; they endure.
Security.
Love.
Kindness.
Courage.
Carol, remember that time after Dr. Piva gave Son Dr. Piva's huge baseball card collection?
You later told Dr. Piva, "I don't collect anything."
Dr. Piva knew of my journals; I was known to read from them at my appointments.
He responded, "You collect thoughts. You collect solutions."
All those scribbles on all those pages in all those books.
Letters.
Words.
Thoughts.
And even a few solutions.
All penned by hand, not typed from a keyboard.
Are not letters simply small drawings to symbolize ideas or scenes or thoughts?
I like to sometimes spell solution as soul-lotion.
*******
July 24, 2013
remembering with pictures
aww ~ 7/24/13
non-subject: remembering with pictures
**************
I've never been one to snap many photos. I've never owned a nice camera. When I got an iPhone, I thought I might learn more about photography. But alas, an iPhone is a phone, not a camera.
I have a big banker box full of photographs. The banker box must be at least two feet long. Most of the photos are in packets in which I picked them up from the store after the photos were developed. I dated the packets and threw them in the box. There are loose photos too, scattered in and among the packets.
I used to feel guilty that I didn't take more photos of our family as the children were growing up. No one else in the family seemed very interested in preserving memories with photographs. Eventually I gave up at trying to capture life in photos. We have some and maybe enough, but not as many as in other families that I know.
I am guilty of not preserving more with photos.
Guilt. That huge monkey that hung on my back for decades.
I thought I had worked through much of my shame....until the John Knapp incident. His words to me in his emails painted me as dishonest and a destroyer and not trustworthy of any sort of friendship.
Guilt. Shame.
After Knapp's initial verbal blows in August, 2010, I then wrestled and wrestled and wrestled with the decision of whether or not to file a formal complaint with his licensing board. I hated myself if I didn't file and I hated myself if I did file. I chose the lesser of the two hates.
In 2012, at the hearing when I was a witness for the state of New York, the examining board asked me a question about the complaint. I can't recall the question now, but part of my answer was that it was a horrid decision for me. The prosecutor responded, "You mean it was difficult." I said, "No. It was horrid. I hated being put in that position."
In 2011, after Knapp publicly tried to smear my character with outright fables of sexual propositioning, of contacting his clients, of cyber stalking and harassing him, and the myriad of other lies and twisted truths he proclaimed, I again felt guilt and shame. Yet, I had committed none of the acts of which he accused me. But I thought somehow maybe I deserved his blows.
It wasn't until late 2011 when Shelley, another former victim-client of Knapp, came forward to me in private that I was finally glad I had reported Knapp and that I had gone public. Shortly after contacting me, Shelley called the NY state prosecutor. The prosecutor asked Shelley if Shelley could testify. Shelley responded, "I can't. I am terrified of that man."
Shelley shared with me that she felt like a coward that she couldn't testify.
But she wasn't or isn't a coward; she's human.
I don't think of her as a coward at all; it took a lot of guts for her to contact me after standing with Knapp against me and initially believing Knapp's lies about me.
I need to have that same compassion toward myself as I do toward others. To recognize I am not a shame-filled disgusting degenerate. Sometimes my inner dialog against my self is inhumane. I hear male judgmental voices. I don't hear female voices.
Oliver the cat was put to sleep last week. I drank Margaritas almost daily last week to help me numb the pain and forget for a few moments my error. I drank a Margarita again tonight.
Oliver had copper eyes.
The last I saw them, I thought he was going to make it, was going to survive.
But I was wrong.
*****
non-subject: remembering with pictures
**************
I've never been one to snap many photos. I've never owned a nice camera. When I got an iPhone, I thought I might learn more about photography. But alas, an iPhone is a phone, not a camera.
I have a big banker box full of photographs. The banker box must be at least two feet long. Most of the photos are in packets in which I picked them up from the store after the photos were developed. I dated the packets and threw them in the box. There are loose photos too, scattered in and among the packets.
I used to feel guilty that I didn't take more photos of our family as the children were growing up. No one else in the family seemed very interested in preserving memories with photographs. Eventually I gave up at trying to capture life in photos. We have some and maybe enough, but not as many as in other families that I know.
I am guilty of not preserving more with photos.
Guilt. That huge monkey that hung on my back for decades.
I thought I had worked through much of my shame....until the John Knapp incident. His words to me in his emails painted me as dishonest and a destroyer and not trustworthy of any sort of friendship.
Guilt. Shame.
After Knapp's initial verbal blows in August, 2010, I then wrestled and wrestled and wrestled with the decision of whether or not to file a formal complaint with his licensing board. I hated myself if I didn't file and I hated myself if I did file. I chose the lesser of the two hates.
In 2012, at the hearing when I was a witness for the state of New York, the examining board asked me a question about the complaint. I can't recall the question now, but part of my answer was that it was a horrid decision for me. The prosecutor responded, "You mean it was difficult." I said, "No. It was horrid. I hated being put in that position."
In 2011, after Knapp publicly tried to smear my character with outright fables of sexual propositioning, of contacting his clients, of cyber stalking and harassing him, and the myriad of other lies and twisted truths he proclaimed, I again felt guilt and shame. Yet, I had committed none of the acts of which he accused me. But I thought somehow maybe I deserved his blows.
It wasn't until late 2011 when Shelley, another former victim-client of Knapp, came forward to me in private that I was finally glad I had reported Knapp and that I had gone public. Shortly after contacting me, Shelley called the NY state prosecutor. The prosecutor asked Shelley if Shelley could testify. Shelley responded, "I can't. I am terrified of that man."
Shelley shared with me that she felt like a coward that she couldn't testify.
But she wasn't or isn't a coward; she's human.
I don't think of her as a coward at all; it took a lot of guts for her to contact me after standing with Knapp against me and initially believing Knapp's lies about me.
I need to have that same compassion toward myself as I do toward others. To recognize I am not a shame-filled disgusting degenerate. Sometimes my inner dialog against my self is inhumane. I hear male judgmental voices. I don't hear female voices.
Oliver the cat was put to sleep last week. I drank Margaritas almost daily last week to help me numb the pain and forget for a few moments my error. I drank a Margarita again tonight.
Oliver had copper eyes.
The last I saw them, I thought he was going to make it, was going to survive.
But I was wrong.
*****
July 17, 2013
Ollie
I feel sick to my stomach.
I've felt this way since Monday morning when I discovered my error.
I stood in the examining room waiting for the vet tech to bring Oliver riding in his cat carrier so I could transport Ollie from the emergency vet, where I had taken him Sunday morning, to his regular vet, where he would stay the remainder of the eight days while his owners were away.
As I waited, I read the medical notes. One line stated, "Pet sitter is unsure if she gave 3.5 or 35 units."
That's not right, I thought. I know the amount I gave. I was unsure of how to describe the syringe.
When the vet tech returned I told her that I need a sentence corrected in the medical records, that I knew how much I gave Oliver; I gave him to the marking of three-five on the syringe and that I thought that was the three-point-five amount.
We discussed it for a moment, like I had discussed it with a different vet tech when I had admitted Ollie on Sunday morning. Sunday morning was an emergency. and I hadn't grabbed the syringes Sunday morning on my way out the door to get Ollie to the emergency vet.
But today I had the syringes in my Explorer and I had the insulin and I had Oliver's food. It was all going with Ollie to the regular vet for the remainder of the vacation time.
I went to my car fully confident that I had given Oliver the right amount of insulin. I retrieved a syringe from the gallon baggie that I had written Oliver's name on. I was sending 20 syringes with Oliver to the regular vet. I also had his gallon baggie of food labeled with his name. I had wrapped his vial of insulin in a paper towel and put it in a sandwich-size baggie labeled with his name.
The night before I had put all of Ollie's supplies with my car key in my refrigerator. The insulin needed to stay cool and I didn't want to forget any of the supplies when I would leave early in the morning for my pet rounds and then to pick up Oliver for his transport.
I brought the skinny syringe into the vet tech. She turned it round so we could see the markings. There were the numbers 5, 10, 15, 20, 25, 30, 35, 40, 45, 50. In between the numbers were lines like on a ruler. I pointed to the three-five on the scale. I showed her how much I had given Ollie..to the number three-five which I thought meant three-point-five.
She said, "Oh no. Three-point-five are three of these tiny dashes and then half-way between the third and fourth tiny dashes."
I looked at her with horror in my eyes.
"I did this to Oliver," I said in a state of shock.
She immediately and compassionately responded, "Stay calm; it could happen to anybody."
I felt sick to my stomach as my face felt pale and I seated myself in one of the chairs.
Oliver was brought into the room in the cat carrier I had borrowed. Oliver's family was in the process of moving and selling their house, so his cat carrier was in storage.
The vet tech told me that Oliver had had some seizures and to not be alarmed if he had one on the way to the regular vet.
That was Monday. Life has been hell for Ollie. And I did it to him.
His owners cut their trip short and came home tonight. Ollie's prognosis wasn't good today, though yesterday he had taken a turn for the better.
Ollie may die by my hand.
I guess I'll just have to feel sick until I don't feel sick anymore.
I've felt this way since Monday morning when I discovered my error.
I stood in the examining room waiting for the vet tech to bring Oliver riding in his cat carrier so I could transport Ollie from the emergency vet, where I had taken him Sunday morning, to his regular vet, where he would stay the remainder of the eight days while his owners were away.
As I waited, I read the medical notes. One line stated, "Pet sitter is unsure if she gave 3.5 or 35 units."
That's not right, I thought. I know the amount I gave. I was unsure of how to describe the syringe.
When the vet tech returned I told her that I need a sentence corrected in the medical records, that I knew how much I gave Oliver; I gave him to the marking of three-five on the syringe and that I thought that was the three-point-five amount.
We discussed it for a moment, like I had discussed it with a different vet tech when I had admitted Ollie on Sunday morning. Sunday morning was an emergency. and I hadn't grabbed the syringes Sunday morning on my way out the door to get Ollie to the emergency vet.
But today I had the syringes in my Explorer and I had the insulin and I had Oliver's food. It was all going with Ollie to the regular vet for the remainder of the vacation time.
I went to my car fully confident that I had given Oliver the right amount of insulin. I retrieved a syringe from the gallon baggie that I had written Oliver's name on. I was sending 20 syringes with Oliver to the regular vet. I also had his gallon baggie of food labeled with his name. I had wrapped his vial of insulin in a paper towel and put it in a sandwich-size baggie labeled with his name.
The night before I had put all of Ollie's supplies with my car key in my refrigerator. The insulin needed to stay cool and I didn't want to forget any of the supplies when I would leave early in the morning for my pet rounds and then to pick up Oliver for his transport.
I brought the skinny syringe into the vet tech. She turned it round so we could see the markings. There were the numbers 5, 10, 15, 20, 25, 30, 35, 40, 45, 50. In between the numbers were lines like on a ruler. I pointed to the three-five on the scale. I showed her how much I had given Ollie..to the number three-five which I thought meant three-point-five.
She said, "Oh no. Three-point-five are three of these tiny dashes and then half-way between the third and fourth tiny dashes."
I looked at her with horror in my eyes.
"I did this to Oliver," I said in a state of shock.
She immediately and compassionately responded, "Stay calm; it could happen to anybody."
I felt sick to my stomach as my face felt pale and I seated myself in one of the chairs.
Oliver was brought into the room in the cat carrier I had borrowed. Oliver's family was in the process of moving and selling their house, so his cat carrier was in storage.
The vet tech told me that Oliver had had some seizures and to not be alarmed if he had one on the way to the regular vet.
That was Monday. Life has been hell for Ollie. And I did it to him.
His owners cut their trip short and came home tonight. Ollie's prognosis wasn't good today, though yesterday he had taken a turn for the better.
Ollie may die by my hand.
I guess I'll just have to feel sick until I don't feel sick anymore.
July 8, 2013
The magic ponies of Grayson...
I just posted a Youtube video in my previous blog entry. The video is Julie Andrews voice singing "My Favorite Things" put to a slideshow of various photos.
One of the photos is of a pony.
The pony photo brings to mind another video that I've linked below. The video below records the ponies of Grayson Highlands, one of my favorite and fairly frequent hiking spots. The video captures well the magic of the feral ponies of the Virginia highlands.
Oh how I love this sacred space among the rocks and open balds...
It is here I feel at home and at ease....
The Feral Ponies of Grayson Highlands
One of the photos is of a pony.
The pony photo brings to mind another video that I've linked below. The video below records the ponies of Grayson Highlands, one of my favorite and fairly frequent hiking spots. The video captures well the magic of the feral ponies of the Virginia highlands.
Oh how I love this sacred space among the rocks and open balds...
It is here I feel at home and at ease....
The Feral Ponies of Grayson Highlands
Raindrops on roses...wild geese that fly...
Self, calm your heart.
Upon reading about the signs of mid-life crisis this morning, it sounds like I have been in a mid-life crisis for decades.
What the hey? Do other people not live in a whirlwind of constant change?
Maybe this unsettling in my soul which seems to have always existed as a result of some sort of abandonment issues when I was a little baby.
I was fed on a bottle.
Mom was institutionalized when I was a babe.
Maybe I was left to my thumb as my soul source of nurture.
Who knows what went on at home while Mom was institutionalized.
I wonder how things were before she was institutionalized?
In my latter teens, I was told that Dad was in a serious car wreck before I or my brother or my sister were born. As a result Dad had a metal plate as a permanent fortress built into his forehead. I was told he was in a coma for one or two or three weeks; I can't recall how long now. I was told that Dad received a vision before he awoke out of his coma - a man, who was Jesus to my father, and Dad were under a tree, seems it was an apple tree. I wonder why an apple tree? Apples are abundant in North Carolina. Jesus told Dad as they stood under the tree that it was time to go back, time to wake up. That was when Dad awoke from the coma.
I wish Dad were alive so I could ask him about the details, about my recollection, about what Mom told me - something to do with a straw that helped save Dad's life that day.
I wonder if any of what I recall and/or was told is even true?
Mom's institutionalization happened some years after Dad's wreck.
It happened after Mom was in a serious wreck where my brother went through the windshield but he had on his football helmet which saved his life. I was an infant in the back seat in some sort of car seat which probably saved my life. My sister was waiting to be picked up a movie theater.
The wreck happened when we still lived in Florida.
I think about death so often these days. That is one of the signs of a mid-life crisis.
I don't like that word, "crisis," when referring to seasons of life that naturally occur. Like the term "healing crisis," which refers to how the body heals itself and will bring up old symptoms that then dissipate. I prefer "healing response." Herring coined the process the "laws of cure." I imagine the empirical medical establishment might call it "bullshit."
I desire my heart to be calm. I wonder if the changes I am soon to undergo in regard to my business will help my heart to calm.
Lately I've envisioned brown wicker baskets with helium balloons tied to the handles. I will place my worries and anxiety in the baskets and watch them float up to the clouds. The baskets never disappear but rather hover in the air right below the clouds. And then, the baskets rain down blessings. The blessings are simply raindrops filled with gratitude.
Dad sure had some serious car wrecks.
One left him with a plate in his head.
Another left him paralyzed for thirteen years.
Raindrops....
Upon reading about the signs of mid-life crisis this morning, it sounds like I have been in a mid-life crisis for decades.
What the hey? Do other people not live in a whirlwind of constant change?
Maybe this unsettling in my soul which seems to have always existed as a result of some sort of abandonment issues when I was a little baby.
I was fed on a bottle.
Mom was institutionalized when I was a babe.
Maybe I was left to my thumb as my soul source of nurture.
Who knows what went on at home while Mom was institutionalized.
I wonder how things were before she was institutionalized?
In my latter teens, I was told that Dad was in a serious car wreck before I or my brother or my sister were born. As a result Dad had a metal plate as a permanent fortress built into his forehead. I was told he was in a coma for one or two or three weeks; I can't recall how long now. I was told that Dad received a vision before he awoke out of his coma - a man, who was Jesus to my father, and Dad were under a tree, seems it was an apple tree. I wonder why an apple tree? Apples are abundant in North Carolina. Jesus told Dad as they stood under the tree that it was time to go back, time to wake up. That was when Dad awoke from the coma.
I wish Dad were alive so I could ask him about the details, about my recollection, about what Mom told me - something to do with a straw that helped save Dad's life that day.
I wonder if any of what I recall and/or was told is even true?
Mom's institutionalization happened some years after Dad's wreck.
It happened after Mom was in a serious wreck where my brother went through the windshield but he had on his football helmet which saved his life. I was an infant in the back seat in some sort of car seat which probably saved my life. My sister was waiting to be picked up a movie theater.
The wreck happened when we still lived in Florida.
I think about death so often these days. That is one of the signs of a mid-life crisis.
I don't like that word, "crisis," when referring to seasons of life that naturally occur. Like the term "healing crisis," which refers to how the body heals itself and will bring up old symptoms that then dissipate. I prefer "healing response." Herring coined the process the "laws of cure." I imagine the empirical medical establishment might call it "bullshit."
I desire my heart to be calm. I wonder if the changes I am soon to undergo in regard to my business will help my heart to calm.
Lately I've envisioned brown wicker baskets with helium balloons tied to the handles. I will place my worries and anxiety in the baskets and watch them float up to the clouds. The baskets never disappear but rather hover in the air right below the clouds. And then, the baskets rain down blessings. The blessings are simply raindrops filled with gratitude.
Dad sure had some serious car wrecks.
One left him with a plate in his head.
Another left him paralyzed for thirteen years.
Raindrops....