I wonder if I had monkey feet....

Last weekend....

I lie in bed.
On my back.

Arms by my side.

Eyes closed.

My arms begin to drift into the much-desired, temporary relief - an internal low vibrational whisper, like a light massage to my nerve vessels.
My arms begin to feel less heavy and less inflamed.

The medicinal herb is again working its magic.

I open my eyes and observe my hands as I hold them in the air above my chest.
I slowly move my fingers one at a time, touching each finger-tip to the corresponding thumb-tip.
I close my fingers attempting fists but not quite succeeding.
Still, my fingers are more flexible than fifteen minutes ago.
The pain upon straightening out my hands is a bit less too.

My thoughts drift, as I think about my limbs - present and future.

Why have my arms and hands been so exasperated this past week? 
I must have done too much with my hands. 

But it's not "too much" for someone with normal limb function. 

I don't know if I can make it until January 5. 

I guess I can call and move up my appointment. 

I just have to decide if the benefits of moving up the steroid injections outweigh the side effects. 

The side effects were evident in my recent tests at my physical.

I close my eyes.

I slowly inhale.
I slowly exhale.

The relief is welcome.

My thoughts drift.

My feet have been worse too, but not as bad as my arms and hands. 
I wonder if my feet would be ailing more if I had to bend them and use my toes the way I use my hands and fingers, like how a monkey has to use his feet?

I wonder if I was a monkey, if my feet would be in as bad a shape as my hands right now?

I wonder if I was a monkey, if the nerve damage would affect my tail? 
That'd be awful, if it disabled my prehensile tail.

Good thing I'm not a monkey.

I chuckle.

I have a new description for the tingling pins-and-needles type feeling that sometimes comes around.
My fingers sometimes feel like tiny little electric worms are wiggling and sparking.

My mind sees the tiny life forms, all colors of the rainbow like tiny little gummy worms, squirming and producing little electric sparks.

They look so bright and cheerful, all in my fingertips.

Another chuckle.

Now how can I better describe the bamboo or hollow metal feeling in my forearms where my radius bones are? 
It feels more like bamboo than hollow metal - strong yet flexible. 

Tiny little Mario men strap themselves with heavy duty ropes on opposite sides of the bamboo reed in each forearm. 

Each little mustached man in his colorful overalls and cap with knees slightly bent, presses his feet against his side of the bamboo reed as he holds onto his sturdy rope and leans backward straightening his back and then relaxing.

Each side of the bamboo has a row of tiny Marios pushing and pulling. 

That's what my forearms feel like. 

Must be all the inflamed nerve tissue trying to find space in there.

....I don't recall now if I went to sleep after my thought-drifting or if I sat up in bed and played Sudoku.

A song for ex-Wayfers....

This is hilarious....
(Note: the song is not about The Way, but it could apply!)

Folk Uke - "Mother F***er Got F***ed Up" (warning:adult language)

Checking in....

Well, obviously I'm not blogging regularly.
I'm not doing much of anything on social media.
I'm not writing much either.
I have been reading online, mainly news.
I have watched some videos online, mainly news.
I read from an actual book this week, turned the pages and all. It felt good.

And here I sit looking at this screen wondering what to share, if anything.

[Carol pauses to think of something short to share.]

****

The past few weeks I've watched quite a few ISIL propaganda videos, including all the videos by John Cantlie (the British hostage) and the beheading videos. I couldn't watch the actual beheadings; I had to close my eyes during that part of one of the videos. I also read up on Jihadist "John" and the other "Beatles."

My responses have been...
...unspeakable and unbelievable horror.
...anger and fight.
...anxiety and fear.
...the videos accomplish ISIL's goal of fear propagation.
...this shit is scary. Not only the beheadings, but the professional videos as well. The propaganda videos may be more scary than the beheadings themselves. The material is presented in such a professional manner as if to give the subject matter some sort of respectability. The one video, that contains the beheading of 15 to 18 Syrian soldiers, with its music and slow motion and film shots, paints the scenario as an art form. As the viewer watches the scene leading up to and after the beheadings, the scene doesn't feel real; but rather, comes across like a depiction of a novel or barbarism from past times. It seems staged...like there would have been rehearsals to get such good footage. But the stage is real life, real time, with real men being led like sheep to slaughter.
...I agree with France that we should call these thugs Daesh instead of ISIS or ISIL.
 ...I think Daesh exaggerates their numbers and power. That doesn't mean that we should ignore them. Hitler started small.
...Daesh is repeating what mankind has done for millennia...murdering in the name of a so-called greater cause.
...Worst case scenario: the Borg assimilates. Not all would comply; some would die. Some would go into hiding. Eventually, the Borg would implode or be overthrown. History repeats itself.

I don't want to promote any Daesh videos, so any readers will have to do their own google searches.

***

Well, I didn't plan to write about that stuff.

My health isn't well right now. My next spinal injections are on January 5, if I can make it that long. 'Til then, I'm managing the best I can.

To life and breath...and star shine....

Samhain: Happy New Year

The past couple days I have been reading about Druidry.

According to certain histories, today (November 1st) is the first day of the Celtic New Year. The day is called Samhain; it begins at sunset on October 31st and ends at sunset on November 1st. (Click here for a link to the Celtic calendar.)

In what way do I resonate with Druidry?
My love of nature and Earth and life.

As far back as I can recall, I have always felt a kinship with nature.
In recent years, I have recognized the place I feel most at home is on the trail or in the woods.

The earth is filled with stories passed along to each generation.
In its soil and waters, the earth holds the blood of our ancestors, blood that continues to course through our veins giving life to cells that recall those ancestors.

In those aspects, I am a Druid at heart; not to mention the love for poetry and art and music.
There are other earth-based religions and philosophies that value the same.
I think of the American Indian.
I know I have Celt in my blood; perhaps that is part of the draw toward earth-based religions.
I'm not sure if I have American Indian in my blood.

Nature, the wild, life...these are my so-called gods.
By the word "god," I mean something that obeys no one, something of which there is no greater power.
Ultimately, nothing is more powerful, less merciful, more graceful than Mother Nature - the nature of our planet and the nature that is the cosmos.

She is chaos and order all at the same time.
She alone is a creative and destructive force.
She has my utmost respect and awe.

Is there a creative entity whom She obeys? I don't think so.
Is there an entity that created Her? I don't know.
Whether or not I believe or know, does not change whether there is or is not such an entity.

If not for the dis-ease currently inhabiting my body, I would be on the trail often, or at least as often as I could.
I may never physically heal from this dis-ease which has been visiting for the past three-plus years.
If I do, I will rejoice and celebrate.
If I don't, I will rejoice and celebrate.

In preparation of the event that my body does not physically heal, I continue to explore ways that will connect me with the trail, with my love for the earth and for the woods and its inhabitants.

To name a few...
Bicycle.
Recycle.
Mandalas.
The number nine.
AT-thru hike game.
Bamboo knitting needles.
Flush less.
Minimize.
Sing.
Gratitude.
Pause.
Listen.
Recall.

Hmmm...I don't do much physically to connect.
More often, I connect within.

An awareness of life in times past, in the present, and in the future.
An awareness of our place and function in that time upon this earth.
An awareness that time is and isn't, and that time may be an illusion.
An awareness that our actions and words, our intentions and dreams, our blood and breath, matter.

Always, I am in awe
of Nature's majestic seasons and cycles;
of Her indifference toward favoritism;
of Her continual striving to regain and maintain balance;
of the tiniest cell to the vast swirling spirals of the universe.

Compared to the universe, I am a tiny cell.

Happy New Year!

'three autumn trees' by lise winne 

Absent Reserves

The fatigue gets overwhelming.

My attention span for detail is crippled. My threshold for assimilating detail is lowered; the effort required can leave me exhausted.

My creativity wanes as fatigue waxes. It's difficult for me to communicate fully and richly.

My capacity for relationships shrinks as fatigue swells, taking up the space within that capacity.

I told Hubby sometime in the past couple days, "It's like I have no reserve."

But then I realize that isn't totally true. The truth is, I have little, not no, reserve.

Sometimes I think that others may think that I'm just not trying hard enough to push through for the next task. Or that I'm selfish, only thinking of Carol and her needs. That if only I had more will power, somehow that would give me motivation and then my fatigue would abate.

But the reality is that others mostly think about their own lives, not my fatigue or selfishness.

More likely, it is myself thinking to my self that maybe if I had more will power and push and motivation, that my fatigue would lift.

I'm still learning my new limits. If I overdo on any given day, I pay a price for the next three to five days.

Like the wedding I attended Saturday night. The ceremony, the festivity, the dancing, the music, seeing old friends. What a joyful and rich few hours were had by all. But then, I couldn't ride my bike for three days; my mind and body were dragging.

I find myself talking to my self out loud, helping me through my next task.

I find myself saying, "I am so fucking tired."

And then I remind myself, "Carol, all you need to care for are the four things, and the maybe-plus-one."

• 1) Move, just keep my body moving. Ride my bicycle on the Greenway. When the weather gets cold, visit the warm water pool at the Y. Move. Gentle movement, easy movement, simple movement. Just keep moving. 
• 2) Rest. Color a mandala. Work Sudoku. Watch TV. Sleep. Sit; listen; look. Be aware. Laugh. Rest. 
• 3) Keep the bills paid. Once a month, pay the bills. 
• 4) Take care of my pet sitting business. I love my animal friends. They are my healers on many a day. They listen to me and I them. They have cried with me and laughed with me. They have walked with me. The have loved me. Ironically, I get paid for their service to me. 
• Maybe-plus-1) If I have energy left, do some laundry. 

I seldom ever cook or prepare food anymore. If I do, I have to trade out exercise or pet sitting for the energy involved in cooking. Most of the time I cannot cook because of the weakness in my hands and arms.

With any endeavor, I have to measure my energy account and figure the costs.

I miss hiking. I still grieve that loss. But I keep a golden thread of hope.

Oh my, all that sounds so dreadfully dreary...and I didn't even get written what I had thought to write, which was about how fatigue feels, about how my head wants to drop into the dinner plate.

And even though days are filled with fatigue, my life isn't dreary.  It still unfolds with serendipity every week, almost daily.

Maybe I'll have energy later to write the story of the male, nude sunbather I saw last week along that small footpath off of the Greenway. That incident kept me grinning for three days.

A New Place

prompt or not: a new place
aww ~ october 8, 2014
****

Every day,
I'm in a new place.

I awake to the sunshine,
for that day.

The bright beams
dispersed from over 92,000,000 miles away,
make landfall to each blade of grass
upon this rock of earth and water
crawling, streaming, galloping

 with life.

Everywhere,
there is life.
Some still undiscovered by us human creatures
who roam this rock.

The giant star 

warms our skins.
It lights our paths.
Our bodies and the earth
respond to its life-giving pulses.

As I move through the day,
I am in a new place
each second.
That space is new
only
for that momentary ruffle
in time.
All the ruffles
then cascade and ripple
making a river of time,
gorging renewed
places in history.

If I had a door
through which I could pass back and forth through time,
would I change the past
and thus the present and the future?

Or would I be like the sun?
Simply rise and set,
observe,
indifferent;
yet sustaining the life that is present
in that moment.

I know the sun can be deadly too.
Its indifference is austere,
like the rest of nature.
Stark.
Naked.
Raw.

Science estimates that Sun will burn out
in another five billion years.

Unless our indifference
kills Sun sooner.

I think though,
we would be the first to go.

~*~

~giant star,  roan highlands, december's end, 2013~

~roan highlands, december's end, 2013, photo by elijah & friends~

prompts or not

prompt or not: lovers
AWW ~ 09/10/14
***

Blank paper.
Blank screen.

What has bitten your tongue Carol?
What has stifled your voice?
Why do you allow it?
Is it a phase...this avoidance of writing, especially putting out anything of depth on my blog or anywhere online?

When I publish a piece on my blog or elsewhere, I don't want to explain the piece or feel that I should explain. I don't want to necessarily engage in discourse about what I might write.

Today as I felt my inner self-doubt gremlin, I closed my eyes and lay back on my and Hubby's bed. It's a king size, tube, water bed that is in much need of a new mattress shell. The current shell slumps toward the middle, so Hubby and I usually sleep on the far ends of the mattress where it is more level, less slumpy.

Hubby is usually the first to retire in the evenings, between nine and ten o'clock. I follow between ten o'clock and midnight. I seldom close my eyes right away. I usually turn on my night stand light and read from my smart phone or from a hard copy book, or I work Sudoku puzzles from a paperback book. Lately I've opted for Sudoku over reading. When I successfully complete a Sudoku puzzle, I draw a smiley face on the top of the puzzle page.

I wonder who created Sudoku; who figures out all those different puzzles?

Sometime in August, to try to help sharpen my brain, I pulled out my Sudoku book. And Sudoku may not really exercise my neurons, but it can't hurt. I enjoy playing, especially the "easy" puzzles. The number nine is a fascinating number; I think it is my favorite number. But it's not a prime number, and I like prime numbers.

Prime numbers stand alone.

Today as I felt my inner self-doubt gremlin, I lay on my bed, face toward the ceiling, my eyes closed. I focused on my heart area. Carol, can you somehow thank this self-doubt, this anxiety you feel? Thank it and ask what its purpose is?

Almost immediately, my mind's eye saw a young adolescent girl. Shivering. Alone. In the rain.

These internal images I get seem so stupid.
Quiet, Carol...just go with the image.
What would you do for a young girl, alone, in the rain...especially if it was someone you knew and loved?

In my mind's eye I gave a coat to the young, shivering girl, placing the coat around her shoulders. It was a long, dark coat, like a trench coat but not jet black. I wasn't sure as to what else to do for this young woman shivering in my heart.

The shivering was the most notable characteristic of the girl.

She wasn't shivering due to the cold; she was shivering because she was afraid.

My front doorbell rang. I continued to lay on my king size bed. Maybe it's UPS delivering a package, and they'll just go away.

I did not want to talk to anyone if I could help it.

Then I heard banging on the front door.
Knock!
Knock!
Knock, knock, knock!

I got up and walked across the hall into my son's bedroom, though my son doesn't permanently reside there anymore. I walked over to the window and peeked through the closed blinds looking across the front yard and out to the street where a big, white, flat bed, delivery truck was parked. There was a large box at the back of the truck. A man walked through our front yard away from our home and to the back of the truck, stopping to look at the large box, and then walked around the opposite side of the truck and climbed into the driver's seat.

Inside the house, I walked back across the hall to my bedroom. With a sigh, I strapped my black, Teva sandals onto my feet.

I walked through the upstairs hall noticing the tenderness in the soles of my feet reminding myself of my new normal. I held the banisters as I carefully descended the two sets of stairs. Once on the ground level, I walked though the den and through the office and through the laundry room and through the garage to the driveway. I walked down the driveway toward the truck. The driver was on his cell phone, talking, as he got out of the truck to meet me in the driveway.

He was delivering a mattress, and our address was written on his delivery slip. But neither Hubby nor I had ordered a mattress.

I really should buy us a new mattress soon.

Purple Ha Ha Hays

Hahaha... I can't resist.

You Now Have That Riff Stuck in Your Head
Lyrics by Matty Malaprop:

PURPLE HAYS ALL IN MY GRAIN
LATELY THERE HAS BEEN NO RAIN
THINGS AIN'T GROWIN' AND I DON'T KNOW WHY
'SCUSE ME WHILE I GRAB MY SCYTHE

***
I just saw fields and fields of rolled "hays" this past Sunday. After seeing this photo, I may never look at hay bails the same again.

For any readers who may not know, along with Purple Haze being a song by Jimi Hendrix, Purple Haze is also a type of blotter acid - a psychedelic drug. It was around during the 1970s. I don't know its prevalence in this current age. I may have to look it up and add to this blog post later.

The same Sunday that I saw the "hays," I spied Jimson weed plants as I hiked through a pasture. Some had purple flowers.


***

Victor Barnard: "Preaching Lies" to air on "The Hunt," Sunday, August 24, 2014

On August 24, CNN will air The Hunt's episode of Preaching Lies about wanted fugitive Victor Barnard.



Two different clips from Preaching Lies:

"They only knew what he told them"

"He's [like] the anti-Christ"

Barnard is a former follower of The Way International and a Way Corps 14 graduate. He left The Way around 1990 and launched his own small Way spin-off group, River Road Fellowship, around 1992. (Link: VICTOR BARNARD: Timeline of a cult leader)

Beginning in 2000, Barnard hand-picked a group of girls and young women, ages 12 to 24 years, from his congregation. The group was called "The Maidens," and was sometimes called “Alamoth,” a biblical word referencing virginity. After moving the Maidens to a camp where they would serve God as virgins, Barnard manipulated them into having sex teaching them that since Barnard was Christ, the girls would remain virgins even if they engaged in sex with Barnard. Barnard taught them that it was normal practice for men of God to get their sexual needs met by loyal followers; after all, Solomon had his concubines and Jesus had Mary Magdalene along with other women. (Link: Minister raped 'Maidens' in Minn. camp for years)

[From at least the 1970s until around 2000, The Way had a similar inner-circle doctrine (hidden from many followers at the time) that included handpicked female followers meeting the sexual needs of certain men of God. The Way's inner-circle doctrine did not include that those men were Christ nor that the women would remain virgins. To my knowledge, most of the Way leadership who engaged in that abusive doctrine did not coerce minors.(Link: Minnesota cult leader called the girls 'brides of Christ' - and he was 'Christ')]

In 2012, two of Barnard's victims came forward and reported what they had endured for some ten years at the hands of Barnard. They were only around 12 years old when Barnard had handpicked them and began abusing them.

On April 11, 2014, a warrant for 59 counts of sexual misconduct was issued against Barnard.(Link: Alleged cult leader Victor Barnard charged with molesting 'Maidens')

Barnard was possibly sighted on August 13, 2014, in Washington state. (Link: WANTED: Cult leader Victor Barnard possibly spotted in Washington)

To report information regarding Barnard's whereabouts, please call Detective Ryan Spangler at 509-227-6644 or the Pine County, MN, tip line at 320-629-8342.

___

Links to posts on toss & ripple about Barnard:
3/01/14: Victor Barnard and River Road Fellowship
4/19/14: More thoughts regarding Victor Barnard...and influence...and The Way...and...
8/18/2014: Victor Barnard: "Preaching Lies" to air on "The Hunt," Sunday, August 24, 2014
2/28/15: Victor Barnard is apprehended in Brazil...
6/11/17: Docudrama: "Deliver Us From Evil"
___

Sabbatical and cable car...

Apparently, I am taking a blogging sabbatical.

Of course, now that I have announced it...I may end up posting more entries and thus end my sabbatical.

****

My son went to Santa Cruz, California, in late May/early June. He spent the summer there and will be back in North Carolina this week.

My daughter went to California in early August for a ten-day trip.

Son and Daughter had a meet-up in San Francisco in early August.

I don't recall if I have posted any photos of my children on my blog but do want to share a photo now.

I call this photo, siblings on a cable car...

When the switch flips...and medical marijuana for North Carolina....

I have hardly written anything since the end of June. July got off to a rough start.

It was like a felt a flip switch on Monday, June 23...They've quit working, the epidural and injections from May 17.

But, maybe not. I'll rest a bit and then rebound. In May, Doc said that I can't receive any more injections until August. I have to be able to make it until mid-August.

My limbs became heavier and weaker and more painful as July approached. Hubby, as in times past, was having to help me dress and undress. But, still, I had to bathe and dress and eat and walk and drive and work and think as clearly as I was able.

When it takes so much effort to simply be, when bathing and dressing become feats to conquer, life becomes overwhelmingly complicated. The goal is to get through the next ten minutes, the next hour, the next day. I rest a lot at those times, but the rest does not rejuvenate. It helps, yes...but the energy does not rebound.

I have noticed, when I am fatigued and health-challenged (to put it mildly), my confidence wanes. Just push through and do one more thing; give it all you've got. But, to push through with more stamina is an impossibility. All the will power on earth cannot strengthen the ability of my physical nervous system to supply its strength to my limbs so they can properly function. It's like asking a blind person to will themselves to physically see.

It cannot be done.

I am still learning to accept that and to not go the extra mile...at least for now.

There have been years upon years, when I suffered through asthma and pain and fatigue in the past, that I would watch television commercials - commercials depicting healthy people doing normal things...like walking or running or jumping or eating various foods or camping and other 'ors.' I would feel surreal at those times, knowing I lacked the ability to engage in those life activities but feeling that I must try. I must not give up.

Again, I have experienced this same odd feeling - an observer of doing instead of being the doer. It's almost like watching a fantasy. It's not a "negative" feeling. It's simply odd, detached. I can only imagine how a paralyzed person feels when observing a similar fantasy.

I ended up receiving another epidural in my lumbar and 7 shots in my neck on July 7, even though I wasn't supposed to be able to get them. Hopefully my insurance will cover the costs. July 8, was a full day of nausea and migraine. By Jul 14, I awoke feeling rested, finally. The relief was heavenly. I'm bicycling again and will start back on my water exercises today.

So what now...between now and the next 6 weeks? I'll know more in 6 weeks. In the meantime, I'm on a higher dose of daily medication.

Medical Marijuana is now legal in North Carolina for use in seizure patients. It is a start. The program isn't available yet; logistics are still being worked out. Draft rules are supposed to be issued no later than October 1st.

If only we could flip a switch to make good change happen more quickly.

Flipping switches causes sparks; enough sparks cause change.

I can spark.
***

Here's a link to get North Carolina House Bill 1161 on the North Carolina November, 2014, ballot: Help put medical marijuana on the ballot

Here's a link to NC House Bill 1161: NC HB 1161 (pdf)


From page 4 of the NC House Bill 1161:

...(7) "Debilitating medical condition" means any of the following:
13 a. Cancer, gliomas, glaucoma, positive status for human
14 immunodeficiency virus (HIV), acquired immune deficiency
15 syndrome (AIDS), hepatitis C, porphyria, amyotrophic lateral
16 sclerosis (Lou Gehrig's disease or ALS), Alzheimer's disease,
17 nail-patella syndrome, fibromyalgia, severe migraines, multiple
18 sclerosis, celiac disease, Crohn's disease, diabetes mellitus, dystonia,
19 gastrointestinal disorders, hypertension, incontinence, injury or
20 disease to the spinal cord, spinal column, or vertebra,
21 methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus (MRSA), myelomalacia,
22 osteoporosis, pruritus, rheumatoid arthritis, sleep apnea, Tourette's
23 syndrome, or the treatment of such conditions.
24 b. A chronic or debilitating disease or medical condition or its treatment
25 that produces one or more of the following: cachexia or wasting
26 syndrome; severe pain; severe nausea; anorexia; seizures, including
27 those characteristic of epilepsy; or severe and persistent muscle
28 spasms, including those characteristic of multiple sclerosis (MS),
29 amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (Lou Gehrig's disease or ALS), or
30 Crohn's disease....

About this blog, II

A friend of mine once stated that blogs are me-centric. This blog is no exception. Most, if not all, of the blog entries are snapshots of my life, of my thoughts, of my reflections. 

Life stories naturally involve other people, so other people appear in many of the entries. To protect certain identities, names and/or dates and/or places in some blog entries are changed from the actual.

What is the purpose of this blog?
Probably the main purpose has been and still is - to provide a venue to give voice.
Within that, I have an avalanche of feelings and doubts and thoughts.
What other possible purposes might this blog have?
...to practice writing,
...to step out of my comfort zone,
...to grow in my ability to communicate more clearly,
...to learn who I am and have a record of how I evolve,
...to become more comfortable in my own skin,
...to continue to discover.

Maybe I'll grow in my ability to express and to embrace authenticity. If so, then perhaps some folks who come across this blog are inspired in like manner.

I hope to never veer onto a path where the purpose becomes to impress.

The name toss & ripple was inspired by a poem I penned in 2007 entitled significance beneath my sandal. I believe in the ripple effect; the seemingly small actions, words, deeds, and misdeeds of one person ... matter.

Thanks for visiting toss & ripple...

~*~
significance beneath my sandal
(penned march 31, 2007)

one grain of rock
trampled under
crushed beneath
my sandal

no thought given
to its suffering
for it is
but gravel

yet this pebble
tossed on water
rippled pond
life aroused

one day trampled
no thought given
form concealed
underground

another day
tossed to freedom
bobbing shapes
round and round

~*~

Related, 3/25/09: About This Blog I 

"Be the change..."

Spill, spill, spill...barrel full of thoughts.

There was a time I looked forward to my children being out on their own. I would have time to pursue writing or other interests.

Yet, here I am now, in that season of life - children are grown pursuing their own lives.

I feel lost. I feel my purpose is complete. What do I do now?

I recently shared with Hubby that I am not passionate about anything, really. I have occasional passion for hiking the Appalachian Trail, but that's about it. I have plenty of projects I should get about accomplishing. I have written the list...more than once.

In the past year or more, I have thought that my lack of passion is due to no longer having my grand purpose outlined by The Way - the grand purpose of "making available" the "accuracy of the Word" to the world. Up until after leaving The Way, I thought I would always "keep God first" fulfilling the "whole duty of man" by "fear[ing] God and keep[ing] his commandments." My identity was dictated by the scriptures.

But...I no longer embrace those purposes or that identity.

After leaving The Way, I got involved with anti-cult activism; but that passion too has waned.

I'm hesitant to get on board with any sort of grand movement to help change the world.

As I was watching a Youtube video this morning, the man in the video mentioned the life "mission" of Will Durant. I thought, I no longer have a life mission; raising my children was my life mission. And now, they are raised. Underlying that mission was to "keep God first," along with a long list of other commandments.

So my lack of passion is most likely multifaceted, as most of life is. Layers of reasons beneath our actions or lack thereof. In other words, my lack of purpose isn't due only to no longer being told what my purpose is according to scripture or according to The Way and then the flip-side of that in the "anti" crowd; but also, my career as a stay-at-home-eclectic-schooling mom is fulfilled. I have retired from that career path.

Will I come up with a new life mission? I don't know. I have many fleeting ideas that never come into fruition. Maybe I'll decide to stick with one of those ideas for longer than two weeks.

The line "be the change you want to see" has been on my mind lately. To me, for now, that equates into small everyday decisions...like to take home the plastic Wendy's container and put it in the recycling bin.

Wings on my feet... (part two)

***
non-prompt: having been there myself
aww, 6/04/14
***

Around 7:45PM, I arrived back at Son's gray, 2000, Toyota Camry which we had parked over six hours earlier in the Massie Gap parking area. There were about four other cars in parking spaces awaiting their hikers. At any moment, I expected my 23-year-old son to emerge from the trail and cross the large, wide meadow to meet me.

I'm glad his driver's door lock is broken, I said to myself. I can change out of my hiking shoes into my sandals.

I opened the driver's door and pushed the button that unlocked the other doors. I went around to the passenger's side and opened the back door. I unlatched my green and black hip pack that now held two empty water bottles in its side pockets. I placed my hip pack in the back seat. I tossed in my green jacket, which had stayed around my waist on the eight-mile rugged hike.

I picked up one of my trekking poles which I had leaned against the side of the car. With my left hand gripped toward the bottom of the pole and my right hand gripped slightly above where the top of the pole joins the bottom of the pole, I twisted, rotating my right wrist toward me and my left wrist away from my body, like I was loosening a cap off a bottle. After I loosened the pole grip, I pushed the top part of the pole over the bottom section; the pole magically became shorter. I twisted again in the opposite directions, tightening the shortened pole. I placed the pole on the car floor behind the front passenger's seat and repeated the process with my other trekking pole.

Both my trekking poles have silver duct tape wrapped around them, a backpacker's trick so as to travel lighter and not have to carry a whole role of heavy duct tape. I think all backpackers carry duct tape, the versatile fix-it aid.

I unlaced and took off my hiking shoes and then my hiking socks. It felt good to release my feet from their protective coverings. I put on my Velcro-strapped Teva sandals.

I rummaged in the grocery bag in the back seat and retrieved a granola bar. I closed the back door and climbed into the front passenger seat to munch my snack.

I wonder where Son is? He had wanted to go eat, so I thought for sure he'd be back here by 8:00. I gotta pee. I wonder how gross the privy is?

After finishing my almond-chocolate-sea-salt yummy bar and drinking some water from my cup that had been in the car all day, I grabbed some tissue and headed toward the privy which was located about fifteen yards or so down the hill in the woods. There were two privies, a ladies and a gents. I was surprised at how clean the privy was, and it even had toilet paper.

As I walked back up the hill, I thought for sure Son would be at the car.

No Son.

Massie Gap Meadow

This isn't good, I thought to myself. I have no cell service and neither does Son. I'm sure he's not in grave danger. Well, he could have fallen or something, but it's unlikely he would be severely injured. I wonder if he took a side trail and got turned around? He has water for the day and he has a coat and I'm sure other supplies in his day pack. I know he won't die or anything. But I'll have to find a phone if he doesn't show up soon. Maybe he decided to hang out on the ridge to see the sun set. Maybe he hooked up with those four hikers from Appalachian State.

It was getting dark. I turned on the light in the car and surveyed the small Grayson Highlands park map, the one given to park visitors as they enter along the winding road that goes up the mountain. I noticed light's out time at the campground was at 10:00 PM.

If Son's not back by 8:45, I'll have to start walking to the campground to see if I can find someone with a phone that has service. I'll call Hubby first and then call the park rangers. We couldn't do any looking for Son tonight, but we could start first thing in the morning. Hubby would have to call my pet clients that are scheduled for tomorrow. Hubby would probably make the two-hour drive up here tonight.

As the sun set, the air grew chilly. I took off my Teva sandals, put on my socks and put back on my Teva sandals. From the back seat, I grabbed my Catskill Mountain tie-dye sweat shirt that I had bought back in 2010 when I was in Woodstock and pulled it over my head.

I got out of the car and walked again over to the wooden split-rail fence. I gazed across the wide meadow; the trail at the far end was now fading into darkness.

A loan hiker appeared from the meadow, but it wasn't Son. I asked the hiker if he had seen another lone hiker, with a day pack. He responded in the negative; he hadn't seen any hikers. I told him my concern about Son, but the hiker's cell phone had no service. We said our good byes as he got in his truck and drove away.

As I stood gazing across the darkening meadow, I jokingly said to myself, Son must be getting me back for that time at Roan Mountain when he had to come looking for me on the Appalachian Trail at 10:00 at night.

I heard voices coming from the road that winds on the left side of the meadow down to the horse stables. Could that be Son? Did he hike back a different route with a hiker he'd met on the trail?

As the voices took physical form, I saw they belonged to a young college-age couple. The couple arrived at their black Honda car which I was standing near. We said our hellos and chatted a bit. I learned they were Virginia Tech students; the girl had just graduated. They were camping at the park camp ground; it was their first time camping.

I explained my concern about my son to them letting them know that both Son and I were experienced hikers which meant we were experienced enough to know that regardless of how experienced a hiker is, stuff can happen on the trail.

The young woman's cell phone had two bars. Her provider was Sprint, not AT&T which was my and Son's provider. AT&T service sucks at the Highlands, and I wasn't too confident about Sprint's service, even with the two bars. Usually Verizon is the only provider that worked up here.

She gladly let me use her phone.

I tapped in the numbers for Hubby's phone.

I waited as the cell phone screen displayed the word "calling."

Then...it dropped. No connection.

I tried two more times.

Nothing.

***
Wings on my feet...(part one)
Wings on my feet... (part two)
***

Stone Gnome: Badlands, South Dakota

Son is currently driving solo across the USA from North Carolina to California. He'll be spending the summer in Santa Cruz.



He decided on a northern route so he can visit the Badlands and Yellowstone on his way westward. He's been sending me text updates, with some videos and photos, along the way. His phone takes crappy photos and videos; he's rough on cell phones.

He sent me one photo of some sheep grazing. He hadn't noticed, as he stopped by the road side and gazed at the sheep and snapped the photo, that in the background sat a stone gnome watching over those mountain sheep.

Weather and Mother Nature carved this gnome.

Wings on my feet...(part one)

How often do I mention my apathy or my loneliness?

I know I write about it in my private journal.

I know I have mentioned it in some of my blog entries, maybe too many.

H.A.L.T.
It stands for hungry, angry, lonely, tired.
H.A.L.T. is used in various recovery programs to help redirect an undesired path, a path that has been well worn by the one walking it, a path that one desires to change.
When we are hungry, angry, lonely, or tired...we may have a tendency to veer down that undesired path, that path of least resistance.

I'm seldom ever hungry.
I'm seldom angry.
I'm often lonely.
I'm regularly tired.

I know I'm not really lonely, in the sense that I have no one to turn to. I have my husband, and my children, and friends in 2-D and 3-D life. Yet I often feel lonely, like if I melted away...few would really notice. I want to think my animal friends might notice the most; but the scientific side of my mind tells me that's not really true. My animal friends love any two-legged creature who treats them with love and tenderness. I'm simply another one of those two-leggeds.

Life regularly feels pointless to me, which ties into my apathy. I know logically that my life isn't pointless; I have purpose. But I have no great, grand purpose. I am not out to change the world, or even my neighbor.

As I lay in bed the past few hours unable to sleep after waking at 2:30 AM, I thought about the recent tragedy in California - Elliot Rodger and another shooting spree. I thought about a mother I know who is, at this very moment, suffering with the loss of two daughters. The daughters aren't deceased but rather they have cut off their parents due to manipulative relationships. I thought of other tragedies around the world.

How can I be so selfish to feel lonely or apathetic?

I know the loneliness and apathy come and go.
Funks rise and abate.
Depression and the blues are here and then gone.
Something helps spark a little bit of life and perspective adjusts.
_____

Last Monday I hiked the eight rugged-mile round trip, partway along the Appalachian Trail (AT), from Massie Gap to Thomas Knob Shelter in Virginia, and back again.

As I approached the shelter with about a half-mile to go, I thought, Why do I want to go all the way to the shelter? My legs feel heavy and I'm tired; I could just turn around now and head back.  Why do I even want to thru-hike the Appalachian Trail? I don't know; because it's here? It can be such a miserable task. And it can get truly lonely. You're kidding yourself anyway Carol, to think you'll ever be able to thru-hike. But Son sure does inspire you. He said earlier today, "Mom, you can do it. You just take your time. If you'd need spinal injections every three months to keep going, that's only two rounds of injections."

Thomas Knob Shelter along the AT

As I sat at the old, weather-worn, wooden picnic table outside the front of the Thomas Knob Shelter eating my celery and peanut butter, a backpacker approached from the south, hiking northbound on the AT. He was tall and lean wearing a cap, like one of those pipe-smoker Gatsby caps. The cap was white and green - a pattern of tiny checkers. I later noticed that his backpack displayed the same plaid pattern. The hiker appeared to be in his mid-to-latter thirties.

On the right side of his forehead a large beige band-aid decorated his temple area, from his forehead coming down parallel just to to the outside of his right eyebrow. As we said our hellos, he put his right fingers on the band aid stroking it lightly, "I fell a little earlier and cut my head on some rocks. I feel a little light headed from the blood loss."

"Ouch," I replied. "We are only a few miles from civilization if you need to get to a doctor. Is there anything I can do?"

"Nah. I'll be alright."

"Are you thru-hiking?" I asked.

"I am," he replied. "Is there water here? I'm thinking this is my only water stop between here and Wise Shelter."

"I think you are correct. And yes; the water is down the hill behind the shelter. I've not been here in a few years, but it used to be a good watering hole."

He walked out of sight heading toward the water source and returned about 10 minutes later.

Boy, that was quick, I thought. It'd take me at least twenty minutes to get down there, filter my water, and get back here.

"God, what an awful trail this is," he slightly moaned, referring to the AT. "Five hundred miles so far of just brutal hiking. I don't know why anyone would make a trail like this."

"Have you heard the term PUD yet?" I asked him.

"No. What does that mean?" he asked.

"Pointless up and down. I've heard other thru-hikers use the term...'another day of fucking PUD, all fucking day.' "

We chuckled.

As we talked hiker-talk I mentioned to him my dream of wanting to hike a flip-flop thru-hike starting at Harper's Ferry, West Virginia, and hiking the 1000-plus miles north to Mt. Katahdin, Maine; then take a bus back to Harper's Ferry and hike the 1000 miles south to Springer Mountain, Georgia.

"But, I don't know if I'll ever get to do it," I said, "because of some health issues with nerve damage."

"Nerve damage, huh? Let me show you something," he replied.

He lifted his hair on the back of his neck as I stood up in order to see what he was going to show me. There was a scar along his spine, reaching from at least the base of his hairline disappearing behind his collar and into his shirt.

"See that scar? In 1999 I was in a car wreck and was told I'd never walk again. I was a quadriplegic."

I was momentarily stunned silent.

"Oh my god. What happened? I mean, how did you walk again?" I asked in utter amazement.

"Time. And lots of weed. Lots of weed. The doctors said I'd never walk again or be able to use my arms properly. The damage was between C-4 and C-5. But slowly, over the years, it came back. The docs still kept telling me that I'd never be able to function. I didn't want any of the new experimental drugs, just my weed."

I was amazed, beyond belief.

"My left side came back first, but it was a long time coming. Slow, real slow. I'm right handed, so I had to learn how to do everything left sided. I was then a hemiplegic; that's what they call it when you are paralyzed on one side. I was told to not expect any more improvement. But I just kept hoping, believing, or something. And doing my weed."

"That's just...totally incredible. Wow." My eyes were wet with tears. I knew, I knew, I knew what this man had been through. I'd help care for my own dad after his car wreck that left Dad to live as a quadriplegic his remaining thirteen years of life. I shared a bit with this fellow survivor about Dad, about Dad's fight and drive and Dad's surry cart. The hiker's eyes lit up as I spoke.

"He was a fighter. You are too. You can do this thing, this dream of thru-hiking. You just put one foot in front of the other and take your time. I have balance issues and I get tired and I have pain. But hell, we're gonna hurt anyway, might as well hurt while living a dream. And you gotta pack light. My pack here can only hold 35 pounds; it's not designed to hold any heavier. So I can't pack over thirty-five pounds. You don't have to spend a bunch of money for ultra lite. Just do your research."

"What's your trail name?" I asked him.

"Rising Tide," he responded. He was from Florida and ran on the beach.

I smiled.

"Nothing prepares you for this trail though, the elevation gains and losses. There is no way to prepare for all the constant, grueling up and down."

"Yeah, I've heard that," I replied. "People say they prepare by doing the thru-hike."

"This Appalachian Trail thru-hike is my basic training for the triple crown," he continued.

"The triple crown!" I responded, with a grounded admiration, still stunned by his story.

He continued to share as I looked up at his six-foot-plus-inch lean frame. "One thing you have to do with nerve damage is to keep your tendons stretched. Otherwise they'll just tighten and be no good. That's the other thing I did. I had someone stretch my limbs and tendons until I could do it myself."

We chatted a bit more. Hiking. Trail life. Nerve damage. Life life.

 "My god, what a story you have.What you've been through and now going for the triple crown," I was inspired.

I was thankful I'd hiked this day to Thomas Knob Shelter.

"You heading north?" he asked.

"I am," I answered, "but I'm not quite ready yet to hike back."

Plus, I knew he'd out-hike me. And he wanted to get to Wise Shelter, at least another five miles. I was only headed back another 4 miles.

As we stood saying goodbye, he extend his right arm and hand, "My name is Jason."

I shook his hand. "My name is Carol, Jason. Good luck to you. And thank you so much for sharing. So much. It means a lot to me."

AT white blaze, up & out of Rhododendron Gap

"

"No problem," he smiled. "You can do this. Maybe I'll see ya on the trail one day."

My feet had wings on the rugged 4-mile hike back to the car.

***
Wings on my feet...(part one)
Wings on my feet... (part two)
***

New Life on the Mountain: Grayson Highlands & Mt. Rogers, Virginia

Another magical day in the Highlands...
May 19, 2014...

~foal from Fabio's band~

~mom & babe~

~sire Fabio, beauty of the hills~

~mule foal with Mom~

~meal time~

~foal who kept nibbling at me, near Mt. Rogers~

~nibbler~

~heading north, between Rhododendron Gap & first blue blaze outcrop~

~grazing~

A Different Face

prompt or not: a different face
aww ~ 5/14/14
***
I have no idea what to write.

But I know that I must write. If for no other reason, than to keep the fluid active.

***

I wore make up today; something I have seldom done in the last eight years.

"Eight years."
I left The Way a little over eight-and-a-half years ago.

Since leaving The Way, I wonder how much the physical visage of my face has changed, if it has changed at all?
Do I look mellower?
Do I look less stressed?
How many more wrinkles do I have now than then?
Would I have more wrinkles and stress lines had a I stayed with The Way?
Are my wrinkles and visage changes simply due to aging?
How much did the Knapp-crap age me?
How much has the neuropathy aged me?
How much have years aged me?
Since leaving The Way, does my visage offer life and hope, or apathy and pain?

On more than one occasion I've felt that the phrase, "I left The Way," is odd.
Sometimes I state, "I exited The Way."

Maybe I use "exit" because to "exit" feels more mechanical, like walking through the "exit" doorway at a movie theater, or taking the "exit" ramp off a highway to get to a specific destination. It's a linear, orderly action taken to reach the next logical path, usually toward a specific point. "Exit" is what I do to get to a place where I know I am going. "Exit" feels detached from emotion.

The word "leaving" reminds me more of death. A leaf falls from a tree, "leaving" and cutting itself off from its life source - to rot and to then nourish. There was an attachment before "leaving." "Leaving" is messy. "Leaving" feels more personable, less linear, less orderly than taking an "exit."

Maybe I want to pretend that I simply "exited" The Way, taking the next linear step to the next orderly and logical part of the journey.

But it's not been linear or orderly; yet, there has been some logic.

Maybe I want to deny that I ever "joined" The Way; so how could I ever "leave" it?

"Leaving" seems so permanent, a permanence of "out of sight, out of mind."

For me, I doubt The Way will ever be "out of sight, out of mind."

There will always be a rear view mirror.

Mirrors provide reflection, which is a good thing, for the most part.

The Way with its doctrines, its hierarchy, its mandates, its directives - was part of my life blood for decades.

I "exited" an organization, a structure.

But I'm still in process of "leaving" ... and dying ... and probably will be until my last physical breath.

Way Tree Emblem

The Way structured itself like a tree, "The Way Tree."

Each believer was a "Leaf" on that mighty tree.

The former 1970s/1980s Way musical band Pressed Down, Shaken Together, and Running Over, wrote and performed a song about The Way Tree. The song is entitled, I Am A Leaf.

***

Listen here: I Am A Leaf

Sun shines softly on my face
The sweet air surrounds me
I'm perched here in my quiet place
To bless this mighty tree
The rain falls slowly from the sky
To kiss the ground near me
Our thirsty roots take in the water
Giving life to me

I am a leaf
On a mighty tree

I am a leaf
I am a leaf
On a mighty tree

Growing is a quiet song
Sung softly to the heart
A gentle peaceful melody
From the great conductor's chart
A bold majestic symphony
A revelry of love
Embracing joy
Enlaced with laughter
And wisdom from above

I am a leaf
On a mighty tree

I am a leaf
I am a leaf
On a mighty tree

A tree in the morning light
Standing so tall
Applauding the grace of God
Rooted strong
In life's sweet song of love
One man's stand may not seem like much
But when we look we see
Jesus Christ,
He was a man
And he set many free

I am a leaf
On a mighty tree
I am a leaf
I am a leaf
On a mighty tree
On a mighty tree
On a mighty tree

A charm on my bracelet had broken...

aww - may 14, 2014
prompt or not: putting it all together
***

Sometimes I think that I have allowed social media, like Facebook and Twitter and LinkedIn, to steal my creativity.

Why do I think that?
Is it because I put on a different face than who I really am?
A different face so as to make a certain impression?

LinkedIn is mainly for my pet sitting business. I'm not trying to grow my business; I regularly turn away new prospects, referring them to three other pet sitters that I trust. So, why do I continue with LinkedIn?

I have two Twitter accounts - one for my business and one that is personal. On my business Twitter account, I mainly post photos of my pet friends. On my personal Twitter account I post whatever I feel like posting. I seldom get retweets or acknowledgements on either account. I'm okay with that; I think of them like bulletin boards. People might notice, or not. To add to that, I don't often engage others much on Twitter, so I wouldn't expect others to engage often with me.

Facebook.
Oh the addictive pull of Facebook.
I've been known to call it Fakebook - a label which applies to me, not necessarily others.
I rarely reveal my inner workings on my personal Facebook page. I don't want to necessarily discuss my inner personal ramblings; with Facebook updates, discussion regularly ensues. I am by nature a genuine friendly sort, and I like to acknowledge any comments posted in response to my updates. But I don't really want to discuss my personal life on Facebook, so I avoid showing certain parts of me.

But my blogs.
My blogs.
My blogs.
My blogs are different from social media. They are like my corners of cyberspace where I feel a bit of freedom? I'm not sure why that is or if I am even correctly describing my feelings about them.

I have four blogs - three public and one private.

One basically sits dormant; soulfeet is it's name. Soulfeet is a transcription of one of my handwritten journals from 1982 and 1983 presenting one of my in-residence years in the Way Corps when I was in my early twenties.

Parchment Anthology is my poetry blog where I post some of my poetry. Sometimes I think about transcribing all my poetry to Parchment Anthology. But, who knows if I'll ever get around to that. Parchment Anthology seldom gets visitors. I probably like it that way.

Versions ~ the Tender is my private blog; reserved for my eyes only. I type regularly at Versions. It has become my private online journal. I seldom hand write anymore, which I sometimes miss. There are times the neuropathy makes the physical act of gripping a writing utensil and moving it on paper laborious.

Toss & Ripple is my main public blog. I have revealed a lot of my life on toss & ripple. I do sensor what I allow to be publicly viewable, and that frustrates me at times.
Will what I write be taken as who I am for all time?
Will it be critiqued for absolute accuracy?
What if I discover that I recalled something incorrectly?
What if people read one blog entry and base their opinion of me on that blog entry?
What do my siblings think of my public writing?
What do my children and husband think of it?
My family seldom, if ever, reads my public ramblings.

And that's what these are...ramblings.

I went to the mall today. I seldom go to the mall, but a charm on my bracelet had broken, and it was still under warranty. It is the charm representing Alex. Alex is the name I chose for the fetus I aborted in 1978. My intuition has told me the fetus was male. I could be wrong, and that's okay.

As I walked past the mall stores with their large window fronts, I thought, I like nice things. All these home decor items, none of which I need. But I like them. Everything looks so clean and neat and well arranged. But, it's just more stuff. Stuff to take care of.

I got my Alex charm replaced for free. With my recent birthday gift money, I bought two new charms for my bracelet.

One of the new charms represents my marriage - a heart shaped sterling piece with two engraved rings on each side of the heart. Due to my fluctuating finger size and neuropathy, I can no longer comfortably wear rings. It's nice to have a token of my marriage, now dangling from my left wrist.

The other new charm is a sterling butterfly with open hearts in its wings depicting the ribbons within organic butterfly wings. Tiny pink gemstones rest in the butterfly's body. The butterfly represents new life, described in a poem I wrote in 2007 entitled Butterflies Will Dance; a poem honoring Alex and the reunion with his father decades later.

Celebratory Abortion

I viewed a video this morning of a young woman's thoughts and feelings on having an abortion.

Twenty-five year-old Emily Letts is an abortion counselor. She became pregnant herself and decided to video herself while undergoing the abortion procedure. Though the abortion procedure itself is not shown, the video does show Emily sharing during part of the procedure. She shares her thoughts about her own feelings before and after the procedure. She states her reason for publishing the video, which has had over one million hits on Youtube in the past two months, is so that the public has access to a positive abortion story. The video is only 3 minutes and 18 seconds in length.

I watched Emily on the table in her dark blue gown, with her light blue cap over her head, knowing that her legs were bent at the knees and draped and that her feet rests either in stirrups or on the table extension. Emily began some deep breathing, something I often do with any invasive procedures, from injections to pap smears. And Emily hummed, something else I often do as I warn the lab technician or doctor that I will probably sing a tune or hum and to tell me before she or he sticks me or invades my body with some foreign object. (One would think after literally thousands of pricks and needles, I'd be used to it; but, I'm not.)

Emily's breathing and humming reminded me more of a Lamaze-type exercise than what I do when my body is being intruded by non-organic tools of the trade. I thought to myself, "This is weird. It's seems like she's almost pretending to be giving birth. But Carol you know you breathe and hum with any invasive medical procedure." Still, it struck me as odd.

The abortion-procedure part of the video is accompanied by the song, "Working Woman's Blues" by Valerie June. As I listened to the song, unable to distinguish the lyrics, the melody and voice reminded me of something from times past, from deep south roots, when abortions were performed in secret, with clothes hangers. The lyrics to the first verse are:
I ain't fit to be no mother
I ain't fit to be no wife yet
I been workin' like a man, y'all
I been workin' all my life yeah

Emily's celebratory responses after the procedure come across as if she had had something like a tumor removed; she seemed detached from any emotional attachment to this part of her body being exhumed. Her only emotional response was that of freedom from an undesired burden. It was strange to me. I thought of when I had my hip removed and replaced with a titanium surrogate. I took time to thank my natural hip; to honor it in some fashion. Would I do the same with an undesirable tumor? I don't know. But then, for me, an undesired fetus is not an undesired tumor.

Emily definitely comes across that this pregnancy with the outcome of a living, breathing human life was definitely unwanted.

After viewing the video, I googled Emily Letts. One of the first links that appeared was at LifeSiteNews.com, a pro-life news outlet. The article is entitled Abortion counselor videotapes her own abortion, posts to YouTube: says it was ‘birth-like’. The article states Emily as saying, "I remember breathing and humming through it like I was giving birth." Emily's quote is from a Cosmopolitan article, Why I Filmed My Abortion, linked in the LifeSite article.

My own abortion, over 35 years ago, was not a celebratory event. There was lots of blood. I hid in a bedroom after the procedure. I cried. I proceeded to pretend it never happened and to my recollection never discussed it, until decades later. Abortion was still very much taboo in 1978; it had been made legal in 1973.

Would I have the same unpleasant event today, if I were 19 years old at this time? I do not know.

I grieved the events of that time some twenty-seven years later.

I wonder if Emily's feelings will change over time?

I wonder if her feelings will change if she ever gives birth to a babe...

Rewind...

Lately I've been thinking about my GreaseSpot Cafe years...remembering, re-reading, pondering.

Last night, as I re-read what some folks at the Cafe had to say about me a few years back, I thought to myself, How on God's green earth did I end up in such a mess? Their words attributed to me things I had not done and insinuated I had ulterior motives which I didn't, and still don't, have.

The back story behind the mess flipped through my brain cells...how one thing led to another. Like a film on rewind, frames quickly paced through my mind backwards. As I rewound into my Way years, the reel went into slow-motion...through a fog of events. I felt part of myself blame my Way years for the GreaseSpot Cafe mess in which I found myself a couple years after I'd left The Way.

Then the reel began to move forward...from my Way years up to when I first posted online, a couple months after leaving The Way. And the reel stopped...there...around the end of December, 2005, when I made my first post in the sometimes weird, mostly intriguing, online world of text communication...no voice, no facial expression, no touch...just words on a screen sometimes sprinkled with textual symbols depicting emotion.

I was nervous as I introduced myself via that first post at the Cafe. One of the Cafe regulars commented on how my GSC profile didn't reveal much. I immediately felt I had done 'it' wrong, so I added information to my GSC profile. I later learned that many members at GSC, and elsewhere online, reveal little on their profiles.

I spent hours upon hours, every day, as much as I could, at the Cafe. GSC was the online gathering place for ex-Way folks. Cafe members reached out to me with genuine listening ears and helping hands. I was reunited with old friends, some whom I hadn't communicated with in decades. It was like finding The Way again for the first time...I felt a deep 'this-is-it' bond, like at that first Twig fellowship. I felt I was finding my heart again.

Within seven months, I was being interviewed by the GSC administrator for an upcoming podcast. The interview was via phone. We had two phone conversations, each a couple hours long. I was nervous; the interview was going to be public on GreaseSpot Radio. About all I recall now from the interview was sharing how I found The Way, and I recall the kindness of the administrator during the interview and some things he shared with me about his own life and him telling me I did a great job on the interview and that he was going to edit it and then send me the edited version for me to hear before he made it public. He said he'd be in touch with me in a couple weeks.

A couple weeks went by. Then a few more weeks.

What was taking so long? Did I somehow mess something up? But what was it I could have messed up? Has he sent me an email or private message that I somehow missed or that got lost in a technology glitch? Should I contact him and ask? But he is so busy and has so much on his plate; I don't want to bother him. The interview did happen, didn't it? I'm not making it up. Carol, just send him a private message and ask; stop second guessing yourself so much.

I sent Admin a cordial private message inquiring about the interview.

He responded cordially that he'd been busy and that he'd have it reviewed in another couple weeks and would be in touch.

Oh good, I hadn't done anything wrong. It wasn't me. My self-conscious, self-blaming gremlin was put to rest.

A couple weeks went by...and a couple more...and another week...and...

I wonder if everything is okay? Did I somehow miss correspondence Admin may have sent me? This is so nerve wracking; I feel again that I've screwed something up. But I haven't done anything. He did say a couple weeks, right? I'm not making that up. But it's been almost three months now since the interview. Should I inquire again? If I inquire again, will I sound whiny and needy?

I respectfully wrote Admin again. The only way I had to contact him was via private message on GreaseSpot.

He responded via private message. Something like, "I told you I was busy and that I'd get to you when I have it done." That was it. No apology for the delay. No "hope you are doing well." Just a cold statement; a statement that wasn't true. He had told me a couple weeks, both times.

I immediately went into what I call subservient mode. He was right; I was wrong. I must have misunderstood him. But he did say a couple weeks both times. But I should have known better than to write again; he's busy with his life and family and the burden of running GreaseSpot. How can I be so dumb as to have bothered him? I felt like I was back in The Way, asking questions of leadership that I should know better than to ask. I immediately squelched that feeling, I must be projecting.

I wrote him back that I'd received his private message and apologized for the inconvenience and thanked him for all the work he does for folks leaving The Way. My message was genuine, from my heart. But I didn't mention my confusion regarding the "couple weeks." After all, I must have been projecting...that was my problem, not his.

Admin never responded. The interview was never mentioned again, even when I met Admin face-to-face a month later. I was too self-conscious to bring up the subject; I had already been put in my place one time.

A few months later, someone else, much more important than I, took my place for that podcast. By that time though, Admin and I had had a falling out. But our falling out had nothing to do with my interview.

I wonder what I shared in that interview?