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?