Since about a month after surgery on August 30, 2016, I've been struggling deeply with depression and anxiety. On the heels of that were the holidays, which aren't my favorite time of year anyway. It's been difficult to muster up any sort of "Merry Christmas" or "Happy Holidays" sentiments. The best I could come up with was "Tolerable Christmas."
Until this past week; I've felt an upcycle.
I hope the shift sticks and I can get out of this underlying dark and difficult, non-solution-oriented, and non-creative mood. I know I'll still have my regular ups and downs. But I hope they aren't the big monsters I've been having to deal with the past few months.
A couple days ago I briefly perused Youtube for "Christmas song parodies" and found the following. It made me smile.
Quite impressive way to upcycle bottles.
Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays and Happy Everyday to us all...
I later found "Happy Together." It brought me a bigger smile.
December 25, 2016
December 16, 2016
Dream-time Body-speak (Part Two)
One of my online blogging friends was in another dream. In real life, like me, this friend suffers with chronic pain and illness. In real life, like me, they were once a committed true believer in a fundamentalist Bible doctrine. They slowly deconverted to atheism/agnosticism, I to agnosticism.
In my dream my friend was in our king size bed with my husband and I. There was nothing sexual about the arrangement; we were simply sleeping. The friend had a 5-year old child with them. The next moment the friend and child and I were instantly in the woods beside a mountain creek with rushing water over rocks surrounded by laurels. I was taking them to a path. I don't know where the path led, but it was the path they needed to get where they were going.
In another dream the main toilet in our home was leaking. At first when I entered the bathroom, I thought the leak was coming from the handle. But it was coming from the wall behind the toilet, about 1-1/2 feet up. Like in our real-life bathroom the wall was painted in a textured slate-cobalt blue. In my dream, I was thinking of putting a container below the leak to catch the water, but then more leaks appeared as fissures formed in the wall behind the toilet. I felt frantic. There was no way I could catch all the water. I thought, I have to call Fix-It Man and tell him this needs to be fixed first, before anything else. In real life Fix-It Man was coming to our house in a few days to fix another toilet, the one in the textured sunflower-yellow bathroom. In real life Fix-It Man and I had served together in The Way. He left in the late 1980s, I in the mid-2000s.
~*~
When I was a Way believer, I mostly dismissed sleep-dreams. I recall being taught that ongoing dreams were an indication that I'm not renewing my mind well. Or, at worst, devil spirits were trying to influence and maybe possess me. Dreams could also be just flippant convolutions from current life events. Dreamless sleep, or at least sleep where I couldn't recall my dreams, was the best, an indicator of a well-renewed mind - one more unrelenting standard to feed my defective self-image as a below-par believer.
So, for the most part, I did not try to understand my dreams or what my body and mind might be trying to communicate with me - until my last 6 or so years in The Way when I began to have dreams that were so vivid, and often repetitive, that I simply couldn't ignore them.
The dreams in my final Way years - as I was going through the grueling and ambivalent process of cognitive dissonance with Way doctrine and my own life experiences, with doubts about the organization of The Way, the so-called "household of God" which was the only place that taught the true accuracy of the inerrant Word of God - coincided with a time when my body was ridding itself of toxic levels of mercury after almost two decades of chronic illness.
I feel deeply that my body and soul were going through "healing responses." I prefer the term "healing response" to "healing crisis."
Often there were houses in those dreams, houses with lots of bathrooms and water. Most of the houses were huge, and I was continually discovering another level to explore. In part, this mirrored what was happening in my life at that time. I came to look forward to the dreams. I felt (and still feel), these dreams were my body/mind/soul's attempt to help heal itself, to help put into some type of representative images my struggles at the time, and to remind me that my body/mind/soul was working through them.
I don't believe in "dream interpretations" from others. I do think we can intuitively so-call "interpret" our own dreams and that we can often(?) receive insight into what may possibly be going on at a deeper level. I don't think it is a supernatural process anymore than eyesight or the immune system or circulatory system or any other incredible function our bodies perform.
These recent dreams. Could they be indicating that my body is actually able to heal itself now, now that the antagonist-hip has been removed and the cobalt-and-chromium metal-leech stopped?
~*~
A couple nights ago I dreamed I went hiking in New Zealand with my son and another ex-Way believer. It was a fun dream. I'd love to go hiking in New Zealand. I'd love to be able to hike, period.
~*~
Dream-time Body-speak (Part One)
Dream-time Body-speak (Part Two)
~*~
In my dream my friend was in our king size bed with my husband and I. There was nothing sexual about the arrangement; we were simply sleeping. The friend had a 5-year old child with them. The next moment the friend and child and I were instantly in the woods beside a mountain creek with rushing water over rocks surrounded by laurels. I was taking them to a path. I don't know where the path led, but it was the path they needed to get where they were going.
In another dream the main toilet in our home was leaking. At first when I entered the bathroom, I thought the leak was coming from the handle. But it was coming from the wall behind the toilet, about 1-1/2 feet up. Like in our real-life bathroom the wall was painted in a textured slate-cobalt blue. In my dream, I was thinking of putting a container below the leak to catch the water, but then more leaks appeared as fissures formed in the wall behind the toilet. I felt frantic. There was no way I could catch all the water. I thought, I have to call Fix-It Man and tell him this needs to be fixed first, before anything else. In real life Fix-It Man was coming to our house in a few days to fix another toilet, the one in the textured sunflower-yellow bathroom. In real life Fix-It Man and I had served together in The Way. He left in the late 1980s, I in the mid-2000s.
~*~
When I was a Way believer, I mostly dismissed sleep-dreams. I recall being taught that ongoing dreams were an indication that I'm not renewing my mind well. Or, at worst, devil spirits were trying to influence and maybe possess me. Dreams could also be just flippant convolutions from current life events. Dreamless sleep, or at least sleep where I couldn't recall my dreams, was the best, an indicator of a well-renewed mind - one more unrelenting standard to feed my defective self-image as a below-par believer.
So, for the most part, I did not try to understand my dreams or what my body and mind might be trying to communicate with me - until my last 6 or so years in The Way when I began to have dreams that were so vivid, and often repetitive, that I simply couldn't ignore them.
The dreams in my final Way years - as I was going through the grueling and ambivalent process of cognitive dissonance with Way doctrine and my own life experiences, with doubts about the organization of The Way, the so-called "household of God" which was the only place that taught the true accuracy of the inerrant Word of God - coincided with a time when my body was ridding itself of toxic levels of mercury after almost two decades of chronic illness.
I feel deeply that my body and soul were going through "healing responses." I prefer the term "healing response" to "healing crisis."
Often there were houses in those dreams, houses with lots of bathrooms and water. Most of the houses were huge, and I was continually discovering another level to explore. In part, this mirrored what was happening in my life at that time. I came to look forward to the dreams. I felt (and still feel), these dreams were my body/mind/soul's attempt to help heal itself, to help put into some type of representative images my struggles at the time, and to remind me that my body/mind/soul was working through them.
I don't believe in "dream interpretations" from others. I do think we can intuitively so-call "interpret" our own dreams and that we can often(?) receive insight into what may possibly be going on at a deeper level. I don't think it is a supernatural process anymore than eyesight or the immune system or circulatory system or any other incredible function our bodies perform.
These recent dreams. Could they be indicating that my body is actually able to heal itself now, now that the antagonist-hip has been removed and the cobalt-and-chromium metal-leech stopped?
~*~
A couple nights ago I dreamed I went hiking in New Zealand with my son and another ex-Way believer. It was a fun dream. I'd love to go hiking in New Zealand. I'd love to be able to hike, period.
~*~
Dream-time Body-speak (Part One)
Dream-time Body-speak (Part Two)
~*~
December 14, 2016
Dream-time Body-speak (Part One)
I've had four vivid dreams in the past couple weeks.
In one dream I was standing on a sidewalk in a doorway on a small city street. It was dusk or maybe night time with enough illumination from city lights to make out details.
I was looking at an SUV parked in the street in front of me as a woman grabbed two children, around ages 5 and 2, and put them in the SUV, the older child in the back seat and the younger in the front. I do not recall their genders.
I knew the woman was kidnapping them, but physically I could do nothing about it due to my disability and slow pace and the weakness in my limbs and extremities and back, just like in real life.
There were a few other folks who were witnessing the event, and I was panicking in my mind, Why is no one helping? Why is no one helping?!
Catty corner across the street three men stood outside a brick-front bar or cafe. They looked relaxed, leisurely visiting and unaware of the situation. I recognized one of them as Kyle who used to work for me in my pet sitting business in real life before he moved to Colorado. I hollered at the men, "Hey! Get those kids out of that SUV! That woman is kidnapping them!"
The three men went into quick action and ran to the SUV, pulling the kids out. The woman was already in the driver seat ready to pull away. She was heavy set with shoulder-length blonde hair. She was wearing a tank top and reminded me of the kind of biker mom who would have a Confederate Flag flying high in her yard.
The front passenger door was left wide open after the men had grabbed the child from the front seat. As I stood on the sidewalk on the passenger side of her vehicle, the woman, sitting in the driver seat, glared at me. I felt her threat through the anger in her face and heard the words in my head, though she never uttered them, "I will be back. I will be back."
In another dream, my 28-year old daughter and I were rushing to get out of my home. I don't know where we were going or why we were rushing, but I was moving as fast as I could though it was slow, just like in real life. As I descended the hard wood stairs to the ground level approaching the door, I looked down at the underside of my left forearm, the side that is less exposed to the elements than the upper side which is tanned and grows hair.
Right under the thin, translucent top layer of skin, were two 3D-cell alkaline batteries. I thought, "How am I going to get these out? I bet this is why I feel heavy."
As I reached the bottom of the stairs, the whole time having looked at these batteries in my forearm, they fell out. Plop. Plop. The top layer of skin simply tore away from my arm like when a human peels after sunburn. But the skin did not peel all the way off; it looked like a jagged-edged open pocket. There was no pain and no blood. After the batteries dropped out, the skin-pocket hung loose and saggy from being stretched by the weight of the batteries.
~*~
Dream-time Body-speak (Part One)
Dream-time Body-speak (Part Two)
~*~
In one dream I was standing on a sidewalk in a doorway on a small city street. It was dusk or maybe night time with enough illumination from city lights to make out details.
I was looking at an SUV parked in the street in front of me as a woman grabbed two children, around ages 5 and 2, and put them in the SUV, the older child in the back seat and the younger in the front. I do not recall their genders.
I knew the woman was kidnapping them, but physically I could do nothing about it due to my disability and slow pace and the weakness in my limbs and extremities and back, just like in real life.
There were a few other folks who were witnessing the event, and I was panicking in my mind, Why is no one helping? Why is no one helping?!
Catty corner across the street three men stood outside a brick-front bar or cafe. They looked relaxed, leisurely visiting and unaware of the situation. I recognized one of them as Kyle who used to work for me in my pet sitting business in real life before he moved to Colorado. I hollered at the men, "Hey! Get those kids out of that SUV! That woman is kidnapping them!"
The three men went into quick action and ran to the SUV, pulling the kids out. The woman was already in the driver seat ready to pull away. She was heavy set with shoulder-length blonde hair. She was wearing a tank top and reminded me of the kind of biker mom who would have a Confederate Flag flying high in her yard.
The front passenger door was left wide open after the men had grabbed the child from the front seat. As I stood on the sidewalk on the passenger side of her vehicle, the woman, sitting in the driver seat, glared at me. I felt her threat through the anger in her face and heard the words in my head, though she never uttered them, "I will be back. I will be back."
In another dream, my 28-year old daughter and I were rushing to get out of my home. I don't know where we were going or why we were rushing, but I was moving as fast as I could though it was slow, just like in real life. As I descended the hard wood stairs to the ground level approaching the door, I looked down at the underside of my left forearm, the side that is less exposed to the elements than the upper side which is tanned and grows hair.
Right under the thin, translucent top layer of skin, were two 3D-cell alkaline batteries. I thought, "How am I going to get these out? I bet this is why I feel heavy."
As I reached the bottom of the stairs, the whole time having looked at these batteries in my forearm, they fell out. Plop. Plop. The top layer of skin simply tore away from my arm like when a human peels after sunburn. But the skin did not peel all the way off; it looked like a jagged-edged open pocket. There was no pain and no blood. After the batteries dropped out, the skin-pocket hung loose and saggy from being stretched by the weight of the batteries.
~*~
Dream-time Body-speak (Part One)
Dream-time Body-speak (Part Two)
~*~
December 13, 2016
"Can a leopard change his spots?"
It's a rare day when I post anything political. Today is an exception.
I think it is horrific that Donald Trump is our president-elect.
But I understand how it happened.
When people are vulnerable and thus in pain, they look to alleviate that pain. It's normal. And sometimes we get taken by a con artist or, dare I say - a cult leader. And if we have never had an up-close and personal relationship with a sociopath/psychopath/full-blown narcissist we may not be able fully fathom the lies that are spoken as absolute truths. And even the truths a psychopath might speak are still lies in the sense that everything, everything, is about the psychopath's power and appearance. The psychopath will never admit they are wrong, unless it somehow increases their power. (It's a personal life lesson that I had a hard time wrapping my head around, until I experienced it up close and personal. Even then, it's unbelievable.)
My opinion is that Donald Trump is an outright psychopath, or at the very least...sociopath, though the two terms are used interchangeably.
A typical comeback to the Trump versus Clinton question is, "Well, isn't Hillary as bad as or worse than Trump, herself being a sociopath or psychopath?"
Perhaps, though I have my doubts after doing a bit more research on Hillary's life. But if she is, she is lower on the scale than Trump, in my opinion.
In one of my recent face-to-face conversations with a Trump voter, they told me, "I didn't vote for Trump; I voted against Hillary."
I thought on that a little bit and later said, "That's bullshit. I understand where you are coming from because I voted for Hillary to keep Trump from winning. But I still voted for Hillary. And you voted for Trump. Twisting the language is what cults do. It's wrong and manipulative." They agreed and changed their statement to, "Yes. I voted for Trump."
Their main reasons? The establishment Republicans and Democrats in DC are both corrupt. The voter thinks Trump might cut through some of that, though maybe the voter is starting to see that they might be in error as Trump gathers his cabinet and adviser picks from mostly Wall Street and the military. They also think Trump might get trade policies changed and our economics moving on the up, more so than Hillary would. I believe they have been duped. Time will tell.
I said, "I get that. But Bernie's influence got Hillary to change her mind on TPP, and some other policies. I believe she would have seen it through on her changed stances on TPP and some of the other policies as the people would have held her accountable for her words." But that voter really despises Hillary.
The voter said they would have voted for Kasich, if he had been the Republican nominee. And, interestingly, they would have probably voted Bernie over Trump, if Bernie had won the Democratic ticket. I say "interestingly" because Bernie is farther left than Hillary. But that voter believes Bernie is one of the more authentic folks on Capitol Hill, thus possibly able to forge a crack or two in the establishment corruption.
This morning, I read this article about an 18-year old whom Trump went after on social media: "This is what happens when Donald Trump attacks a private citizen on Twitter."
I wonder how a Trump supporter and defender would feel if this happened to their daughter? I imagine they'd feel like killing the guy. Not that they would, but that is how they might feel.
What about on an international scale when Trump tweets his thoughts that would better be left out of public view until he has time to consult others who deal with and understand the delicacy of relations with international powers? How do those powers feel, powers that can have catastrophic consequences? I think it is beyond concerning.
I hope the more level-headed Republicans in Congress can help keep in check the effects of Trump's tweets and get him to put the brakes on. But Trump is 70 years old; he won't change. Plus, who he is, is who he is. As Jeremiah 13:23a states: "Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots?" It is naive to think Trump will change when he takes office.
I think it is horrific that Donald Trump is our president-elect.
But I understand how it happened.
When people are vulnerable and thus in pain, they look to alleviate that pain. It's normal. And sometimes we get taken by a con artist or, dare I say - a cult leader. And if we have never had an up-close and personal relationship with a sociopath/psychopath/full-blown narcissist we may not be able fully fathom the lies that are spoken as absolute truths. And even the truths a psychopath might speak are still lies in the sense that everything, everything, is about the psychopath's power and appearance. The psychopath will never admit they are wrong, unless it somehow increases their power. (It's a personal life lesson that I had a hard time wrapping my head around, until I experienced it up close and personal. Even then, it's unbelievable.)
My opinion is that Donald Trump is an outright psychopath, or at the very least...sociopath, though the two terms are used interchangeably.
A typical comeback to the Trump versus Clinton question is, "Well, isn't Hillary as bad as or worse than Trump, herself being a sociopath or psychopath?"
Perhaps, though I have my doubts after doing a bit more research on Hillary's life. But if she is, she is lower on the scale than Trump, in my opinion.
In one of my recent face-to-face conversations with a Trump voter, they told me, "I didn't vote for Trump; I voted against Hillary."
I thought on that a little bit and later said, "That's bullshit. I understand where you are coming from because I voted for Hillary to keep Trump from winning. But I still voted for Hillary. And you voted for Trump. Twisting the language is what cults do. It's wrong and manipulative." They agreed and changed their statement to, "Yes. I voted for Trump."
Their main reasons? The establishment Republicans and Democrats in DC are both corrupt. The voter thinks Trump might cut through some of that, though maybe the voter is starting to see that they might be in error as Trump gathers his cabinet and adviser picks from mostly Wall Street and the military. They also think Trump might get trade policies changed and our economics moving on the up, more so than Hillary would. I believe they have been duped. Time will tell.
I said, "I get that. But Bernie's influence got Hillary to change her mind on TPP, and some other policies. I believe she would have seen it through on her changed stances on TPP and some of the other policies as the people would have held her accountable for her words." But that voter really despises Hillary.
The voter said they would have voted for Kasich, if he had been the Republican nominee. And, interestingly, they would have probably voted Bernie over Trump, if Bernie had won the Democratic ticket. I say "interestingly" because Bernie is farther left than Hillary. But that voter believes Bernie is one of the more authentic folks on Capitol Hill, thus possibly able to forge a crack or two in the establishment corruption.
This morning, I read this article about an 18-year old whom Trump went after on social media: "This is what happens when Donald Trump attacks a private citizen on Twitter."
I wonder how a Trump supporter and defender would feel if this happened to their daughter? I imagine they'd feel like killing the guy. Not that they would, but that is how they might feel.
What about on an international scale when Trump tweets his thoughts that would better be left out of public view until he has time to consult others who deal with and understand the delicacy of relations with international powers? How do those powers feel, powers that can have catastrophic consequences? I think it is beyond concerning.
I hope the more level-headed Republicans in Congress can help keep in check the effects of Trump's tweets and get him to put the brakes on. But Trump is 70 years old; he won't change. Plus, who he is, is who he is. As Jeremiah 13:23a states: "Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots?" It is naive to think Trump will change when he takes office.
December 6, 2016
Rehearsing stories...trail magic
Rehearsing.
The same stories, again and again.
Remembering that which has been dismembered.
~*~
Detours.
I love them and I hate them, depending on the detour.
When I am "in the flow," allowing life to happen instead of trying to make it happen, the detours are adventures, like "trail magic" the few times I've backpacked and the many times I've hiked.
I can no longer backpack, due to the widespread nerve damage in my feet and legs and back and arms and hands and neck and jaws. I can seldom even hike, except during my good weeks between epidurals. And then no more than a couple or so miles.
My last real hike was in May, 2014. Eight miles, mostly along the Appalachian Trail through Grayson Highlands in Virginia. My beloved Grayson Highlands, where feral ponies run free; where, in 2006, I buried tokens for the life I had ended in my womb in 1978. And not just for that life, but for that season of life, including the relationship with the father and our serendipitous, bittersweet reconnection in 2006.
In May, 2014, after I received my third epidural and had hit my "good weeks," my 23 year old son and I went for a day hike at Grayson. As usual, we started at Massie Gap. We hiked together in the beginning but then I told him to go on ahead; I know how slow I am.
I made my way over the rugged terrain and drank in the views from the giant rock outcrops...
the awe...
the vastness of the sky...
the ocean of mountains...
the wind...
the sun...
the trees...
the foliage and wildflowers...
the ponies in their small herds, some with newborn foals, grays and chestnuts and creams and dapples, long silver and blond manes, and forelocks that fall into their eyes...
Wanting these moments to never end. And wanting so badly for these epidurals to keep working and maybe even reverse this nerve damage that had started in 2011 after taking a drug for a toenail fungus. But it wasn't diagnosed as nerve damage until I saw my eighth doctor in May, 2013, who told me I had polyradiculitis which means multiple nerve roots in my neck and low back are swollen at my spinal cord.
I asked the doctor if he thought I could get well. He said, "If we can find the cause, then yes, I think you can." I had been questing for answers since the onset in 2011. I am still questing for answers.
But that day in May, 2014, while on my last real hike though I didn't know at the time it was my last real hike at least for the time being, I met Jason at the Thomas Knob Shelter. Jason's trail name is Rising Tide.
I was sitting alone at the shelter when he walked up, a lone thru hiker. He was wearing one of those Gatsby, golfer-type hats. It was checkered green and white and matched his backpack. Just he and I at that shelter on the Appalachian Trail, a serendipitous encounter. He had plans to backpack the Triple Crown which includes the Appalachian Trail and the Continental Divide Trail and the Pacific Crest Trail.
We exchanged trail talk and I shared with him my dream of thru hiking the AT, but that I have nerve damage and didn't know if I'd ever be able. He then shared with me that he had been a quadriplegic just 15 years prior. He'd been injured in an auto accident. He shared how the medical field told him he would never again have use of his limbs. So, he turned to pot. "Lots and lots of weed," he said. Slowly his left side came back and then his right and then he started walking and then he started jogging on the beach, and now he was thru hiking 2180 miles.
Trail magic.
I believe.
Or at least want to believe.
The same stories, again and again.
Remembering that which has been dismembered.
~*~
Detours.
I love them and I hate them, depending on the detour.
When I am "in the flow," allowing life to happen instead of trying to make it happen, the detours are adventures, like "trail magic" the few times I've backpacked and the many times I've hiked.
I can no longer backpack, due to the widespread nerve damage in my feet and legs and back and arms and hands and neck and jaws. I can seldom even hike, except during my good weeks between epidurals. And then no more than a couple or so miles.
My last real hike was in May, 2014. Eight miles, mostly along the Appalachian Trail through Grayson Highlands in Virginia. My beloved Grayson Highlands, where feral ponies run free; where, in 2006, I buried tokens for the life I had ended in my womb in 1978. And not just for that life, but for that season of life, including the relationship with the father and our serendipitous, bittersweet reconnection in 2006.
In May, 2014, after I received my third epidural and had hit my "good weeks," my 23 year old son and I went for a day hike at Grayson. As usual, we started at Massie Gap. We hiked together in the beginning but then I told him to go on ahead; I know how slow I am.
I made my way over the rugged terrain and drank in the views from the giant rock outcrops...
the awe...
the vastness of the sky...
the ocean of mountains...
the wind...
the sun...
the trees...
the foliage and wildflowers...
the ponies in their small herds, some with newborn foals, grays and chestnuts and creams and dapples, long silver and blond manes, and forelocks that fall into their eyes...
Wanting these moments to never end. And wanting so badly for these epidurals to keep working and maybe even reverse this nerve damage that had started in 2011 after taking a drug for a toenail fungus. But it wasn't diagnosed as nerve damage until I saw my eighth doctor in May, 2013, who told me I had polyradiculitis which means multiple nerve roots in my neck and low back are swollen at my spinal cord.
I asked the doctor if he thought I could get well. He said, "If we can find the cause, then yes, I think you can." I had been questing for answers since the onset in 2011. I am still questing for answers.
But that day in May, 2014, while on my last real hike though I didn't know at the time it was my last real hike at least for the time being, I met Jason at the Thomas Knob Shelter. Jason's trail name is Rising Tide.
I was sitting alone at the shelter when he walked up, a lone thru hiker. He was wearing one of those Gatsby, golfer-type hats. It was checkered green and white and matched his backpack. Just he and I at that shelter on the Appalachian Trail, a serendipitous encounter. He had plans to backpack the Triple Crown which includes the Appalachian Trail and the Continental Divide Trail and the Pacific Crest Trail.
We exchanged trail talk and I shared with him my dream of thru hiking the AT, but that I have nerve damage and didn't know if I'd ever be able. He then shared with me that he had been a quadriplegic just 15 years prior. He'd been injured in an auto accident. He shared how the medical field told him he would never again have use of his limbs. So, he turned to pot. "Lots and lots of weed," he said. Slowly his left side came back and then his right and then he started walking and then he started jogging on the beach, and now he was thru hiking 2180 miles.
Trail magic.
I believe.
Or at least want to believe.
 |
| ~Thomas Knob Shelter, where I met Rising Tide~ "As he spoke my spirit climbed into the sky. I bid it to return to hear your wonderous stories. Return to hear your wonderous stories." ~Lyrics by Yes~ |