As I've been reading about white nationalism and white supremacy, it seems to me the movement is based on the fear that the white race will become extinct, or close to it.
As unpopular (or maybe even apathetic) as it may sound, I've thought, "So what?"
What if the white race ceases to exist? Which I doubt will happen, but it could.
What if the black race would disappear? What of the yellow and red and cinnamon?
What if we all became green.
But maybe purple would be more interesting?
Seems I recall learning somewhere along the way, that brown-eyed genes carry more dominance than blue-eyed genes; ie: brown eyes win most often. Why is that? Are genes that carry darker skin more dominant? I don't know and I don't feel like looking it up right now. Or say another skin color is dominant. Regardless of the dominant color-gene, could the reason be for future survival and evolutionary purposes? Is that a racist thought?
Perhaps we will evolve into a different homo-species. If our planet and some humans survive 100,000 more years, how will our descendants look back on us? With mindful study and compassion, I hope.
~*~
More thoughts...
But, if darker pigment is/was dominant, wouldn't darker skin be dominant among humas? And maybe that is true on a global basis. Globally there probably are more dark than light skins.
Weren't our human ancestors all dark-skinned? Where and how did lighter skin evolve?
Here's a link to one article that shares information from genetic study/studies. I found this same information in other articles.
White Skin Developed in Europe Only As Recently as 8,000 Years Ago Say Anthropologists
It seems that all this fighting, probably since our human origins, is really about culture and beliefs. Not skin color.
How much does skin color influence culture? How much does culture influence skin color? Those seem like stupid questions - especially the second one. Skin color is totally determined by genetics.
Last week I was thinking about war. Are most wars fought over property? Conquering land to take for one's own its resources? Some of those resources are people, which then become the conquerors' property. Unless they are benevolent conquerors. That's oxymoronic - benevolent conquerors. Is that even possible?
~*~
Thinking more about "benevolent conqueror"...
I guess one who conquers evil could be a benevolent conqueror, depending on their actions after their conquest. I wish I had retained world history better. I'm sure there are examples.
Benevolent conqueror brought to mind Jesus Christ and the final judgments. May or may not happen. We'll all find out in the future.
And it brought to mind a scripture. Romans 12:21 (Amplified): Do not be overcome and conquered by evil, but overcome evil with good.
That seems like a good policy.
August 28, 2017
August 27, 2017
Cove
Hubby and I finished biking Virginia's New River Trail State Park yesterday. A total of 119 miles. Through the summer we section-biked both directions of the trail (plus a side leg). It took us seven trips.
On our last three or four trips we've seen does with their fawns. Sometimes while biking the trail, other times while driving the back country mountain roads. Yesterday as we were biking our final 1-1/2 miles Hubby said, "I hope we see a fawn." He paused and added, "And a groundhog."
Groundhogs have provided some fun sightings this spring and summer. I've observed a baby groundhog become a young adult along the Mt. Airy Greenway. First time I saw him (Or her. I don't know which, but I'm gonna use the masculine.) he was a toddler inspecting life. I sighted him right beside the Greenway and Mom on the other side a few hundred feet away. I braked Olivia beside Babyhog and stood, a leg on each side of Olivia's top-tube (which is the technical name for the mid-bar). Babyhog didn't run; he hadn't learned that caution yet. We just stared at each other for a few moments. Then he slowly turned around and waddled away. I've see Babyhog twice since then. He's gotten bigger each time. I'm sure it was Babyhog due to his growth, and we were in the same area on the Greenway. Those two times, he ran when he sighted me.
Within a minute or two of Hubby's request, we sighted a fawn up ahead. We rode out of a wooded area into an area with a few houses with large yards between the trail and the river. As we slowed our speed, approaching the fawn, she didn't run away.
I whispered aloud, "Why isn't he running away?" (I found out later "he" was a "she.") "I wonder where Momma is? She must be close by."
We stopped our bikes a couple yards away from the fawn and watched in wonderment, because she wasn't retreating.
An elderly man drove up in a four-wheeler from one of the houses. "Git on home now. Come on." He was talking to the fawn.
I looked at the man with curiosity in my eyes. I don't recall if I asked him a question, but he answered anyway, "Her name is Cove. My grandson rescued her from the river. Her momma drowned."
"Wow!"
"She follows the dogs around. Sometimes she thinks she's a dog." he added with a chuckle.
Grandpa's adult son came out of the house next to Grandpa's. The four of us and Cove spent the next twenty minutes visiting.
Cove was probably only a couple days old when they found her. She's about 3-1/2 months old now. They fed and are still feeding her goat milk from a bottle. She's added grass, clover, and local foliage to her menu. Most of the time she sleeps in the son's house, on the floor, in the bedroom. Other times she'll bed down wherever the two labs decide to sleep, except when they sleep on the porch. Cove always sleeps inside, for now.
I tried to pet Cove, but she would have none of that. The hands that feed her though didn't cause her a flinch.
Toward the end of our visit three elementary-age children came running up the lawn, They stopped to hug and greet Cove and then, continuing their frolic, shouted, "Come on Cove!" She joined right in. Running and jumping. It was like watching a scene from a fairy tale. Pure, innocent delight. They are Cove's family. A few minutes later the two labs joined for a moment of play.
Hubby and I said our goodbyes and thank yous and headed up the trail with pure delight. It's contagious.
Hubby was riding in front of me and had stopped on the far side of our final bridge. He was looking down to his left. He motioned me to slow down. I quietly slowed and came to a stop wondering if he'd spotted a groundhog.
Nope. It was a bunny rabbit who crossed the trail in front of Hubby and had stopped on the other side. John and Bunny were looking at each other. Bunny didn't run when I stopped and joined the eye conversation.
As we rode away Hubby said,"Well, it wasn't a ground hog. But close enough."
Sometimes I live in a storybook.
On our last three or four trips we've seen does with their fawns. Sometimes while biking the trail, other times while driving the back country mountain roads. Yesterday as we were biking our final 1-1/2 miles Hubby said, "I hope we see a fawn." He paused and added, "And a groundhog."
Groundhogs have provided some fun sightings this spring and summer. I've observed a baby groundhog become a young adult along the Mt. Airy Greenway. First time I saw him (Or her. I don't know which, but I'm gonna use the masculine.) he was a toddler inspecting life. I sighted him right beside the Greenway and Mom on the other side a few hundred feet away. I braked Olivia beside Babyhog and stood, a leg on each side of Olivia's top-tube (which is the technical name for the mid-bar). Babyhog didn't run; he hadn't learned that caution yet. We just stared at each other for a few moments. Then he slowly turned around and waddled away. I've see Babyhog twice since then. He's gotten bigger each time. I'm sure it was Babyhog due to his growth, and we were in the same area on the Greenway. Those two times, he ran when he sighted me.
Within a minute or two of Hubby's request, we sighted a fawn up ahead. We rode out of a wooded area into an area with a few houses with large yards between the trail and the river. As we slowed our speed, approaching the fawn, she didn't run away.
I whispered aloud, "Why isn't he running away?" (I found out later "he" was a "she.") "I wonder where Momma is? She must be close by."
We stopped our bikes a couple yards away from the fawn and watched in wonderment, because she wasn't retreating.
An elderly man drove up in a four-wheeler from one of the houses. "Git on home now. Come on." He was talking to the fawn.
I looked at the man with curiosity in my eyes. I don't recall if I asked him a question, but he answered anyway, "Her name is Cove. My grandson rescued her from the river. Her momma drowned."
"Wow!"
"She follows the dogs around. Sometimes she thinks she's a dog." he added with a chuckle.
Grandpa's adult son came out of the house next to Grandpa's. The four of us and Cove spent the next twenty minutes visiting.
Cove was probably only a couple days old when they found her. She's about 3-1/2 months old now. They fed and are still feeding her goat milk from a bottle. She's added grass, clover, and local foliage to her menu. Most of the time she sleeps in the son's house, on the floor, in the bedroom. Other times she'll bed down wherever the two labs decide to sleep, except when they sleep on the porch. Cove always sleeps inside, for now.
I tried to pet Cove, but she would have none of that. The hands that feed her though didn't cause her a flinch.
Toward the end of our visit three elementary-age children came running up the lawn, They stopped to hug and greet Cove and then, continuing their frolic, shouted, "Come on Cove!" She joined right in. Running and jumping. It was like watching a scene from a fairy tale. Pure, innocent delight. They are Cove's family. A few minutes later the two labs joined for a moment of play.
Hubby and I said our goodbyes and thank yous and headed up the trail with pure delight. It's contagious.
Hubby was riding in front of me and had stopped on the far side of our final bridge. He was looking down to his left. He motioned me to slow down. I quietly slowed and came to a stop wondering if he'd spotted a groundhog.
Nope. It was a bunny rabbit who crossed the trail in front of Hubby and had stopped on the other side. John and Bunny were looking at each other. Bunny didn't run when I stopped and joined the eye conversation.
As we rode away Hubby said,"Well, it wasn't a ground hog. But close enough."
Sometimes I live in a storybook.
 |
| Cove watches biker |
 |
| Cove observes our approach |
 |
| Cove inspects Bicycle Olivia |
 |
| Cove inspects Bicycle Pete |
 |
| Me and Cove |
 |
| "Let's play!" |
 |
| "Weeee!" |
 |
| "Away we go!" |
Trump rant
This is a rant, not an academic discourse. It's based on my own observations and experience, Trump's own lies and behavior, my continued reading of contexts and histories of the players involved in the current administration and current events, and my continued reading about our country's history and histories of current movements. But still, it's just a rant.
There are times I've wanted to post some of my Trump outrage on Twitter, but I refrain. In reading recently about the history of internet trolling, Trump's a troll. He wants to agitate and provoke. And he does a good job at it.
Trump is a narcissist of the highest degree.
Folks who rationalize his beyond-social-norms behavior have been duped. He's a cult leader and fits the description - information control, playing the victim, non-accountability, blame-shifting, twisting facts or outright lying, demand for loyalty, unpredictable behavior so folks are walking on eggshells, praising folks and then demeaning them back-and-forth. His base fits the behavior of cult followers - rationalizing and minimizing his outlandish words and decisions, stroking his ego, limiting their reading to what Trump approves. I'm sure I could think of more parallels.
I used to rationalize the words and behavior of Wierwille and Martindale and Knapp. And Rivenbark, but she's in a slightly different category. I'd have my "yeah buts" always believing their hearts were right, that they wanted the best for their people, and they were simply humans who make mistakes.
I was dead wrong. They lied, intentionally. They harmed others, intentionally. They didn't care about the people who followed or supported them. All they cared about was their own ego, power, and winning. They lied to save their own faces in the eyes of their followers.
Trump is no different. His lies are so obvious it astounds me that his supporters continue to justify his outrageous words and the chaos he stirs. On the other hand, I did it too - rationalize. Just with different people who were of no real consequence to our nation or world.
The other week, after Trump's dangerous tweets regarding North Korea, I really tried to think of something good about Trump. I came up with, "He takes care of his family." But I have to wonder if he even does that out of any goodness, or does he do it to for appearance?
He's like a whirlwind. Sucking people into his vortex and causing destruction along his path.
I hope grounds are found for his impeachment.
There are times I've wanted to post some of my Trump outrage on Twitter, but I refrain. In reading recently about the history of internet trolling, Trump's a troll. He wants to agitate and provoke. And he does a good job at it.
Trump is a narcissist of the highest degree.
Folks who rationalize his beyond-social-norms behavior have been duped. He's a cult leader and fits the description - information control, playing the victim, non-accountability, blame-shifting, twisting facts or outright lying, demand for loyalty, unpredictable behavior so folks are walking on eggshells, praising folks and then demeaning them back-and-forth. His base fits the behavior of cult followers - rationalizing and minimizing his outlandish words and decisions, stroking his ego, limiting their reading to what Trump approves. I'm sure I could think of more parallels.
I used to rationalize the words and behavior of Wierwille and Martindale and Knapp. And Rivenbark, but she's in a slightly different category. I'd have my "yeah buts" always believing their hearts were right, that they wanted the best for their people, and they were simply humans who make mistakes.
I was dead wrong. They lied, intentionally. They harmed others, intentionally. They didn't care about the people who followed or supported them. All they cared about was their own ego, power, and winning. They lied to save their own faces in the eyes of their followers.
Trump is no different. His lies are so obvious it astounds me that his supporters continue to justify his outrageous words and the chaos he stirs. On the other hand, I did it too - rationalize. Just with different people who were of no real consequence to our nation or world.
The other week, after Trump's dangerous tweets regarding North Korea, I really tried to think of something good about Trump. I came up with, "He takes care of his family." But I have to wonder if he even does that out of any goodness, or does he do it to for appearance?
He's like a whirlwind. Sucking people into his vortex and causing destruction along his path.
I hope grounds are found for his impeachment.
August 25, 2017
Blue tears
Thursday, 8/24/2017. 2:55 PM. I awake from my nap. I'd slept about 30 minutes.
Earlier in the day I had made two pet visits and gone to the eye doctor. The eye technician had performed my yearly, simple test for glaucoma; one of the many possible side effects of long term steroid treatment. The test only takes three-and-a-half minutes per eye. I'm exhausted just after the first eye, almost to the point of tears. Not from eye strain, but the concentration involved.
God, I don't feel like going to work. I'm just so damn tired. And I still have a headache. Yuck.
I muster myself off the bed. I'm out the door within 15 minutes.
I walk across the street with my trekking poles. Slung over my left shoulder is the shoulder strap attached to the small, black canvas cooler. But today I have no ice pack in it. The cooler is my purse to carry my water bottle and, in the outside pockets, my cell phone and pills and wrist braces. I don't take a key today. It's just too much effort to lock the door. I won't be gone that long, and there are two cars in the driveway.
A couple minutes later I arrive at the studio. Kay is there. We exchange greetings and office chairs, which we do every time I work. I need the sturdier chair.
I retrieve the small, oval-comment-bubble-shaped pillow from inside the orange vinyl with white cord borders, box-shaped ottoman with a lid for a seat. The pillow is a golden color. It's worn and faded. One side reads love your life, set in floral fabric sewn to the golden. The other side reads embrace it, screen-printed in black on the golden.
I close the ottoman seat lid and walk to the sturdy office chair. I position the perfectly-sized-for-low-back-support pillow on the chair. I always place the pillow so that embrace it touches my back. I sit down, raise the seat, and position myself at the large, metal desk topped with a slightly angled drafting board. That drafting board really helps when I transcribe.
I open the drawer, bottom on the right, and pull out the folders that hold paid art orders. I clumsily, but successfully, retrieve the metal box that holds all the index-sized, green cards. At the top of each card is an artist's name. Below the name are lines on which I transcribe information from the paid orders to the cards - venue to which art was sold, state or country, how many pieces, and the monies to be paid to the artist.
After getting set up, I momentarily rest.
Maybe I'll be good for an hour or two.
A bit later, I need some note paper and can't find any in the studio. I ask Kay for assistance. She finds some and hands me the piece of paper. My finger-grasps, as always, are delayed. But I successfully grasp the paper, even though Kay hands it to me like I have regular reflex in my fingers. I don't think my delay is apparent to Kay, but it is to me. Bottles and such are a whole different ball game. If the person doesn't know my condition, I instruct them to go slowly to give me a moment to grasp the object. Otherwise, it might fall to the floor.
Such a small thing - this retarded paper-grasp. But a glaring reminder to me of my abnormality.
A bit later Kay leaves for the day. I'm the lone human in the studio, which isn't unusual when I work. The two dogs are there.
A bit later, Daughter texts me pictures she had taken of the longhorns she had encountered the day before on our Grayson Highlands trip. "Here are the longhorn and Yerba pictures, let me know if you'd like the ponies and landscape ones. :) " I respond that I'd like the others too.
One of the others is a picture of the blue blaze over one of the boulder-scrambles along the Wilburn Ridge Trail. She and Yerba had hiked part way up the trail while I had rested on the bench at the park border. It's been years since I've seen that blue blaze. It's a bitter reminder of when I could hike that trail. But oh the sweet memories...
Some thirty minutes later, now three hours later from when I arrived, I cry heartily. The reality again of my disability. I recognize my hope has waned recently. I tell myself, You're fatigued. Things will look a little brighter when you aren't as fatigued. Maybe in the morning. Weather through. Maybe you need a good cry. You don't cry much anymore.
Earlier in the day I had made two pet visits and gone to the eye doctor. The eye technician had performed my yearly, simple test for glaucoma; one of the many possible side effects of long term steroid treatment. The test only takes three-and-a-half minutes per eye. I'm exhausted just after the first eye, almost to the point of tears. Not from eye strain, but the concentration involved.
God, I don't feel like going to work. I'm just so damn tired. And I still have a headache. Yuck.
I muster myself off the bed. I'm out the door within 15 minutes.
I walk across the street with my trekking poles. Slung over my left shoulder is the shoulder strap attached to the small, black canvas cooler. But today I have no ice pack in it. The cooler is my purse to carry my water bottle and, in the outside pockets, my cell phone and pills and wrist braces. I don't take a key today. It's just too much effort to lock the door. I won't be gone that long, and there are two cars in the driveway.
A couple minutes later I arrive at the studio. Kay is there. We exchange greetings and office chairs, which we do every time I work. I need the sturdier chair.
I retrieve the small, oval-comment-bubble-shaped pillow from inside the orange vinyl with white cord borders, box-shaped ottoman with a lid for a seat. The pillow is a golden color. It's worn and faded. One side reads love your life, set in floral fabric sewn to the golden. The other side reads embrace it, screen-printed in black on the golden.
I close the ottoman seat lid and walk to the sturdy office chair. I position the perfectly-sized-for-low-back-support pillow on the chair. I always place the pillow so that embrace it touches my back. I sit down, raise the seat, and position myself at the large, metal desk topped with a slightly angled drafting board. That drafting board really helps when I transcribe.
I open the drawer, bottom on the right, and pull out the folders that hold paid art orders. I clumsily, but successfully, retrieve the metal box that holds all the index-sized, green cards. At the top of each card is an artist's name. Below the name are lines on which I transcribe information from the paid orders to the cards - venue to which art was sold, state or country, how many pieces, and the monies to be paid to the artist.
After getting set up, I momentarily rest.
Maybe I'll be good for an hour or two.
A bit later, I need some note paper and can't find any in the studio. I ask Kay for assistance. She finds some and hands me the piece of paper. My finger-grasps, as always, are delayed. But I successfully grasp the paper, even though Kay hands it to me like I have regular reflex in my fingers. I don't think my delay is apparent to Kay, but it is to me. Bottles and such are a whole different ball game. If the person doesn't know my condition, I instruct them to go slowly to give me a moment to grasp the object. Otherwise, it might fall to the floor.
Such a small thing - this retarded paper-grasp. But a glaring reminder to me of my abnormality.
A bit later Kay leaves for the day. I'm the lone human in the studio, which isn't unusual when I work. The two dogs are there.
A bit later, Daughter texts me pictures she had taken of the longhorns she had encountered the day before on our Grayson Highlands trip. "Here are the longhorn and Yerba pictures, let me know if you'd like the ponies and landscape ones. :) " I respond that I'd like the others too.
One of the others is a picture of the blue blaze over one of the boulder-scrambles along the Wilburn Ridge Trail. She and Yerba had hiked part way up the trail while I had rested on the bench at the park border. It's been years since I've seen that blue blaze. It's a bitter reminder of when I could hike that trail. But oh the sweet memories...
Some thirty minutes later, now three hours later from when I arrived, I cry heartily. The reality again of my disability. I recognize my hope has waned recently. I tell myself, You're fatigued. Things will look a little brighter when you aren't as fatigued. Maybe in the morning. Weather through. Maybe you need a good cry. You don't cry much anymore.
August 24, 2017
Ongoing conversation...
Standing in the bathroom on the mat right outside the tub. Breathing in. Breathing out. My hand grasps the steel bar attached to the brown ceramic tile shower-bathtub wall. I await energy, after the task of bathing, so I can walk down the hall to the bedroom.
Thoughts stream in between and through the breaths...
If people just knew how fucking hard it is to function. How much effort it takes to do the simplest of tasks. Everything is just so damn hard.
My mind pauses.
Surgery did me in. It's the most traumatic event I've lived..
Pause.
Or is it?
What is the most traumatic thing I've lived?
Another pause.
Teen years. Jimson weed? Feeling I was crazy due to psychedelics? Becoming withdrawn? Dale hitting me?
Adult years. All those asthma attacks? Contaminated albuterol? Suicidal ideations? Sinus surgery after sinus surgery? Dad's quadriplegia? Mom's bipolar? The Way? Knapp's attempted character assassination?
Images rolled like a movie, frame after frame.
I don't think any of those top last year's surgery. It was horrible. That kind of surgery is traumatic on an able body. It's trauma times ten on a nerve-damaged body.
My next thought was the nerve damage when it was at its worst from Spring, 2013, through June, 2015.
My mind halted.
No. It wasn't the surgery. Or the Jimson weed. Or the asthma. It wasn't all the other surgeries. It wasn't The Way. It wasn't Knapp.
It was my nerve damage at its worst. Limbs losing function - legs and feet and arms and hands. Heavy. Deadened. Barely able to rise. It was terrifying. Just terrifying. I kept trying to fake it 'til I would make it. But I had no control over it. I could not will my limbs to work, and I was I doing all I could. It was just terrifying. I lived in constant survival mode.
I never want to live that again. Never. And even though I still live with weakness and fatigue, I no longer live in terror. Never, never, never again. I hope I don't eat those words.
Images. Feelings. Re-memberings.
I'll not mention some other thoughts - things that haven't happened to me, and I hope never do. Things I know others have endured causing my experiences to pale in comparison.
Pause.
So what is the most joyful time of my life? The birth of my children? Shouldn't that be when I felt the most joy? I wish I could say it was, but pregnancy and childbirth were so hard on me. I don't recall feeling joy. I recall feeling totally wiped out.
In 2015 when my limbs were coming back to life - every cell within me vibrated. It was like my limbs were having orgasms. Maybe they were. It was like a rebirth, a resurrection. Tears would stream down my cheeks as I again felt life in muscles.
But still, that doesn't top the joy of my children. And holding them as infants against my chest. Our bodies' rhythms one.
~*~
The thoughts above are a continual conversation in my head. I do the best I can to stay hopeful and grateful for all the good in life. And I have an abundance of good. But recently my hope is waning. May be a subject for a different post.
My limbs began to slowly come to life after I started taking Charlotte's Web hemp extract in June, 2015. They still are not whole, and may never be. But the terror is gone. I'm still recovering from surgery last August. It zapped me; fatigue is almost constant. And I'm still recovering from a fall off my bike two weeks ago.
~*~
Son left yesterday after visiting NC family and friends for a couple weeks. He and a couple friends are headed to Sweden for a month to backpack Kungsleden (The King's Trail) and some side trails. They'll be hiking north to south, from Abisko to Hemavan. I now have Abisko added to my iPhone's weather app.
Daughter, grand-dog Yerba, and I went to Grayson Highlands yesterday. I made the one-mile hike to the bench where I rested while Daughter and Yerba hiked further up the trail.
As I rested, I heard the longhorns bellowing in the distance. I chuckled to myself wondering if Daughter and Yerba had sighted the cows and steers. I haven't seen them in years, but I've heard them.
When the two arrived back at the bench about 45 minutes later, Daughter said, "Boy did we have an adrenaline rush."
Yerba had taken an interest in a calf, the calf being small enough to maybe befriend. Momma cow didn't like that idea. Momma cow had horns. Momma cow made a warning charge at Yerba. Thankfully it was only a warning charge, and it was heeded.
Thoughts stream in between and through the breaths...
If people just knew how fucking hard it is to function. How much effort it takes to do the simplest of tasks. Everything is just so damn hard.
My mind pauses.
Surgery did me in. It's the most traumatic event I've lived..
Pause.
Or is it?
What is the most traumatic thing I've lived?
Another pause.
Teen years. Jimson weed? Feeling I was crazy due to psychedelics? Becoming withdrawn? Dale hitting me?
Adult years. All those asthma attacks? Contaminated albuterol? Suicidal ideations? Sinus surgery after sinus surgery? Dad's quadriplegia? Mom's bipolar? The Way? Knapp's attempted character assassination?
Images rolled like a movie, frame after frame.
I don't think any of those top last year's surgery. It was horrible. That kind of surgery is traumatic on an able body. It's trauma times ten on a nerve-damaged body.
My next thought was the nerve damage when it was at its worst from Spring, 2013, through June, 2015.
My mind halted.
No. It wasn't the surgery. Or the Jimson weed. Or the asthma. It wasn't all the other surgeries. It wasn't The Way. It wasn't Knapp.
It was my nerve damage at its worst. Limbs losing function - legs and feet and arms and hands. Heavy. Deadened. Barely able to rise. It was terrifying. Just terrifying. I kept trying to fake it 'til I would make it. But I had no control over it. I could not will my limbs to work, and I was I doing all I could. It was just terrifying. I lived in constant survival mode.
I never want to live that again. Never. And even though I still live with weakness and fatigue, I no longer live in terror. Never, never, never again. I hope I don't eat those words.
Images. Feelings. Re-memberings.
I'll not mention some other thoughts - things that haven't happened to me, and I hope never do. Things I know others have endured causing my experiences to pale in comparison.
Pause.
So what is the most joyful time of my life? The birth of my children? Shouldn't that be when I felt the most joy? I wish I could say it was, but pregnancy and childbirth were so hard on me. I don't recall feeling joy. I recall feeling totally wiped out.
In 2015 when my limbs were coming back to life - every cell within me vibrated. It was like my limbs were having orgasms. Maybe they were. It was like a rebirth, a resurrection. Tears would stream down my cheeks as I again felt life in muscles.
But still, that doesn't top the joy of my children. And holding them as infants against my chest. Our bodies' rhythms one.
~*~
The thoughts above are a continual conversation in my head. I do the best I can to stay hopeful and grateful for all the good in life. And I have an abundance of good. But recently my hope is waning. May be a subject for a different post.
My limbs began to slowly come to life after I started taking Charlotte's Web hemp extract in June, 2015. They still are not whole, and may never be. But the terror is gone. I'm still recovering from surgery last August. It zapped me; fatigue is almost constant. And I'm still recovering from a fall off my bike two weeks ago.
~*~
Son left yesterday after visiting NC family and friends for a couple weeks. He and a couple friends are headed to Sweden for a month to backpack Kungsleden (The King's Trail) and some side trails. They'll be hiking north to south, from Abisko to Hemavan. I now have Abisko added to my iPhone's weather app.
Daughter, grand-dog Yerba, and I went to Grayson Highlands yesterday. I made the one-mile hike to the bench where I rested while Daughter and Yerba hiked further up the trail.
As I rested, I heard the longhorns bellowing in the distance. I chuckled to myself wondering if Daughter and Yerba had sighted the cows and steers. I haven't seen them in years, but I've heard them.
When the two arrived back at the bench about 45 minutes later, Daughter said, "Boy did we have an adrenaline rush."
Yerba had taken an interest in a calf, the calf being small enough to maybe befriend. Momma cow didn't like that idea. Momma cow had horns. Momma cow made a warning charge at Yerba. Thankfully it was only a warning charge, and it was heeded.
 |
| Momma longhorn. |
August 22, 2017
Artist Moon
What to write?
Do I journal? Do I memoir? Do I allow my consciousness to stream?
Stream. Streams. Creeks. Rivers which flow to oceans that cover the globe.
After the moon left its US orbit yesterday, it made its way across the Atlantic.
Right after the eclipse-peak, as I walked across the street for a momentary visit to my house, I felt enveloped by the aura surrounding me. I felt a stillness in the air, but not a stuffy stillness, entwined with a feeling of emotional warmth. Time seemed to slow down, almost stand still.
I've felt this before. When?
Dusk? Yes, but it's more specific than that.
Ahh. It's like the strange time of autumn where seasons seem melded but separate. What is that called?
This morning my brain remembered, Indian summer! That's what it felt like yesterday.
I enjoyed viewing the eclipse, though I would loved to have witnessed totality. We got 95%, which is pretty good. But nothing like totality as I realized while viewing the running images on C-Span yesterday.
My neighbor, whom I work for part-time in his miniature art studio, had a small eclipse party for folks working yesterday. There were five of us altogether.
Right before and during peak, the crickets became more vocal. Cicadas and tree frogs chimed in. Birds chirped, bedding down. Exactly at the peak moment, there was a scuffle in the air. It startled us,"What the hell was that?" Four crows were chasing away a hawk, perhaps from a crow's nest? A serendipitous oddity. I thought of my crow thoughts from this past January.
Right after peak, as I walked out the tall, slat-wood gate that exits my neighbor's backyard, I hollered, "Wow! Ya'll come see this! Really, come look!"
They made their ways over to see the crescent, scalloped slivers of light inside shadows on the ground. They were as wowed as I was. I didn't have my phone, so I took mental snapshots.
Trekking poles in hand, I made my way up and across my neighbor's lawn and into the street. As I crossed the blacktop feeling the definitive stillness surrounding me, my eyes caught an abundance of crescents within deciduous tree shadows on the pavement. I stopped, entranced, my eyes scanning the image.
The crescents had turned the shadows of leafy trees into an appearance of evergreens.
Do I journal? Do I memoir? Do I allow my consciousness to stream?
Stream. Streams. Creeks. Rivers which flow to oceans that cover the globe.
After the moon left its US orbit yesterday, it made its way across the Atlantic.
Right after the eclipse-peak, as I walked across the street for a momentary visit to my house, I felt enveloped by the aura surrounding me. I felt a stillness in the air, but not a stuffy stillness, entwined with a feeling of emotional warmth. Time seemed to slow down, almost stand still.
I've felt this before. When?
Dusk? Yes, but it's more specific than that.
Ahh. It's like the strange time of autumn where seasons seem melded but separate. What is that called?
This morning my brain remembered, Indian summer! That's what it felt like yesterday.
I enjoyed viewing the eclipse, though I would loved to have witnessed totality. We got 95%, which is pretty good. But nothing like totality as I realized while viewing the running images on C-Span yesterday.
My neighbor, whom I work for part-time in his miniature art studio, had a small eclipse party for folks working yesterday. There were five of us altogether.
Right before and during peak, the crickets became more vocal. Cicadas and tree frogs chimed in. Birds chirped, bedding down. Exactly at the peak moment, there was a scuffle in the air. It startled us,"What the hell was that?" Four crows were chasing away a hawk, perhaps from a crow's nest? A serendipitous oddity. I thought of my crow thoughts from this past January.
Right after peak, as I walked out the tall, slat-wood gate that exits my neighbor's backyard, I hollered, "Wow! Ya'll come see this! Really, come look!"
They made their ways over to see the crescent, scalloped slivers of light inside shadows on the ground. They were as wowed as I was. I didn't have my phone, so I took mental snapshots.
Trekking poles in hand, I made my way up and across my neighbor's lawn and into the street. As I crossed the blacktop feeling the definitive stillness surrounding me, my eyes caught an abundance of crescents within deciduous tree shadows on the pavement. I stopped, entranced, my eyes scanning the image.
The crescents had turned the shadows of leafy trees into an appearance of evergreens.
August 21, 2017
Of monuments & statues: "The Teacher" & "The Trainer"
I've been searching my brain, trying to find a history file, When did I take that print of Wierwille off our living room wall?
The "print" refers to a print of a painting depicting The Way's founder, Victor Paul Wierwille. It's entitled "The Trainer." Wierwille, dressed in hunting apparel, is leaning over commending his dog after a bird hunt. The dog has obediently retrieved the kill and brought it to his master. A quote, apparently from Wierwille, underscores the picture, "Training with love yields loving obedience."
Hubby and I were given the framed print as a wedding gift in 1984. It hung on our various living room walls for over two decades.
When I left The Way, I didn't immediately erase The Way from my walls. I still have framed prints from past Way artists hanging on the walls, but none depict Way references. I would like to replace some of them, but not because they "trigger" me or because they were painted by past Way artists. I just want different art. But, I can't even dust or vacuum, much less redecorate. So, they stay.
I'm thinking that it was 2008, and maybe 2009, before I took "The Trainer" off our wall. I left The Way in 2005 after 28 years of loyalty. My husband left in 2006 after 24 years of loyalty.
I recall looking at the print multiple times after leaving The Way and wondering, Should I take this down? But as I'd look at the print, I still felt fondness. I felt nostalgia and the desire for all to have turned out differently.
My memories of Wierwille were good memories. Through my decades in The Way he was a fatherly figure. My few personal encounters with him were of a gentle, wise, caring father or grandfather. For decades, in my mind and heart, he was and had been the man of God of the world. I never thought of him as God or Jesus, but I did equate him with the likes of Moses and the Apostle Paul.
At the end of my Way days, and even after leaving, when I'd read or hear the stories of Wierwille's abuses, I'd have my doubts. I was caught within my own internal civil war.
My ambiguity trumped the take-it-down-yet question. Not to mention my reactionary sensitivity to The Way's doctrine of discarding the past by "forgetting it and declaring it null and void." I didn't and don't want to forget the past - the so-called good or so-called bad. For me, that picture represented 28-plus years of my life. How could I just toss that aside?
And then one day, but for the life of me I can't recall the day or year or month, I took it off our wall. It was time.
Now, I would never have an image of Wierwille displayed in our home. He used people as merchandise, not only the women whom he sexually abused, but others as well. His main interest was power. Now, a print depicting Wierwille hanging on our wall would be repugnant, mostly.
The recent controversy over Confederate statues brought to mind the life-size, bronze statue of Victor Paul Wierwille which stands inside the Victor Paul Wierwille Prevailing Word Auditorium on the grounds of The Way International headquarters in New Knoxville, Ohio, which is located on property that used to be the Wierwille family farm, where Victor Paul and his siblings grew up. If I recall correctly, Wierwille's bronze depicts him standing, holding an open Bible in one hand, teaching "the Word." Wierwille referred to himself as "the teacher."
What if that statue were in a public park? (It never will be. But if it were...) How would the women who were Wierwille's victims, or family members of those victims, feel if they had to pass that statue on a regular basis? How would the victims of Victor Barnard feel? Bernard's victims never had personal contact with or knew Wierwille; he was dead. Yet his legacy in part continued with Barnard, though Barnard took Wierwille's sexual abuse doctrine to a sicker, twisted level.
No, it's not an exact comparison, probably far from it - the Confederate statues to that of Wierwille's life-size bronze. But it's what I thought of. And the limited-edition, 7-inch, miniature, bronze Wierwille replicas that were made and sold. And that print that once hung on our living rooms' walls.
The "print" refers to a print of a painting depicting The Way's founder, Victor Paul Wierwille. It's entitled "The Trainer." Wierwille, dressed in hunting apparel, is leaning over commending his dog after a bird hunt. The dog has obediently retrieved the kill and brought it to his master. A quote, apparently from Wierwille, underscores the picture, "Training with love yields loving obedience."
Hubby and I were given the framed print as a wedding gift in 1984. It hung on our various living room walls for over two decades.
When I left The Way, I didn't immediately erase The Way from my walls. I still have framed prints from past Way artists hanging on the walls, but none depict Way references. I would like to replace some of them, but not because they "trigger" me or because they were painted by past Way artists. I just want different art. But, I can't even dust or vacuum, much less redecorate. So, they stay.
I'm thinking that it was 2008, and maybe 2009, before I took "The Trainer" off our wall. I left The Way in 2005 after 28 years of loyalty. My husband left in 2006 after 24 years of loyalty.
I recall looking at the print multiple times after leaving The Way and wondering, Should I take this down? But as I'd look at the print, I still felt fondness. I felt nostalgia and the desire for all to have turned out differently.
My memories of Wierwille were good memories. Through my decades in The Way he was a fatherly figure. My few personal encounters with him were of a gentle, wise, caring father or grandfather. For decades, in my mind and heart, he was and had been the man of God of the world. I never thought of him as God or Jesus, but I did equate him with the likes of Moses and the Apostle Paul.
At the end of my Way days, and even after leaving, when I'd read or hear the stories of Wierwille's abuses, I'd have my doubts. I was caught within my own internal civil war.
What's true? What's not true? Who do I believe? Dr. Wierwille isn't here to speak up for himself. What about David in the Old Testament and his sins? Were Doctor's any worse? What about the culture of the times? Did these women encourage the sex? Doctor was always kind. He taught, 'Things are to be used. People are to be loved.'
My ambiguity trumped the take-it-down-yet question. Not to mention my reactionary sensitivity to The Way's doctrine of discarding the past by "forgetting it and declaring it null and void." I didn't and don't want to forget the past - the so-called good or so-called bad. For me, that picture represented 28-plus years of my life. How could I just toss that aside?
And then one day, but for the life of me I can't recall the day or year or month, I took it off our wall. It was time.
Now, I would never have an image of Wierwille displayed in our home. He used people as merchandise, not only the women whom he sexually abused, but others as well. His main interest was power. Now, a print depicting Wierwille hanging on our wall would be repugnant, mostly.
The recent controversy over Confederate statues brought to mind the life-size, bronze statue of Victor Paul Wierwille which stands inside the Victor Paul Wierwille Prevailing Word Auditorium on the grounds of The Way International headquarters in New Knoxville, Ohio, which is located on property that used to be the Wierwille family farm, where Victor Paul and his siblings grew up. If I recall correctly, Wierwille's bronze depicts him standing, holding an open Bible in one hand, teaching "the Word." Wierwille referred to himself as "the teacher."
What if that statue were in a public park? (It never will be. But if it were...) How would the women who were Wierwille's victims, or family members of those victims, feel if they had to pass that statue on a regular basis? How would the victims of Victor Barnard feel? Bernard's victims never had personal contact with or knew Wierwille; he was dead. Yet his legacy in part continued with Barnard, though Barnard took Wierwille's sexual abuse doctrine to a sicker, twisted level.
No, it's not an exact comparison, probably far from it - the Confederate statues to that of Wierwille's life-size bronze. But it's what I thought of. And the limited-edition, 7-inch, miniature, bronze Wierwille replicas that were made and sold. And that print that once hung on our living rooms' walls.
August 17, 2017
Contrasts and comparisons...
Below is a piece I originally posted on Sunday, August 13, 2017. I unpublished it on Monday, August 14, 2017. Due to some Monday happenstances, I realized how very naive my opinions regarding counter-protests and the reason for the Charlottesville protest were. When I realized that on Monday, I was shaken to my core and unpublished the piece. I mostly no longer agree with my previous opinion. I've sorted through my discomfort enough that I want to republish the piece. I like having records that help me recall and compare my self with my self as I travel this ever-changing path of life...
____
Sunday, August 13, 2017
Yesterday as Hubby and I were driving in the Blue Ridge mountains of Virginia, I looked out over the peaceful pastures with grazing cows and rolled bales of hay. Billowy and wispy white clouds in a sea of blue touched the horizon. It's a scene I imbibe regularly. Most always, in the midst of the peacefulness, I think of the hard labor it takes to run a farm.
Yesterday I also thought, What a contrast this scene is to what is happening a few hours up the road in Charlottesville. This was before we knew anything about the car murder. We don't have cell service (so as to check the news) in that area of the mountains. Even if we had service, I had no desire to check the news.
I said to Hubby, "It seems to me, that if a person really wants to promote peace, they wouldn't show up as counter-protesters at this type rally. It's bound to end in violence, given the ideology and the display of KKK attire and Nazi flags. These people are supposedly showing up to protest the removal of Robert E. Lee's statue. Just let them have their rally, then the day after or so, have the counter-protest. For something like Westboro Baptist protesting at a person's funeral, I can agree with a simultaneous counter-protest. Westboro should shut the fuck up and allow the family to bury their loved one in peace. But this in Charlottesville? This, with the political climate as it is? I just can't see how it won't end in violence."
Perhaps that's a faulty or naive or politically-incorrect idea - to not simultaneously counter-protest at this type rally. But it might save lives and prevent damage. Though part of me wants to see Nazi and KKK ideology made illegal, a larger part of me revolts to such an idea. Where would the line be drawn then for any ideology and belief?
Later, after supper, I saw the news about the car murder earlier in the day in Charlottesville. My heart sank.
I endeavor to read both sides of the story. So I read one of CNN's reports on Charlottesville. I read one of Breitbart's reports. Both condemn the alt-right violence in Charlottesville (though Breitbart claims the Nazi/white-supremacist groups are not "alt-right"). My mind perused its files on cult-think and extremism and their relation to acts of violence.
I read an opinion piece in New York Times, written by a conservative: What Trump Got Wrong on Charlottesville. One of the author's defining paragraphs states: "Racial superiority is a repugnant idea and President Trump should condemn it by name. We should also note honestly that President Trump employs individuals who emboldened this movement. The president winked at and made kissy face with the alt-right as his advisers persuaded him it would be good politically. It is no coincidence that many of the men who marched in Charlottesville wore “Make America Great Again” hats. This president and his advisers made a nefarious evil feel comfortable coming out of the shadows."
I agree with that opinion.
I also think that if a Muslim had carried out this car murder, Trump would be tweeting up a storm about "Islamic terrorists." But I don't think he should tweet a storm about white-supremacy and Nazis either. That kind of rhetoric from a president only feeds the fury inciting more violence. But I think a president of the United States should outright condemn racial supremacy, the KKK, Nazism, and the like. And he should do so not only in times of peace, but also and especially at the moments when acts of violence born from those ideologies are taking place.
I also found an article on Mother Jones published January, 26, 2017: The Long History of “Nazi Punching”. It's obviously not about Charlottesville because it was written in January, but it still applies.
The author shares historical incidents of violence by extremist groups from both "right" and "left," and an account from his personal life. He brought to mind my own harmful experiences in "anti" groups and how "anti" groups can end up like mirrors of the groups they oppose.
The author's last sentences state: "The return of the war between fascists and anti-fascists is another expression of our current political atavism. This time, given a uniquely pugilistic president of the United States, the battle may rage hotter than ever." (I had to look up "pugilistic." A pugilist is a fancy word for boxer - one who fights with fists.)
I wish us humans could learn better from history, instead of repeating it over and over and over.
The Charlottesville car murderer, James Alex Fields, is 20 years old. Made me think of the 2015 Charleston terrorist, Dylann Roof. He was 21 when he committed his acts. I wonder if Roof is one of Fields' heroes?
____
Sunday, August 13, 2017
Yesterday as Hubby and I were driving in the Blue Ridge mountains of Virginia, I looked out over the peaceful pastures with grazing cows and rolled bales of hay. Billowy and wispy white clouds in a sea of blue touched the horizon. It's a scene I imbibe regularly. Most always, in the midst of the peacefulness, I think of the hard labor it takes to run a farm.
Yesterday I also thought, What a contrast this scene is to what is happening a few hours up the road in Charlottesville. This was before we knew anything about the car murder. We don't have cell service (so as to check the news) in that area of the mountains. Even if we had service, I had no desire to check the news.
I said to Hubby, "It seems to me, that if a person really wants to promote peace, they wouldn't show up as counter-protesters at this type rally. It's bound to end in violence, given the ideology and the display of KKK attire and Nazi flags. These people are supposedly showing up to protest the removal of Robert E. Lee's statue. Just let them have their rally, then the day after or so, have the counter-protest. For something like Westboro Baptist protesting at a person's funeral, I can agree with a simultaneous counter-protest. Westboro should shut the fuck up and allow the family to bury their loved one in peace. But this in Charlottesville? This, with the political climate as it is? I just can't see how it won't end in violence."
Perhaps that's a faulty or naive or politically-incorrect idea - to not simultaneously counter-protest at this type rally. But it might save lives and prevent damage. Though part of me wants to see Nazi and KKK ideology made illegal, a larger part of me revolts to such an idea. Where would the line be drawn then for any ideology and belief?
Later, after supper, I saw the news about the car murder earlier in the day in Charlottesville. My heart sank.
I endeavor to read both sides of the story. So I read one of CNN's reports on Charlottesville. I read one of Breitbart's reports. Both condemn the alt-right violence in Charlottesville (though Breitbart claims the Nazi/white-supremacist groups are not "alt-right"). My mind perused its files on cult-think and extremism and their relation to acts of violence.
I read an opinion piece in New York Times, written by a conservative: What Trump Got Wrong on Charlottesville. One of the author's defining paragraphs states: "Racial superiority is a repugnant idea and President Trump should condemn it by name. We should also note honestly that President Trump employs individuals who emboldened this movement. The president winked at and made kissy face with the alt-right as his advisers persuaded him it would be good politically. It is no coincidence that many of the men who marched in Charlottesville wore “Make America Great Again” hats. This president and his advisers made a nefarious evil feel comfortable coming out of the shadows."
I agree with that opinion.
I also think that if a Muslim had carried out this car murder, Trump would be tweeting up a storm about "Islamic terrorists." But I don't think he should tweet a storm about white-supremacy and Nazis either. That kind of rhetoric from a president only feeds the fury inciting more violence. But I think a president of the United States should outright condemn racial supremacy, the KKK, Nazism, and the like. And he should do so not only in times of peace, but also and especially at the moments when acts of violence born from those ideologies are taking place.
I also found an article on Mother Jones published January, 26, 2017: The Long History of “Nazi Punching”. It's obviously not about Charlottesville because it was written in January, but it still applies.
The author shares historical incidents of violence by extremist groups from both "right" and "left," and an account from his personal life. He brought to mind my own harmful experiences in "anti" groups and how "anti" groups can end up like mirrors of the groups they oppose.
The author's last sentences state: "The return of the war between fascists and anti-fascists is another expression of our current political atavism. This time, given a uniquely pugilistic president of the United States, the battle may rage hotter than ever." (I had to look up "pugilistic." A pugilist is a fancy word for boxer - one who fights with fists.)
I wish us humans could learn better from history, instead of repeating it over and over and over.
The Charlottesville car murderer, James Alex Fields, is 20 years old. Made me think of the 2015 Charleston terrorist, Dylann Roof. He was 21 when he committed his acts. I wonder if Roof is one of Fields' heroes?
August 15, 2017
Thoughts. Quaint. Tonglen. Sires.
I published a blog post Sunday, 8/13/17. I had shared some of my thoughts regarding Charlottesville.
I edited the piece Monday, 8/14/17, and then later that same day unpublished the piece. After reading some neo-Nazi websites (one was vile, vile) and the main Antifa website (which seems to be anti-to-most-everything-establishment), I realized that my scale for "alt-left" and "alt-right" didn't go far enough to the left or the right. (And I really question if the two extremes can be qualified as "left" and "right." Should "far-right" or "alt-right" really include Nazis? Should "far-left" or "alt-left" really include the black bloc-tactic anti-Fascists?)
I edited the piece Monday, 8/14/17, and then later that same day unpublished the piece. After reading some neo-Nazi websites (one was vile, vile) and the main Antifa website (which seems to be anti-to-most-everything-establishment), I realized that my scale for "alt-left" and "alt-right" didn't go far enough to the left or the right. (And I really question if the two extremes can be qualified as "left" and "right." Should "far-right" or "alt-right" really include Nazis? Should "far-left" or "alt-left" really include the black bloc-tactic anti-Fascists?)
(I am anti-Nazi and anti-Fascist. But I'm also anti-violent. I've asked myself if I'm a pacifist. I've answered, Probably not. I feel sure I'd defend myself/family/friend physically, if I could.)
After reading more in-depth, I felt like a foreigner in the sense that I'm a white, middle-class, latter baby boomer. I've never personally experienced gangs, mobs, physical violence (except one-on-one with one boyfriend), hunger (except by choice), homelessness, real oppression, combat, war, et al. I've never been driven to the extreme of violence. I've never even been to a physical protest.
My 8/13/17, Charlottesville, now-unpublished post felt so...quaint.
When travesties like Charlottesville happen (though I feel Charlottesville hit a new level in current times of white supremacy intimidation in the USA), I feel I need to do something. Something these days seems to be to post something on social media. But really, for me, that's not doing something. I don't have credentials. I don't have a following. I'm not famous, etc. My tweets and blog (which are my only social media) seldom get read.
I'm often a fence-sitter when it comes to politics. Others seem so confident in their opinions. I don't have that confidence. I doubt my opinions. And I usually feel I have only partial facts. Perhaps some would say that I'm a coward due to sitting on a fence. But I do vote, and I read about the candidates and issues before I vote. And I've written my elected officials a few times. And I've signed some petitions. And I've donated funds. But beyond that? I haven't done.
The little I do feels so...quaint.
As I'm writing this, I realize I have done something regarding Chatlottesville. I've read, endeavoring to better educate myself. Will I enter into dialog? Probably not much. It's too draining. If I weren't sick/disabled would I enter into more dialog? Perhaps.
The other something I've done is what I always do. I'm kind to my fellow humans and animals. I think about long term impact when making decisions. To the best of my ability, I endeavor to carry my load, and if I can, help another with their's. Isn't that doing something to spread a little peace? If enough folks spread a little peace, that makes a lot of peace.
Today I thought, Tonglen. That's something I can do. I can apply that to the violence of these extremes in our culture. Breathe in the suffering of others; breathe out compassion and peace. But isn't that like prayer? Does it have any real effect? It affects me, and that's real.
I've had a lot more thoughts. Probably too many.
Here's a link to a poem I wrote on 11/11/15: If I were invincible... The Paris terrorist attacks happened two days later, 11/13/15. My poem then felt so...quaint. But I didn't unpublish my poem.
~*~
Links to a few of the articles, and only a few, that I've read in the past couple days:
Following are some pony pics from 8/08/17 from Grayson Highlands.
Three sires gathered to debate their territories.
They never fought. But they were quite vocal and stompy. I loved witnessing the process.
If only more people would follow their examples.
After reading more in-depth, I felt like a foreigner in the sense that I'm a white, middle-class, latter baby boomer. I've never personally experienced gangs, mobs, physical violence (except one-on-one with one boyfriend), hunger (except by choice), homelessness, real oppression, combat, war, et al. I've never been driven to the extreme of violence. I've never even been to a physical protest.
My 8/13/17, Charlottesville, now-unpublished post felt so...quaint.
When travesties like Charlottesville happen (though I feel Charlottesville hit a new level in current times of white supremacy intimidation in the USA), I feel I need to do something. Something these days seems to be to post something on social media. But really, for me, that's not doing something. I don't have credentials. I don't have a following. I'm not famous, etc. My tweets and blog (which are my only social media) seldom get read.
I'm often a fence-sitter when it comes to politics. Others seem so confident in their opinions. I don't have that confidence. I doubt my opinions. And I usually feel I have only partial facts. Perhaps some would say that I'm a coward due to sitting on a fence. But I do vote, and I read about the candidates and issues before I vote. And I've written my elected officials a few times. And I've signed some petitions. And I've donated funds. But beyond that? I haven't done.
The little I do feels so...quaint.
As I'm writing this, I realize I have done something regarding Chatlottesville. I've read, endeavoring to better educate myself. Will I enter into dialog? Probably not much. It's too draining. If I weren't sick/disabled would I enter into more dialog? Perhaps.
The other something I've done is what I always do. I'm kind to my fellow humans and animals. I think about long term impact when making decisions. To the best of my ability, I endeavor to carry my load, and if I can, help another with their's. Isn't that doing something to spread a little peace? If enough folks spread a little peace, that makes a lot of peace.
Today I thought, Tonglen. That's something I can do. I can apply that to the violence of these extremes in our culture. Breathe in the suffering of others; breathe out compassion and peace. But isn't that like prayer? Does it have any real effect? It affects me, and that's real.
I've had a lot more thoughts. Probably too many.
Here's a link to a poem I wrote on 11/11/15: If I were invincible... The Paris terrorist attacks happened two days later, 11/13/15. My poem then felt so...quaint. But I didn't unpublish my poem.
~*~
Links to a few of the articles, and only a few, that I've read in the past couple days:
- Mother Jones, 1/26/2017: The Long History of “Nazi Punching”
- Newsweek, 2/14/2017: Inside the Black Bloc Protest Strategy that Shut Down Berkeley
- The Atlantic, 8/06/2017: The Rise of the Violent Left
- New York Times, 8/13/2017: What Trump Got Wrong on Charlottesville
Following are some pony pics from 8/08/17 from Grayson Highlands.
Three sires gathered to debate their territories.
They never fought. But they were quite vocal and stompy. I loved witnessing the process.
If only more people would follow their examples.
 |
| sires meet |
 |
| Fabio presides |
 |
| sires debate, vocal and animated |
 |
| meeting adjourned |
August 11, 2017
I fell...
I had kind of a bike wreck yesterday.
I was tired when I started on my ride. But that's not unusual. I'm fatigued and tired most of the time, but I muster up some "get 'em" and pursue, judging along the way how my body is responding and how far I'll go on a ride...or whatever activity I'm undertaking. Oftentimes a ride helps my energy level. It used to really help my pain too, and I'm sure it still would except that I have less nerve-damage pain these days, for which I'm very thankful.
But now I have pain from my fall. I told myself yesterday, At least it's injury pain, so should heal.
I begin my ride in my typical fashion - a slow start down one section of the Greenway near Winston-Salem State University which is where I park Edward the Explorer. I notice the abundance of kudzu and think about maybe taking a picture. But I don't. I often forego pictures these days when riding; it's too much work and energy to stop and click. So I repeat a line which I often tell myself, I'll take a snapshot in my mind. Which I do.
I pass by the mulberry trees and think about next year when I'll eat some of the berries. I missed their fruition this year. I think about snakes and that I haven't seen as many this year. But I still keep an eye out for them.
I slowly ride, only maybe 1/4-mile, and get to the spot where I turn around to begin my ride of about 12-miles to and around Salem Lake and back. As long as I'm doing well enough, I'll ride the 6.5 miles around the lake on its dirt-and-gravel road. Like the rest of the Greenway, on the gravel one-lane road around the lake, only park service motor vehicles are allowed. Horses too are allowed.
I arrive at my turn-around spot and go into the grass on the right to then turn left, making a u-turn.
But, as I round my u-ie, I cut short to avoid the fence, that is always there, and my front wheel jack-knives to the left. Boom! I'm down. First my body and then my helmet covering my head hit the pavement. My helmet causes a slight bounce. My immediate thought is, Thank god for my helmet...thank god I wear a helmet.
A few years ago when I started riding Greenways I didn't wear a helmet, figuring I wasn't in much danger since I don't ride with automobiles. But after a couple Greenway adventures - a German shepherd lungimg me and tearing my pants at my knee (I felt his teeth touch my knee, but he didn't bite) and after an eight-point buck jumped across my path on the Greenway - I decided to always wear a helmet to protect myself from wildlife accidents. Ever since then, I always wear my helmet. Always.
After a stunned moment, I pick myself up. Still stunned I access my situation.
I fell on my left side, which is my titanium hip side. That's good. It's stronger than my right side, which is my born-with hip side where I have bone loss. My biking gloves protected my hands from scratches, but the bottom area of my left hand under my thumb is sore. I must have used it to help break the fall. I have bright red blood under my left knee. But it's not flowing; it's a scrape.
I take a deep breath and call my son. He's visiting this week before he heads on a backpacking trip for a month to Sweden. He arrived home Wednesday after working this summer in Alaska. He looks like it too! Full beard. We plan to see Guardians 2 in 3-D at the $2.50 theater later in the day.
I just want to tell someone I fell. So I tell him. He makes sure I'm okay, which I am. I call Hubby and we talk a bit. I tell him how shook up I am and that I'm so glad I wear a helmet. And how hard pavement is. And I hope I never fall when going full speed down a hill or something.
A cyclist I've met in the past rides by and sees me slowly pacing back and forth with a hobble, which I always have, while I'm on my phone. He stops. I tell Hubby I'll call him back. I tell Cyclist what just happened. He fell at the same place yesterday doing the same thing, except his handle bar got caught in the wrought iron fence which sent him a'tumbling.
After our chat about cycling and some of our adventures - one of mine being when I got caught in the swollen creek as I was trying to cross it near the picnic table in 2016 and how another cyclist just happened to be there to help me because he had just lost his $2000 bike in the rapids of the creek - I call Hubby back, then head back to Edward the Explorer to my first aid kit. In route I discover my left hand in my thumb area is a bit screwed up - I can't grip and my thumb is weak. Which really discourages me because my left hand is my good hand. Unlike my right hand, I've hardly had to wear a brace on my left hand the last couple months. Due to nerve damage being worse in my right hand, my right thumb is too weak to squeeze things - like fingernail clippers, so Hubby and I have a bi-weekly nail-clipping session which is somewhat exasperating. My pinkie and fourth fingers on my right hand remain partially numb all the time. So, even though I'm right-handed, I really depend on my left hand and thumb.
Back at the Explorer, I pull out my first aid kit to get some Arnica cream, but it's not there. Must be at home. But I do have my travel homeopathic remedy kit and find the bottle of Arnica pellets. Due to my left hand being messed up and the weakness that is ever present in my right hand, I can't open the bottle. Two people happen to be walking by so I ask one of them if they can open it, which they gladly do. I pop some Arnica pellets under my tongue. I treat the scrape and cover it with a bandaid securing it with medical tape. I'm determined I'm going to ride the lake and I don't won't the bandaid coming off and exposing the scrape to all that dirt. I take another dose of Arnica and then set off on my ride.
But, I only ride another few miles on the paved section of the Greenway that approaches the lake. I forego the lake itself. My left hand can't grip without pain and the lake is a somewhat rugged ride. I stop at the picnic table beside the creek-crossing. I'm still shook. I think, I need a brace. Well I have that. And I have plenty of practice living with disabled hands. I sure am thankful for my helmet. And I'm glad I landed on my left side. And I didn't break my wrist, which is a good sign considering my bone loss. I was bound to fall sometime with all the riding I do. I think of the 3000 miles or so I've ridden in the past few years and how lucky I am.
A park employee drives up the Greenway in a pick-up truck. It's not often I encounter park employees driving the Greenway. She stops and asks if I'm okay. I tell her yes, but that I had fallen a few miles back. She offers to put my bike in the back of the truck and drive me back to my Explorer. I decline the offer. I want to ride back; it's not far. I'm going home to soak in Epsom salt, ice my left hand and thumb, and apply Arnica cream.
A couple hours later Son and I make it to the movie. It's my third time seeing Guardians 2, but first time seeing it in 3-D. I like the 3-D. After getting home from the movie I discover more bruises on my legs and another abrasion framed in a bruise. Weird how I didn't see that abrasion previously.
Again, I'm grateful for how lucky I am. And that every time I find myself in a kind of dire straights, how another person always magically appears to offer help in my time of need. And I think that someday, someone may not be there. But that won't deter me. I'll keep on trucking the best I can.
I was tired when I started on my ride. But that's not unusual. I'm fatigued and tired most of the time, but I muster up some "get 'em" and pursue, judging along the way how my body is responding and how far I'll go on a ride...or whatever activity I'm undertaking. Oftentimes a ride helps my energy level. It used to really help my pain too, and I'm sure it still would except that I have less nerve-damage pain these days, for which I'm very thankful.
But now I have pain from my fall. I told myself yesterday, At least it's injury pain, so should heal.
I begin my ride in my typical fashion - a slow start down one section of the Greenway near Winston-Salem State University which is where I park Edward the Explorer. I notice the abundance of kudzu and think about maybe taking a picture. But I don't. I often forego pictures these days when riding; it's too much work and energy to stop and click. So I repeat a line which I often tell myself, I'll take a snapshot in my mind. Which I do.
I pass by the mulberry trees and think about next year when I'll eat some of the berries. I missed their fruition this year. I think about snakes and that I haven't seen as many this year. But I still keep an eye out for them.
I slowly ride, only maybe 1/4-mile, and get to the spot where I turn around to begin my ride of about 12-miles to and around Salem Lake and back. As long as I'm doing well enough, I'll ride the 6.5 miles around the lake on its dirt-and-gravel road. Like the rest of the Greenway, on the gravel one-lane road around the lake, only park service motor vehicles are allowed. Horses too are allowed.
I arrive at my turn-around spot and go into the grass on the right to then turn left, making a u-turn.
But, as I round my u-ie, I cut short to avoid the fence, that is always there, and my front wheel jack-knives to the left. Boom! I'm down. First my body and then my helmet covering my head hit the pavement. My helmet causes a slight bounce. My immediate thought is, Thank god for my helmet...thank god I wear a helmet.
A few years ago when I started riding Greenways I didn't wear a helmet, figuring I wasn't in much danger since I don't ride with automobiles. But after a couple Greenway adventures - a German shepherd lungimg me and tearing my pants at my knee (I felt his teeth touch my knee, but he didn't bite) and after an eight-point buck jumped across my path on the Greenway - I decided to always wear a helmet to protect myself from wildlife accidents. Ever since then, I always wear my helmet. Always.
After a stunned moment, I pick myself up. Still stunned I access my situation.
I fell on my left side, which is my titanium hip side. That's good. It's stronger than my right side, which is my born-with hip side where I have bone loss. My biking gloves protected my hands from scratches, but the bottom area of my left hand under my thumb is sore. I must have used it to help break the fall. I have bright red blood under my left knee. But it's not flowing; it's a scrape.
I take a deep breath and call my son. He's visiting this week before he heads on a backpacking trip for a month to Sweden. He arrived home Wednesday after working this summer in Alaska. He looks like it too! Full beard. We plan to see Guardians 2 in 3-D at the $2.50 theater later in the day.
I just want to tell someone I fell. So I tell him. He makes sure I'm okay, which I am. I call Hubby and we talk a bit. I tell him how shook up I am and that I'm so glad I wear a helmet. And how hard pavement is. And I hope I never fall when going full speed down a hill or something.
A cyclist I've met in the past rides by and sees me slowly pacing back and forth with a hobble, which I always have, while I'm on my phone. He stops. I tell Hubby I'll call him back. I tell Cyclist what just happened. He fell at the same place yesterday doing the same thing, except his handle bar got caught in the wrought iron fence which sent him a'tumbling.
After our chat about cycling and some of our adventures - one of mine being when I got caught in the swollen creek as I was trying to cross it near the picnic table in 2016 and how another cyclist just happened to be there to help me because he had just lost his $2000 bike in the rapids of the creek - I call Hubby back, then head back to Edward the Explorer to my first aid kit. In route I discover my left hand in my thumb area is a bit screwed up - I can't grip and my thumb is weak. Which really discourages me because my left hand is my good hand. Unlike my right hand, I've hardly had to wear a brace on my left hand the last couple months. Due to nerve damage being worse in my right hand, my right thumb is too weak to squeeze things - like fingernail clippers, so Hubby and I have a bi-weekly nail-clipping session which is somewhat exasperating. My pinkie and fourth fingers on my right hand remain partially numb all the time. So, even though I'm right-handed, I really depend on my left hand and thumb.
Back at the Explorer, I pull out my first aid kit to get some Arnica cream, but it's not there. Must be at home. But I do have my travel homeopathic remedy kit and find the bottle of Arnica pellets. Due to my left hand being messed up and the weakness that is ever present in my right hand, I can't open the bottle. Two people happen to be walking by so I ask one of them if they can open it, which they gladly do. I pop some Arnica pellets under my tongue. I treat the scrape and cover it with a bandaid securing it with medical tape. I'm determined I'm going to ride the lake and I don't won't the bandaid coming off and exposing the scrape to all that dirt. I take another dose of Arnica and then set off on my ride.
But, I only ride another few miles on the paved section of the Greenway that approaches the lake. I forego the lake itself. My left hand can't grip without pain and the lake is a somewhat rugged ride. I stop at the picnic table beside the creek-crossing. I'm still shook. I think, I need a brace. Well I have that. And I have plenty of practice living with disabled hands. I sure am thankful for my helmet. And I'm glad I landed on my left side. And I didn't break my wrist, which is a good sign considering my bone loss. I was bound to fall sometime with all the riding I do. I think of the 3000 miles or so I've ridden in the past few years and how lucky I am.
A park employee drives up the Greenway in a pick-up truck. It's not often I encounter park employees driving the Greenway. She stops and asks if I'm okay. I tell her yes, but that I had fallen a few miles back. She offers to put my bike in the back of the truck and drive me back to my Explorer. I decline the offer. I want to ride back; it's not far. I'm going home to soak in Epsom salt, ice my left hand and thumb, and apply Arnica cream.
A couple hours later Son and I make it to the movie. It's my third time seeing Guardians 2, but first time seeing it in 3-D. I like the 3-D. After getting home from the movie I discover more bruises on my legs and another abrasion framed in a bruise. Weird how I didn't see that abrasion previously.
Again, I'm grateful for how lucky I am. And that every time I find myself in a kind of dire straights, how another person always magically appears to offer help in my time of need. And I think that someday, someone may not be there. But that won't deter me. I'll keep on trucking the best I can.
August 7, 2017
Crossroads (an excerpt)
The excerpt below completes Part Three of my Way story.
This is the fifth installment in the "Excerpt Series." When I posted the first excerpt, I wasn't planning on a series. It just kind of happened.
______
In September, 1984, almost one year after moving back home, I married my current husband who was involved with The Way on a local level and had been one of my spiritual partners when I was in The Way Corps. He provided a stable anchor for my life for which I am eternally grateful. (Way Corps trainees financed their training by soliciting funds. Contributors were called "spiritual partners.")
Our lives revolved around The Way, raising our children whom we chose to home school, managing the challenges of me living with chronic illness, and helping to care for my quadriplegic father. Our first child was born in 1988 after a very rough pregnancy due to asthma. Our second child was born in 1990. After the children were born and through our home schooling years, I earned part time income through in-home childcare and later through sales with a few different multi-level marketing companies. For a number of years I worked part time at a large science center and then as a preschool music instructor.
When a believer sought counsel from their overseers the believer (in most cases) was expected to obey, not just consider, the counsel given to them. The Way taught, or at the very least strongly inferred, that to disobey leadership was to disobey God. So, my husband and I did not regularly approach Way leadership for specific counsel on personal matters. Rather, for the most part, we made our personal decisions in private and informed leadership if we deemed it appropriate. One example of that decision process was our choice to home school. Most Way followers did not home school, and it was not encouraged. We did not counsel with leadership regarding our decision, but we did get their unsolicited opinions from time to time.
~*~
Between 1987 and 2000 there were four major crossroads when my husband and I were faced with whether or not to continue with The Way. Three of those crossroads coincided with three major Way exoduses when followers left in mass around 1987, 1989, and 2000. The other was in 1995.
At each crossroad we considered the possibility of an ex-Way splinter group, most of which continue with basic Way doctrine. Each time we concluded that "there is nothing better out there;" that is, outside "the Household of The Way." It never occurred to us that we could walk away from all Way-related structure and doctrine. Due to our deeply held beliefs we were blind to any other alternatives. (Click here to access links about some of the splinter groups and about The Way's decline.)
The 1995 crossroad was our most difficult. Our local Corps leadership, a married couple who were early Way Corps grads and much loved by the believers, were made "mark-and-avoid."
"Mark-and-avoid" was The Way's practice of shunning or excommunication. The phrase is condensed from Romans 16:17 in the King James Version of the Bible. The practice was a key factor in "keeping the Household pure," which was one of Martindale's obsessions. Oftentimes a believer was put on "probation" prior to the mark-and-avoid status. During probation the believer worked with their direct overseers to address the believer's offense(s), could not attend any Way functions, and was expected to tithe. Personal contact with Way believers outside their overseers was limited, if not prohibited. After probation, leadership decided if the believer would be allowed back into the fold or be made mark-and-avoid.
Prior to being designated mark-and-avoid in latter 1995, our local leadership were put on probation for about a year. For about ten months during their probation, my husband and I oversaw the local Fellowships. During that time our state leaders, a married couple who were also early Way Corps grads and well respected by the believers, became our direct overseers.
Throughout the ten months, one or both of our state leaders visited our home one to two times a month. We prayed together and ate together. They were always kind and uplifting. We trusted them. Furthermore, in 1994 and 1995 due to depression and chronic illness, I saw the wife regularly for professional counseling. She had her master's degree in psychology. She was whom I called when I went through a suicidal episode. Since she lived a two-hour drive away she immediately contacted the wife of the couple, who were later put on probation, to physically come to my aid in that moment. (Click here to read about that episode.)
In latter 1995, after about a year since the probation began, the couple who had been our local leaders were designated "mark-and-avoid." When my husband and I received the news via a late night phone call, I felt a sense of gloom. It was like a dark, hazy cloud descended. Up until our local leadership were put on probation they had shielded the Western Piedmont area of North Carolina from Martindale's most extreme dictates. The news via the phone call felt like a cancer had finally spread its tentacles into our once-shielded, happy Way bubble. The cancer had to be eradicated.
My husband and I had been in Fellowships with the couple for twelve years. We had shared many meals and prayer together. They had provided child care multiple times for us and us for them. Theyhad helped with my chronic health issues and had provided non-judgmental support when I AWOLed the Corps and after Dad's wreck. The he wife had come to my aid during the suicidal episode. The husband had officiated our marriage in 1984, our wedding was his first after he was ordained.
Yet, we chose to follow our state leaders' and our new local Corps leaderships' decisions to abide by the mark-and-avoid sentence. By that time, we had been serving with the new local Corps for a couple months. It was a heavy decision mixed with complex loyalties and emotions. A choice we later grew to regret. A choice which caused my heart to become crusty around the edges. (Click here to read a memoir piece that shares a bit about that time in our lives.)
______
This is the fifth installment in the "Excerpt Series." When I posted the first excerpt, I wasn't planning on a series. It just kind of happened.
______
In September, 1984, almost one year after moving back home, I married my current husband who was involved with The Way on a local level and had been one of my spiritual partners when I was in The Way Corps. He provided a stable anchor for my life for which I am eternally grateful. (Way Corps trainees financed their training by soliciting funds. Contributors were called "spiritual partners.")
Our lives revolved around The Way, raising our children whom we chose to home school, managing the challenges of me living with chronic illness, and helping to care for my quadriplegic father. Our first child was born in 1988 after a very rough pregnancy due to asthma. Our second child was born in 1990. After the children were born and through our home schooling years, I earned part time income through in-home childcare and later through sales with a few different multi-level marketing companies. For a number of years I worked part time at a large science center and then as a preschool music instructor.
When a believer sought counsel from their overseers the believer (in most cases) was expected to obey, not just consider, the counsel given to them. The Way taught, or at the very least strongly inferred, that to disobey leadership was to disobey God. So, my husband and I did not regularly approach Way leadership for specific counsel on personal matters. Rather, for the most part, we made our personal decisions in private and informed leadership if we deemed it appropriate. One example of that decision process was our choice to home school. Most Way followers did not home school, and it was not encouraged. We did not counsel with leadership regarding our decision, but we did get their unsolicited opinions from time to time.
~*~
Between 1987 and 2000 there were four major crossroads when my husband and I were faced with whether or not to continue with The Way. Three of those crossroads coincided with three major Way exoduses when followers left in mass around 1987, 1989, and 2000. The other was in 1995.
At each crossroad we considered the possibility of an ex-Way splinter group, most of which continue with basic Way doctrine. Each time we concluded that "there is nothing better out there;" that is, outside "the Household of The Way." It never occurred to us that we could walk away from all Way-related structure and doctrine. Due to our deeply held beliefs we were blind to any other alternatives. (Click here to access links about some of the splinter groups and about The Way's decline.)
The 1995 crossroad was our most difficult. Our local Corps leadership, a married couple who were early Way Corps grads and much loved by the believers, were made "mark-and-avoid."
"Mark-and-avoid" was The Way's practice of shunning or excommunication. The phrase is condensed from Romans 16:17 in the King James Version of the Bible. The practice was a key factor in "keeping the Household pure," which was one of Martindale's obsessions. Oftentimes a believer was put on "probation" prior to the mark-and-avoid status. During probation the believer worked with their direct overseers to address the believer's offense(s), could not attend any Way functions, and was expected to tithe. Personal contact with Way believers outside their overseers was limited, if not prohibited. After probation, leadership decided if the believer would be allowed back into the fold or be made mark-and-avoid.
Prior to being designated mark-and-avoid in latter 1995, our local leadership were put on probation for about a year. For about ten months during their probation, my husband and I oversaw the local Fellowships. During that time our state leaders, a married couple who were also early Way Corps grads and well respected by the believers, became our direct overseers.
Throughout the ten months, one or both of our state leaders visited our home one to two times a month. We prayed together and ate together. They were always kind and uplifting. We trusted them. Furthermore, in 1994 and 1995 due to depression and chronic illness, I saw the wife regularly for professional counseling. She had her master's degree in psychology. She was whom I called when I went through a suicidal episode. Since she lived a two-hour drive away she immediately contacted the wife of the couple, who were later put on probation, to physically come to my aid in that moment. (Click here to read about that episode.)
In latter 1995, after about a year since the probation began, the couple who had been our local leaders were designated "mark-and-avoid." When my husband and I received the news via a late night phone call, I felt a sense of gloom. It was like a dark, hazy cloud descended. Up until our local leadership were put on probation they had shielded the Western Piedmont area of North Carolina from Martindale's most extreme dictates. The news via the phone call felt like a cancer had finally spread its tentacles into our once-shielded, happy Way bubble. The cancer had to be eradicated.
My husband and I had been in Fellowships with the couple for twelve years. We had shared many meals and prayer together. They had provided child care multiple times for us and us for them. Theyhad helped with my chronic health issues and had provided non-judgmental support when I AWOLed the Corps and after Dad's wreck. The he wife had come to my aid during the suicidal episode. The husband had officiated our marriage in 1984, our wedding was his first after he was ordained.
Yet, we chose to follow our state leaders' and our new local Corps leaderships' decisions to abide by the mark-and-avoid sentence. By that time, we had been serving with the new local Corps for a couple months. It was a heavy decision mixed with complex loyalties and emotions. A choice we later grew to regret. A choice which caused my heart to become crusty around the edges. (Click here to read a memoir piece that shares a bit about that time in our lives.)
______
August 6, 2017
Brain-mud
I'm tired. Fatigued. Nothing new. I get my neck shots tomorrow. That will help.
And, I'm on my last day of a two-week pet-sitting marathon. It wore me out. There's no way I could do it without Hubby.
When I officially reopened my pet-sitting business in May, 2017, after surgery on August 30, 2016, I downsized (again), and I decreased the hours I am available. I now have only ten-or-so clients. Only one needs service almost weekly. The others mainly need service when they go out of town. Six of the ten-or-so went out of town in the last two weeks. When it rains it pours. It poured mainly cats and sprinkled some dogs. Most of the dogs overnighted in our home. Things will now slow down to my normal few visits a week instead of a few visits a day.
I was talking with Hubby last night about my dis-ease symptoms. Mainly about the mental fatigue. Instead of suffering from what is commonly referred to as brain-fog, I seem to suffer from brain-mud. When the fatigue roosts, my brain becomes like thick mud.
Back-and-forth oral conversation becomes exhausting. If a person shares a story with lots of detail that I have to follow, I simply can't do it. And I can't do an activity while engaged in oral conversation. An example: it's difficult for me to walk and converse simultaneously. Written back-and-forth conversation is also exhausting. But reading, without needing to respond, does not exhaust me.
So, I get my neck shots tomorrow. They will ease the mental fatigue and the physical fatigue for a few weeks.
And, I'm on my last day of a two-week pet-sitting marathon. It wore me out. There's no way I could do it without Hubby.
When I officially reopened my pet-sitting business in May, 2017, after surgery on August 30, 2016, I downsized (again), and I decreased the hours I am available. I now have only ten-or-so clients. Only one needs service almost weekly. The others mainly need service when they go out of town. Six of the ten-or-so went out of town in the last two weeks. When it rains it pours. It poured mainly cats and sprinkled some dogs. Most of the dogs overnighted in our home. Things will now slow down to my normal few visits a week instead of a few visits a day.
I was talking with Hubby last night about my dis-ease symptoms. Mainly about the mental fatigue. Instead of suffering from what is commonly referred to as brain-fog, I seem to suffer from brain-mud. When the fatigue roosts, my brain becomes like thick mud.
Back-and-forth oral conversation becomes exhausting. If a person shares a story with lots of detail that I have to follow, I simply can't do it. And I can't do an activity while engaged in oral conversation. An example: it's difficult for me to walk and converse simultaneously. Written back-and-forth conversation is also exhausting. But reading, without needing to respond, does not exhaust me.
So, I get my neck shots tomorrow. They will ease the mental fatigue and the physical fatigue for a few weeks.