I initially posted this as part of a blog entry on 9/23/17.
~*~
People act out for reasons. People make decisions for reasons. Reasons that probably go back generations both culturally and genetically. I think the majority, if not all, of those reasons are not to be minimized or dismissed. The only way to understand another's reasons (at least mostly) is to listen and to put ourselves in the other person's shoes as best we can.
"Reasons" do not excuse a person's accountability for their actions. But they help understand the "why" behind behavior.
After leaving The Way and my absolutist-thinking, I developed a motto: "There are no non-persons. There are no non-events." Meaning, that each individual is significant and each story worthwhile.
But then....John Knapp happened. I experienced something completely foreign to me. It shook my foundation probably more than even leaving a belief system after decades of being a true-believer. I had hired Knapp, a then-licensed mental health therapist specializing in spiritual abuse and cult recovery, to help me untangle the cult-anti-cult web in my head and heart. For the first year or so in, he did help. But then things slowly took a strange twist, landing in the bizarre. (After thought: Actually they were twisting all along. But I either didn't see the tangles, or rationalized them.)
Are there really no non-persons? Is my motto just another ideal that is a fantasy? How can a person intentionally lie over and over, in such a believable, convincing tone, seemingly without conscience? Can a person really have no conscience? If so, are they truly a "person?" How does my motto apply to the psychopath?
The Knapp experience was like an earthquake. My faith in humanity and those ideals which I wish existed but don't and probably never will (unless there really is a "new heaven and new earth" or some other life-form beyond death or this earthly plane) lay in rubble on the ground. Trust in my own intuitive sense, which I was in process of regaining after living doctrine-over-person for decades, was filled with smoke from the rubble. Who or what could I trust? How can even trust myself?
This reaction wasn't new to me. I had experienced similar when learning the truth about The Way and its leaders, about the lies and deceptions and using of people. But, in The Way, I hadn't experienced up-close-personal manipulative encounters with top leaders. I was more at a distance within the concentric layers of a cult. After Knapp, I better understood ex-Way (and any) person's responses to the up-close-personal psychopathic encounter.
As far as I know, The Way never lied about me. I was lied about at Greasespot Cafe, the ex-Way online forum. But only a few times, at least that I know about. There may have been more lies or rumors that never reached my eyes or ears. And I think the lies I know about were mistaken lies, for the most part, based in fear and projection, and perhaps in my responses to the circumstances in which I found myself. Circumstances that fell in my lap. But it was my decision to either discard what was in my lap, or weigh them and act. I chose the latter.
But Knapp. Knapp. He lied intentionally with a motive to destroy my reputation and to try to cover his own misdeeds, of which I later learned were multiple. After Knapp's initial gas-lighting and abuse, I learned that I was not the only person to have experienced Knapp's wrath and manipulations. But, at that time, I was the only client. (Sixteen months later, another client came forward privately.) And I was the only client whom Knapp tried to publicly smear after I blew a whistle and began coming forward with my story. He was partially successful. But not with those who know his pattern. (Note: Three years and four months after I filed a formal complaint, Knapp's professional Social Work license was revoked.)
Yet even with the evidence that others had similar Knapp encounters, it was hard to believe my bizarre Knapp scenario was real. I just couldn't wrap my head around the fact that Knapp could lie like he did. I still can't. I shake my head when I think about it, probably in an effort to shake it out of my head. I question if his whole life is an intentional lie, concerned only about himself but guised in a concern for others.
I've moved forward since Knapp's smear campaign in September, 2011. Yet it still lurks and can trigger some PTSD-type responses when I encounter certain situations.
And in spite of it all, I'm mostly back to giving people the benefit of the doubt. All be it, not dismissing any red flags. And at the same time not outright believing my red flags are "absolutely" legitimate. How much filter goes into my red flags? How do they weigh with the facts?
~*~
September 29, 2017
September 23, 2017
Left --> Center-left
9/17/17 journal entry thoughts expanded
Thinking about blogging. Thinking about vulnerability. I used to be more open than I am now. I'm not sure if I like being more closed. I feel I am less authentic when closed.
I do not like election years. I usually hate them. And the 2016 election year has continued. It may never stop.
I seldom use the the word "hate," but I may in this piece.
Emptying out all the rhetoric of pundit chatter in my brain, as best as I could, I've lately asked myself, How would you describe yourself politically?
Hmmm... I wish borders and money didn't exist. I wish guns didn't exit. That puts me left of center, that's for sure. I hate the war machine. I hate we have one-time-use plastics...
I wish greed didn't exist. It seems to all boil down to greed.
Even though I wish there were no borders, that does not mean I want a melding of cultures into a mono-culture, but rather coexisting cultures which makes me think of Star Trek. But even in Star Trek, there are wars.
To think that we humans "own" the land is such a strange concept to me. Yet, Hubby and I are land and property "owners." Tiny - a middle class home on 1-1/3 acres. But we don't really "own" it, even in the sense of property ownership; the mortgage company does.
Money. It's not so much money that I don't like as it is corporate capitalism. The rich get richer at the expense of those under them. It's wrong, wrong, wrong. I'd prefer no money and that humans work together for the good of the one and the many. Yet, I use money or some form of it almost every day.
Guns. I don't like them. Yet, we own one that we've never used except for some target practice decades ago. It's a .22-caliber pistol, a six-shooter, made by some German company. A .22-pistol could do damage, but it might be hard to kill a body unless the shooter knows anatomically where to penetrate and has a really good aim.
Greed. If we could eliminate greed, that would take care of so many problems. Isn't there some Bible verse, in Galatians maybe? Something about 'where there is love there is no need for law?' I might look that up later.
One-time-use plastics. Of the short wish-hate list above, that's the only one that maybe we can do something about. Maybe we can get it under some control and get some of it cleaned up. Yet, I use one-time-use plastics. I recycle all I can. But recycling isn't the answer. We really need a virus or bacteria that can eat plastic.
I understand that my short-list ideology can never exist (except maybe the reduction of those plastics). And it is a short list. There are other ideals I didn't list. I could write multiple essays (if they could even be called "essays") about my quasi-opinions on various issues.
"Opinions." Oh god - opinions can cause me stress. Probably one reason I hate election years. And my opinions are seldom "absolutes." They can be strong and weigh in the 95% percentile range. My strong or "absolute" opinions typically stem from my personal presence in a situation - a witness at the scene to what I saw, felt, heard in a given situation.
As I was thinking through my various opinions on issues and my "ideal wishes" regarding those issues, I think I'm pretty far left from an ideologically standpoint. But I know my ideals are not practical nor attainable. So, I move right - more to the center, politically. But still, I'm left of center.
Starting probably around 2007 I've taken various political tests to see where I land. I don't like most of the tests I've come across because their multiple choice answers are too black/white. But I found one test I like, and I've gone back to it time and again over the years. Each time I score the same - Libertarian Left, close to where the test places Ghandi. Wasn't he pretty far left? (I just took the test again today, 9/17/17. Same range.) "Libertarian left" sounds like an oxymoron, but I think I understand it. I don't feel like explaining it now. A reader can learn more at the website, Political Compass.
~*~
People act out for reasons. People make decisions for reasons. Reasons that probably go back generations both culturally and genetically. I think the majority, if not all, of those reasons are not to be minimized or dismissed. The only way to understand another's reasons (at least mostly) is to listen and to put ourselves in the other person's shoes as best we can.
"Reasons" do not excuse a person's accountability for their actions. But they help understand the "why" behind behavior.
After leaving The Way and my absolutist-thinking, I developed a motto: "There are no non-persons. There are no non-events." Meaning, that each individual is significant and each story worthwhile.
But then....John Knapp happened. I experienced something completely foreign to me. It shook my foundation probably more than even leaving a belief system after decades of being a true-believer. I had hired Knapp, a then-licensed mental health therapist specializing in spiritual abuse and cult recovery, to help me untangle the cult-anti-cult web in my head and heart. For the first year or so, he did help. But then things slowly took a strange twist, landing in the bizarre. (After thought: Actually they were twisting all along. But I either didn't see the tangles, or rationalized them.)
Are there really no non-persons? Is my motto just another ideal that is a fantasy? How can a person intentionally lie over and over, in such a believable, convincing tone, seemingly without conscience? Can a person really have no conscience? If so, are they truly a "person?" How does my motto apply to the psychopath?
The Knapp experience was like an earthquake. My faith in humanity and those ideals which I wish existed but don't and probably never will (unless there really is a "new heaven and new earth" or some other life-form beyond death or this earthly plane) lay in rubble on the ground. Trust in my own intuitive sense, which I was in process of regaining after living doctrine-over-person for decades, was filled with smoke from the rubble. Who or what could I trust? How can even trust myself?
This reaction wasn't new to me. I had experienced similar when learning the truth about The Way and its leaders, about the lies and deceptions and using of people. But, in The Way, I hadn't experienced up-close-personal manipulative encounters with top leaders. I was more at a distance within the concentric layers of a cult. After Knapp, I better understood ex-Way and any person's responses to the up-close-personal psychopathic encounter.
As far as I know, The Way never lied about me. I was lied about at Greasespot Cafe, the ex-Way online forum. But only a few times, at least that I know about. There may have been more lies or rumors that never reached my eyes or ears. And I think for the most part, the lies I know about were mistaken lies, based in fear and projection, and perhaps in my responses to the circumstances in which I found myself. Circumstances that fell in my lap. But it was my decision to either discard what was in my lap, or weigh them and act. I chose the latter.
But Knapp. Knapp. He lied intentionally with a motive to destroy my reputation and to try to cover his own misdeeds, of which I later learned were multiple. After Knapp's initial gas-lighting and abuse, I learned that I was not the only person to have experienced Knapp's wrath and manipulations. But, at that time, I was the only client. (Sixteen months later, another client came forth privately.) And I was the only client whom Knapp tried to publicly smear. He was partially successful. But not with those who know of his pattern.
Yet even with the evidence that others had similar Knapp encounters, it was hard to believe my bizarre Knapp-scenario was real. I just couldn't wrap my head around the fact that Knapp could lie like he did. I still can't. I shake my head when I think about it, probably in an effort to shake it out of my head. I question if his whole life is an intentional lie, concerned only about himself but guised in a concern for others.
I've moved forward since Knapp's smear campaign in September, 2011. Yet it still lurks and can trigger some PTSD-type responses when I encounter certain situations.
And in spite of it all, I'm mostly back to giving people the benefit of the doubt. All be it, not dismissing any red flags. And at the same time not outright believing my red flags are "absolutely" legitimate. How much filter goes into my red flags? How do they weigh with the facts?
~*~
If I blog these thoughts, will I feel unintelligent afterward, self-conscious, and concerned how others view me?
I've been reading more of The Righteous Mind by Jonathan Haidt. Interesting that according to many (most?) sociologists, one of the highest driving forces behind our decisions (if not the highest) is how we are perceived by others. People may find that offensive and say, "Not me." I felt a little of that. But I know all too well that I do care how I am perceived. Is it a driving force? Probably, but I may be too blind to see just how much of a force it is. There are multiple nuances behind and within the reasons we do what we do...
Thinking about blogging. Thinking about vulnerability. I used to be more open than I am now. I'm not sure if I like being more closed. I feel I am less authentic when closed.
I do not like election years. I usually hate them. And the 2016 election year has continued. It may never stop.
I seldom use the the word "hate," but I may in this piece.
Emptying out all the rhetoric of pundit chatter in my brain, as best as I could, I've lately asked myself, How would you describe yourself politically?
Hmmm... I wish borders and money didn't exist. I wish guns didn't exit. That puts me left of center, that's for sure. I hate the war machine. I hate we have one-time-use plastics...
I wish greed didn't exist. It seems to all boil down to greed.
Even though I wish there were no borders, that does not mean I want a melding of cultures into a mono-culture, but rather coexisting cultures which makes me think of Star Trek. But even in Star Trek, there are wars.
To think that we humans "own" the land is such a strange concept to me. Yet, Hubby and I are land and property "owners." Tiny - a middle class home on 1-1/3 acres. But we don't really "own" it, even in the sense of property ownership; the mortgage company does.
Money. It's not so much money that I don't like as it is corporate capitalism. The rich get richer at the expense of those under them. It's wrong, wrong, wrong. I'd prefer no money and that humans work together for the good of the one and the many. Yet, I use money or some form of it almost every day.
Guns. I don't like them. Yet, we own one that we've never used except for some target practice decades ago. It's a .22-caliber pistol, a six-shooter, made by some German company. A .22-pistol could do damage, but it might be hard to kill a body unless the shooter knows anatomically where to penetrate and has a really good aim.
Greed. If we could eliminate greed, that would take care of so many problems. Isn't there some Bible verse, in Galatians maybe? Something about 'where there is love there is no need for law?' I might look that up later.
One-time-use plastics. Of the short wish-hate list above, that's the only one that maybe we can do something about. Maybe we can get it under some control and get some of it cleaned up. Yet, I use one-time-use plastics. I recycle all I can. But recycling isn't the answer. We really need a virus or bacteria that can eat plastic.
I understand that my short-list ideology can never exist (except maybe the reduction of those plastics). And it is a short list. There are other ideals I didn't list. I could write multiple essays (if they could even be called "essays") about my quasi-opinions on various issues.
"Opinions." Oh god - opinions can cause me stress. Probably one reason I hate election years. And my opinions are seldom "absolutes." They can be strong and weigh in the 95% percentile range. My strong or "absolute" opinions typically stem from my personal presence in a situation - a witness at the scene to what I saw, felt, heard in a given situation.
As I was thinking through my various opinions on issues and my "ideal wishes" regarding those issues, I think I'm pretty far left from an ideologically standpoint. But I know my ideals are not practical nor attainable. So, I move right - more to the center, politically. But still, I'm left of center.
Starting probably around 2007 I've taken various political tests to see where I land. I don't like most of the tests I've come across because their multiple choice answers are too black/white. But I found one test I like, and I've gone back to it time and again over the years. Each time I score the same - Libertarian Left, close to where the test places Ghandi. Wasn't he pretty far left? (I just took the test again today, 9/17/17. Same range.) "Libertarian left" sounds like an oxymoron, but I think I understand it. I don't feel like explaining it now. A reader can learn more at the website, Political Compass.
~*~
People act out for reasons. People make decisions for reasons. Reasons that probably go back generations both culturally and genetically. I think the majority, if not all, of those reasons are not to be minimized or dismissed. The only way to understand another's reasons (at least mostly) is to listen and to put ourselves in the other person's shoes as best we can.
"Reasons" do not excuse a person's accountability for their actions. But they help understand the "why" behind behavior.
After leaving The Way and my absolutist-thinking, I developed a motto: "There are no non-persons. There are no non-events." Meaning, that each individual is significant and each story worthwhile.
But then....John Knapp happened. I experienced something completely foreign to me. It shook my foundation probably more than even leaving a belief system after decades of being a true-believer. I had hired Knapp, a then-licensed mental health therapist specializing in spiritual abuse and cult recovery, to help me untangle the cult-anti-cult web in my head and heart. For the first year or so, he did help. But then things slowly took a strange twist, landing in the bizarre. (After thought: Actually they were twisting all along. But I either didn't see the tangles, or rationalized them.)
Are there really no non-persons? Is my motto just another ideal that is a fantasy? How can a person intentionally lie over and over, in such a believable, convincing tone, seemingly without conscience? Can a person really have no conscience? If so, are they truly a "person?" How does my motto apply to the psychopath?
The Knapp experience was like an earthquake. My faith in humanity and those ideals which I wish existed but don't and probably never will (unless there really is a "new heaven and new earth" or some other life-form beyond death or this earthly plane) lay in rubble on the ground. Trust in my own intuitive sense, which I was in process of regaining after living doctrine-over-person for decades, was filled with smoke from the rubble. Who or what could I trust? How can even trust myself?
This reaction wasn't new to me. I had experienced similar when learning the truth about The Way and its leaders, about the lies and deceptions and using of people. But, in The Way, I hadn't experienced up-close-personal manipulative encounters with top leaders. I was more at a distance within the concentric layers of a cult. After Knapp, I better understood ex-Way and any person's responses to the up-close-personal psychopathic encounter.
As far as I know, The Way never lied about me. I was lied about at Greasespot Cafe, the ex-Way online forum. But only a few times, at least that I know about. There may have been more lies or rumors that never reached my eyes or ears. And I think for the most part, the lies I know about were mistaken lies, based in fear and projection, and perhaps in my responses to the circumstances in which I found myself. Circumstances that fell in my lap. But it was my decision to either discard what was in my lap, or weigh them and act. I chose the latter.
But Knapp. Knapp. He lied intentionally with a motive to destroy my reputation and to try to cover his own misdeeds, of which I later learned were multiple. After Knapp's initial gas-lighting and abuse, I learned that I was not the only person to have experienced Knapp's wrath and manipulations. But, at that time, I was the only client. (Sixteen months later, another client came forth privately.) And I was the only client whom Knapp tried to publicly smear. He was partially successful. But not with those who know of his pattern.
Yet even with the evidence that others had similar Knapp encounters, it was hard to believe my bizarre Knapp-scenario was real. I just couldn't wrap my head around the fact that Knapp could lie like he did. I still can't. I shake my head when I think about it, probably in an effort to shake it out of my head. I question if his whole life is an intentional lie, concerned only about himself but guised in a concern for others.
I've moved forward since Knapp's smear campaign in September, 2011. Yet it still lurks and can trigger some PTSD-type responses when I encounter certain situations.
And in spite of it all, I'm mostly back to giving people the benefit of the doubt. All be it, not dismissing any red flags. And at the same time not outright believing my red flags are "absolutely" legitimate. How much filter goes into my red flags? How do they weigh with the facts?
~*~
If I blog these thoughts, will I feel unintelligent afterward, self-conscious, and concerned how others view me?
I've been reading more of The Righteous Mind by Jonathan Haidt. Interesting that according to many (most?) sociologists, one of the highest driving forces behind our decisions (if not the highest) is how we are perceived by others. People may find that offensive and say, "Not me." I felt a little of that. But I know all too well that I do care how I am perceived. Is it a driving force? Probably, but I may be too blind to see just how much of a force it is. There are multiple nuances behind and within the reasons we do what we do...
September 15, 2017
Slowly
Sometime in the past year or so I accidentally deleted a bunch of photos from my blogs. I've slowly been adding them back.
"Slowly." My normal speed.
(Bing-bong-bing go my synapses....)
Why am I so timid these days?
Part of the reason is my disability; it has drained so much of my confidence. And I wasn't a mountain of confidence before the disability.
But why does it drain confidence?
Well, one example is my house. It is a'clutter due to my inability to take on an unclutter-project but feeling so badly that I want to - so I try, and I make a tiny blemish of progress-which-isn't-really-progress for a couple hours, and then I don't pick up that project again for months-on-end (or never again) because it isn't the most helpful place to put my energy. Life becomes "what's the point in even trying to start a project?"
It's self-defeating. Defeat doesn't catalyze confidence.
I'm currently in a place of limbo. I'm not again trying to "save" my limbs like from 2013 through 2015; they do function better than before. Because I'm not in that type of survival mode, I think that I "should" be able to do more, to get something done around the house. (The house is just one category. But it's a good example.)
But the reality is, I ain't that far along, yet. Three main reasons: fatigue and weakness and slowness, all due to nerve damage and impeded signals.
Ahh..."slowness." That's how I got on this subject. I started out with adding photos back to my blog and was going to write about my impressions as I've reread pieces previously written. But then I veered into my health. The veer stemmed from the word "slowly," though I didn't expound the speedy, automatic synaptic jumps from "slowly" to "timid."
Anyway, I get quite discouraged and have to remind myself of what I do accomplish in a day instead of what I don't or what haven't accomplished in the last six months or the last year or the last five years.
Today, along with self-care (eat, drink, meds, supplements, brush teeth and hair, dress, load dishwasher) and caring for a dog (outside breaks, meds, feedings) who is staying in our home, I hope to ride my bike, to work a couple hours at the art studio, and to bathe. I'll probably have to lay down too. I guess bathe is a part of self-care. But I don't do it daily so it's kind of in a different category. It takes a lot of effort, so I have to be able to access energy in my bank to accomplish the task.
Of course, I'll listen to music throughout the day.
It's a hard thing, learning the balance between accepting these limitations and striving to overcome them. Between gratitude for what I still can do and grieving the loss, which includes feeling anger and envy, for what I no longer can do.
***
I got a text from Son this morning. He and his two friends, who are backpacking the Kungsleden Trail in Sweden, made it to Ammarnas today. He had temporary wifi and sent a "Happy Anniversary" text to Hubby and I. (We hit 33 years today.) But no photos today. Son and friends will begin the southern section of the trail next - 49 miles from Ammarnas to Hemavan. I'm waving my good-weather wand.
Below are two photos Son sent with his 9-05-17 texts. These are from either side of a pass near Parte
"Slowly." My normal speed.
(Bing-bong-bing go my synapses....)
Why am I so timid these days?
Part of the reason is my disability; it has drained so much of my confidence. And I wasn't a mountain of confidence before the disability.
But why does it drain confidence?
Well, one example is my house. It is a'clutter due to my inability to take on an unclutter-project but feeling so badly that I want to - so I try, and I make a tiny blemish of progress-which-isn't-really-progress for a couple hours, and then I don't pick up that project again for months-on-end (or never again) because it isn't the most helpful place to put my energy. Life becomes "what's the point in even trying to start a project?"
It's self-defeating. Defeat doesn't catalyze confidence.
I'm currently in a place of limbo. I'm not again trying to "save" my limbs like from 2013 through 2015; they do function better than before. Because I'm not in that type of survival mode, I think that I "should" be able to do more, to get something done around the house. (The house is just one category. But it's a good example.)
But the reality is, I ain't that far along, yet. Three main reasons: fatigue and weakness and slowness, all due to nerve damage and impeded signals.
Ahh..."slowness." That's how I got on this subject. I started out with adding photos back to my blog and was going to write about my impressions as I've reread pieces previously written. But then I veered into my health. The veer stemmed from the word "slowly," though I didn't expound the speedy, automatic synaptic jumps from "slowly" to "timid."
Anyway, I get quite discouraged and have to remind myself of what I do accomplish in a day instead of what I don't or what haven't accomplished in the last six months or the last year or the last five years.
Today, along with self-care (eat, drink, meds, supplements, brush teeth and hair, dress, load dishwasher) and caring for a dog (outside breaks, meds, feedings) who is staying in our home, I hope to ride my bike, to work a couple hours at the art studio, and to bathe. I'll probably have to lay down too. I guess bathe is a part of self-care. But I don't do it daily so it's kind of in a different category. It takes a lot of effort, so I have to be able to access energy in my bank to accomplish the task.
Of course, I'll listen to music throughout the day.
It's a hard thing, learning the balance between accepting these limitations and striving to overcome them. Between gratitude for what I still can do and grieving the loss, which includes feeling anger and envy, for what I no longer can do.
***
I got a text from Son this morning. He and his two friends, who are backpacking the Kungsleden Trail in Sweden, made it to Ammarnas today. He had temporary wifi and sent a "Happy Anniversary" text to Hubby and I. (We hit 33 years today.) But no photos today. Son and friends will begin the southern section of the trail next - 49 miles from Ammarnas to Hemavan. I'm waving my good-weather wand.
Below are two photos Son sent with his 9-05-17 texts. These are from either side of a pass near Parte
 |
| This side |
 |
| That side, the next morning. I wonder what that shiny spot is? And who is the hiker? |
September 6, 2017
Divine encounters
9.03.2017
We pull into the overlook, Richland Balsam, the highest point on the Blue Ridge Parkway at 6053 feet. At this elevation deep, dark green Fraser and Balsam Firs dot the immediate mountainsides. The feel is wilder up here than at lower elevations.
The day is clear and crisp, around 65 degrees Fahrenheit with low humidity
I'll guess there are about 50 people milling about, eyes fixed over the ocean of mountains, miles and miles. I don't how many miles, but it's a far piece. Large. Expansive.
Two people stand out - an elderly couple, both using rolling walkers. Delights my soul it does; they don't let their limited function keep them from adventuring into this beauty. The man stands on the north side in front of the plaque that explains the Balsam woolly adelgid, an enemy insect of the Fir trees. His wife rolls north on the sidewalk toward her husband. Hubby and I stand maybe two feet away from her husband. We move back slightly to the edge of the sidewalk to give her ample room.
"That's okay. I have plenty of space, " she states pleasantly. We acknowledge her with a cordial response.
"I walked all the way down there thinking that was a plaque maybe with a map on it. But it was a trash bin." She is speaking to her husband with a chuckle and hint of disappointment.
I wonder, Do they need some directional help for their drive along the Parkway?
"Are y'all headed north or south?" I ask.
"To Sylva," responds the wife. (I know that's south.)
After a couple seconds she adds, with a look of gratitude and deep connection as she points over the couple-feet high stone wall, "Believe it or not...we hiked up this mountain decades ago."
"Wow," I respond. "Was there a trail or did you blaze one?"
"Indian trails," she answers.
And then their incredible story begins. Hubby and I spend a good thirty minutes listening and asking questions.
In 1959, they camped in a tent for four months right there at Richland Balsam. It was the same time that the Blue Ridge Parkway was being constructed in that area. But they weren't there to help with the construction. The husband was there to collect samples of the trees and foliage and soil for his graduate project in Forestry at Duke University. He had a crew of around 12 people.
The atomic plant at Oak Ridge, TN, needed samples to serve as norms in order to measure the effects of atomic waste on soil and vegetation. Just so happened that Richland Balsam matched the environment in the Oak Ridge atomic waste area. Once a week the husband/wife team would make a trip from their campsite to Cullowhee, NC, and mail the collected samples to Oak Ridge.
As the Parkway was being constructed, trees had to be cut down. The forestry-sample-collectors had to stay ahead of the tree-cutters. Cut trees would not provide accurate samples. The two groups weren't at odds, but rather helped each other. They were also neighbors; the Parkway construction crew's campsite was just below the campsite of the student-scientists.
The Mrs. shares that at that time, in 1959, the mountainside was filled with Firs, and the aroma was heavenly. The forest floor was soft with fallen evergreen needles.
The couple shares their stories. The two adjoining Baker tents that was their home for four months. Making the trek to Franklin (I think it was) to buy "1000 board-feet" woolly-chestnut planks for $2.50 in order to build a platform after experiencing a flooded tent. Dignitaries that visited and for whom the Mrs. cooked and served meals, out there in the woods. The Cherokee "watchman" who hiked seven miles in and out on weekends to watch over the Blue Ridge Parkway construction campsite while the construction crew were away from camp. The Indian trails the couple had walked with the watchman who was tall and took long strides and never tired. The story of the golden arrow shot from Judaculla's bow that landed on the mountainside creating the Judaculla Bald. Blasting of rock and misfired dynamite that caused boulders to fly right over their heads and, thankfully, land without injuring anyone. The pack horse used to bring supplies up the mountain. And more.
Their eyes light up when they learn Hubby grew up in Bryson City and his mom in Sylva. A connection that can only be known by experience.
And another connection flows into the conversation. After Mr. graduated from Duke, he was stationed in Alaska. Mrs. went with him, of course. They know Dillingham, where our son worked this past summer. "Dillingham's remote. There was a fire there that we had to attend to."
Here Hubby and I are in conversation with these two folks, aided by rolling walkers, who were in this place 58 years ago when this was wild forest. Dozens of people mill about hither and yon with no idea that this couple witnessed this majestic land when it had not yet been tainted and altered by human construction. For four freaking months! And that, with canvas tents.
They had made the trek this August-September, 2017, from Delaware which is where they now reside. I think they visit annually to go to a homecoming down in Caney Fork with a gathering of folks whom they came to love and cherish from that summer of 1959. Their love for the land and the people, and the impact it had upon their lives is obvious.
Rich. Real. Humbling. I feel honored to have met them. It's one of those encounters I hope to never forget.
We say our good-byes. As Hubby and I stroll back to our car, Mrs. roller-walks to the driver side of their car. "I'll be glad to drive," she states to Mr. as he roller-walks to the passenger side.
I'm glad I asked which direction they were headed. But they certainly needed no directional help.
***
In the week prior to the above encounter, it'd been tough disability-wise and emotionally. The week ended with Hubby and I taking a 3-day, 2-night trip to visit his mom and brother in Bryson City. That trip was rough too, same reasons. For our drive home on Sunday, we decided to take the Parkway part way. The encounter with forester and wife helped pull me up and out of my funk, at least temporarily.
I'm continually awed by these serpendipitous meet-ups with strangers. But strangers only in that we hadn't met previously, and probably never will again except in thought and heart. Well, unless there is life beyond this current earthly realm...
We pull into the overlook, Richland Balsam, the highest point on the Blue Ridge Parkway at 6053 feet. At this elevation deep, dark green Fraser and Balsam Firs dot the immediate mountainsides. The feel is wilder up here than at lower elevations.
The day is clear and crisp, around 65 degrees Fahrenheit with low humidity
I'll guess there are about 50 people milling about, eyes fixed over the ocean of mountains, miles and miles. I don't how many miles, but it's a far piece. Large. Expansive.
Two people stand out - an elderly couple, both using rolling walkers. Delights my soul it does; they don't let their limited function keep them from adventuring into this beauty. The man stands on the north side in front of the plaque that explains the Balsam woolly adelgid, an enemy insect of the Fir trees. His wife rolls north on the sidewalk toward her husband. Hubby and I stand maybe two feet away from her husband. We move back slightly to the edge of the sidewalk to give her ample room.
"That's okay. I have plenty of space, " she states pleasantly. We acknowledge her with a cordial response.
"I walked all the way down there thinking that was a plaque maybe with a map on it. But it was a trash bin." She is speaking to her husband with a chuckle and hint of disappointment.
I wonder, Do they need some directional help for their drive along the Parkway?
"Are y'all headed north or south?" I ask.
"To Sylva," responds the wife. (I know that's south.)
After a couple seconds she adds, with a look of gratitude and deep connection as she points over the couple-feet high stone wall, "Believe it or not...we hiked up this mountain decades ago."
"Wow," I respond. "Was there a trail or did you blaze one?"
"Indian trails," she answers.
And then their incredible story begins. Hubby and I spend a good thirty minutes listening and asking questions.
In 1959, they camped in a tent for four months right there at Richland Balsam. It was the same time that the Blue Ridge Parkway was being constructed in that area. But they weren't there to help with the construction. The husband was there to collect samples of the trees and foliage and soil for his graduate project in Forestry at Duke University. He had a crew of around 12 people.
The atomic plant at Oak Ridge, TN, needed samples to serve as norms in order to measure the effects of atomic waste on soil and vegetation. Just so happened that Richland Balsam matched the environment in the Oak Ridge atomic waste area. Once a week the husband/wife team would make a trip from their campsite to Cullowhee, NC, and mail the collected samples to Oak Ridge.
As the Parkway was being constructed, trees had to be cut down. The forestry-sample-collectors had to stay ahead of the tree-cutters. Cut trees would not provide accurate samples. The two groups weren't at odds, but rather helped each other. They were also neighbors; the Parkway construction crew's campsite was just below the campsite of the student-scientists.
The Mrs. shares that at that time, in 1959, the mountainside was filled with Firs, and the aroma was heavenly. The forest floor was soft with fallen evergreen needles.
The couple shares their stories. The two adjoining Baker tents that was their home for four months. Making the trek to Franklin (I think it was) to buy "1000 board-feet" woolly-chestnut planks for $2.50 in order to build a platform after experiencing a flooded tent. Dignitaries that visited and for whom the Mrs. cooked and served meals, out there in the woods. The Cherokee "watchman" who hiked seven miles in and out on weekends to watch over the Blue Ridge Parkway construction campsite while the construction crew were away from camp. The Indian trails the couple had walked with the watchman who was tall and took long strides and never tired. The story of the golden arrow shot from Judaculla's bow that landed on the mountainside creating the Judaculla Bald. Blasting of rock and misfired dynamite that caused boulders to fly right over their heads and, thankfully, land without injuring anyone. The pack horse used to bring supplies up the mountain. And more.
Their eyes light up when they learn Hubby grew up in Bryson City and his mom in Sylva. A connection that can only be known by experience.
And another connection flows into the conversation. After Mr. graduated from Duke, he was stationed in Alaska. Mrs. went with him, of course. They know Dillingham, where our son worked this past summer. "Dillingham's remote. There was a fire there that we had to attend to."
Here Hubby and I are in conversation with these two folks, aided by rolling walkers, who were in this place 58 years ago when this was wild forest. Dozens of people mill about hither and yon with no idea that this couple witnessed this majestic land when it had not yet been tainted and altered by human construction. For four freaking months! And that, with canvas tents.
They had made the trek this August-September, 2017, from Delaware which is where they now reside. I think they visit annually to go to a homecoming down in Caney Fork with a gathering of folks whom they came to love and cherish from that summer of 1959. Their love for the land and the people, and the impact it had upon their lives is obvious.
Rich. Real. Humbling. I feel honored to have met them. It's one of those encounters I hope to never forget.
We say our good-byes. As Hubby and I stroll back to our car, Mrs. roller-walks to the driver side of their car. "I'll be glad to drive," she states to Mr. as he roller-walks to the passenger side.
I'm glad I asked which direction they were headed. But they certainly needed no directional help.
***
In the week prior to the above encounter, it'd been tough disability-wise and emotionally. The week ended with Hubby and I taking a 3-day, 2-night trip to visit his mom and brother in Bryson City. That trip was rough too, same reasons. For our drive home on Sunday, we decided to take the Parkway part way. The encounter with forester and wife helped pull me up and out of my funk, at least temporarily.
I'm continually awed by these serpendipitous meet-ups with strangers. But strangers only in that we hadn't met previously, and probably never will again except in thought and heart. Well, unless there is life beyond this current earthly realm...
September 1, 2017
Far-middle
Awoke with a headache, now four hours on.
But still thinking about a blog post to hash out thoughts regarding the ongoing dialogue in my head - white privilege, Antifa, Black Lives Matter, alt-right, alt-left, white supremacy...fence-sitting, milquetoast.
A few weeks ago - during the week after Charlottesville - I thought that maybe I'm milktoast, which I later learned is spelled "milquetoast." Why the hell is that? "Milktoast" brought to my mind a picture of toast dipped too long in milk. Soggy. Limp. Falls apart. Plop. So why not just spell it "milktoast?" (I just looked it up. Here's a link to the etymology of milquetoast. The word comes from a cartoon character from the 1920s, Caspar Milquetoast.)
My thoughts went something like this...
A week later, on 8/22/17, this piece was published by David Brooks in the New York Times, What Moderates Believe. He used the word "milquetoast," and that's when I learned its proper spelling.
Brooks had published a piece the week before which, to me, was a precursor to the 8/22/17 article. How to Roll Back Fanaticism
Both articles were validating for me. In both articles, Brooks shares the benefit and power of moderation. He terms it "assertive modesty."
I like David Brooks. I was introduced to him in the last couple years via watching the PBS Newshour where he is a political commentator. That led me to read his opinion pieces in the Times. I've read some of his critics - right wing says that he is left even though he is listed as conservative, and the left say that he is more right than left. I've read a little about his past and where he comes from. I've never read any of his books.
This morning I read this article in The Atlantic, How to Distinguish Between Antifa, White Supremacists, and Black Lives Matter, written by Conor Friedersdorf. It too is validating. I'm not familiar with Friedersdorf. But I like reading The Atlantic.
Both Brooks and Friedersorf put into words some of my thoughts better than I. Thoughts I've had about these different movements and where am I in all of this.
That's all I feel like writing now.
But still thinking about a blog post to hash out thoughts regarding the ongoing dialogue in my head - white privilege, Antifa, Black Lives Matter, alt-right, alt-left, white supremacy...fence-sitting, milquetoast.
A few weeks ago - during the week after Charlottesville - I thought that maybe I'm milktoast, which I later learned is spelled "milquetoast." Why the hell is that? "Milktoast" brought to my mind a picture of toast dipped too long in milk. Soggy. Limp. Falls apart. Plop. So why not just spell it "milktoast?" (I just looked it up. Here's a link to the etymology of milquetoast. The word comes from a cartoon character from the 1920s, Caspar Milquetoast.)
My thoughts went something like this...
Carol you're such a fence-sitter. Get some backbone. You're milktoast.
Stop that. You are not always a fence-sitter. And you do have some backbone. It took guts to report John Knapp and speak up. That's not milktoast.
But with politics, it's so complicated. I feel so stupid. How can I intelligently discuss this stuff?
What's true and not true?
I feel I have to take sides.
Remember Janja Lalich's book? She writes about fence-sitters. Maybe she doesn't use that word, but she writes something about fence-sitting maybe not being such a bad thing...at least in certain contexts.
Maybe we need more fence-sitters. But then how would anything ever get accomplished?
I do take a side against violence.
I'm not a fence-sitter on that, or Nazism, or extremism. I don't support those things.
But at what point would I resort to violence? Or would I just surrender?
In the end, if one side lays down their arms and ends up dead...in the end meaning years and maybe decades away, would the victorious side self-destruct? And then would the underdog of peace rise to the top?
What a naive and childish thought. History repeats itself over and over.
John Lennon sang "you may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one."
Maybe we need a middle movement. We have far-right and far-left. Maybe we need a far-middle.
A week later, on 8/22/17, this piece was published by David Brooks in the New York Times, What Moderates Believe. He used the word "milquetoast," and that's when I learned its proper spelling.
Brooks had published a piece the week before which, to me, was a precursor to the 8/22/17 article. How to Roll Back Fanaticism
Both articles were validating for me. In both articles, Brooks shares the benefit and power of moderation. He terms it "assertive modesty."
I like David Brooks. I was introduced to him in the last couple years via watching the PBS Newshour where he is a political commentator. That led me to read his opinion pieces in the Times. I've read some of his critics - right wing says that he is left even though he is listed as conservative, and the left say that he is more right than left. I've read a little about his past and where he comes from. I've never read any of his books.
This morning I read this article in The Atlantic, How to Distinguish Between Antifa, White Supremacists, and Black Lives Matter, written by Conor Friedersdorf. It too is validating. I'm not familiar with Friedersdorf. But I like reading The Atlantic.
Both Brooks and Friedersorf put into words some of my thoughts better than I. Thoughts I've had about these different movements and where am I in all of this.
That's all I feel like writing now.