I recently said to a good friend, "I'm not a patriot." It just fell out of my mouth.
I thought about my statement afterward and looked up the meaning of the word patriot: "a person who vigorously supports their country and is prepared to defend it against enemies or detractors."
I thought, Well, I'm not that person.
But I might be, depending on what a country stands for. I cannot vigorously support much of what Trump propounds from his bully keyboard. But does what he propound really line up with the principles on which our country was founded? But, I even question the founding of our country.
I mentioned the book A People's History of the United States to my friend. I said something about the Revolutionary War being fought by the middle class (and lower classes, though I don't recall if I said that to my friend), that I question the founding of our country, and that I "question everything." My friend responded something like, 'So you think we should still be under British rule?' That was a good question. I chuckled and answered, "Well, no." But on later thought, I pondered, Where would we be now if we hadn't fought?
I've only read a small portion of A People's History.... I can't recall the exact details of what I read regarding the Revolutionary War, but I do recall part of the sense I was left with. That is, in my words, that the war was fought more for power and wealth than for freedom. From a simple reasoning of the war, that rings true. We fought for independence from British rule and their taxation; ie: power and wealth. One could say a fight for power and wealth is a fight for freedom. And that may be true, at least for the powerful and wealthy. But what of the poor or the slave or the women or the indigenous peoples of a land? But there's a lot of context and background to all of that. Usually cultures and beliefs change slowly, not overnight. Like life, decisions and circumstances don't fit neatly in a box. I didn't voice all that to my friend at the time; my brain wasn't working well enough, and we were talking off the cuff.
Corey Booker recently stated that patriotism is a love of country. I thought, I do love my country, but it's the people and the land. It involves respect and dignity and rights. But what if I lived in the Middle East, torn by war for decades and centuries? Would I still love my country?
My husband and I chose to homeschool our children (though I prefer the term eclectic-schooling). When the children and I were studying social studies and reading about communist China, I wondered what we would be like if we were born in China of Chinese ancestry. Would we love our country? I think we would. I lean toward the opinion that us humans probably carry an innate, genetic, cellular memory that gives us an affinity toward our roots.
Through elementary school and into middle school, the children and I would read our Bibles aloud almost every day at the breakfast table. We pledged allegiance to the United States flag. The children learned patriotic songs and history. They were in a big musical production about our country which was presented to the community in the Old Rock School auditorium in Valdese, NC. They participated in smaller plays and Bible school at churches that tied into the Judeo-Christian values of our country. (Yes, my husband and I allowed that participation even while we were loyal to The Way, which held and still holds major doctrinal differences from mainstream Christianity.)
But even then I didn't identify myself as "a patriot," though I was emotionally moved by certain songs and the pledge. I did identify myself as a believer.
***
Added note: The friend with whom I had the above conversation is a Trump supporter. I fall in the category of a "never Trumper," a label certain Republicans adopted, though I'm not a Republican. I lean pretty far left in ideally. John Lennon's song Imagine comes to mind - all the world as one. But, practically, I'm more of a Centrist or left-leaning moderate. Sometime after the 2016 election, my friend and I made the conscious choice to not discuss politics. The conversation in which I made my statement was a slight veer from our pre-agreement. Despite our political differences, my friend and I are still good friends. And for that, I am thankful.
November 1, 2019
October 26, 2019
Flipside
10/23/19
I used to be a people-person. I enjoyed socializing, get-togethers, and hosting folks in my home. That is one thing that has drastically changed since developing nerve damage. It was a gradual change, not abrupt. As the fatigue lingered, I grew weary. It became more and more difficult to converse, whether it be by voice or script. So much energy went into, and continues to go into, simple tasks of daily function. I've come to the opinion that others cannot really understand it, unless they've lived it. I have gathered part of that opinion by what people say to me about me, or say to me about others.
And I understand that - that folks really cannot understand unless they've lived it. I have never lost a child, so I cannot really understand what that is like. I can imagine it, put myself in another's shoes. But I've not lived it. I have never been completely paralyzed. But I can imagine it, vividly. I helped care for my quadriplegic father for twelve years. I've never been in combat, or lived through a war on my home turf, or been imprisoned, or a thousand other things. I can imagine. I can put myself in another's shoes, endeavor to understand, engender empathy toward their plight and sufferings. But I don't think one can really understand unless they've lived it. Even then, that understanding is still limited.
In the mid-2000s, I became acquainted with Mary. Mary had MS and had to use a wheelchair. Her wheelchair wasn't electric; her husband pushed it. Before meeting Mary, I had lived the previous two decades with chronic illness and had been able to get well through trial and error and a combination of approaches. One of my symptoms had been overwhelming fatigue and body aches. I thought I understood what Mary was living. After all, I knew fatigue. How arrogant of me. Not until I developed nerve damage could I more fully grasp what Mary endured. I have thought of her from time to time and wondered how she is doing. My symptoms are similar to MS.
Overwhelming fatigue by itself can be debilitating. Add to that pain; and the fatigue is amplified. Add to that nerves being unable communicate properly resulting in dysfunctional motor control; and the amplification is multiplied. Throw in continued developing symptoms, side effects of medications, financial burdens, traversing the sick-care industry and wellness maze, anxiety and depression, and a host of other life events - and it's a wonder that people continue as long as they do.
I could harbor bitterness toward the dental industry for the high levels of mercury that contributed to or caused the slew of symptoms in my previous chronic-illness life. I could harbor bitterness toward the joint-implant-replacement industry that has contributed to or caused my current chronic illness. I could harbor bitterness toward the pharmaceutical industry for the contaminated albuterol that almost did me in in my previous chronic-illness life and for the terbinafine that contributed to my current condition. I could harbor bitterness toward certain integrative and conventional doctors who, in essence, blamed me for my current condition before my surgeon discovered that my hip implant was leaching heavy metals. I could harbor bitterness toward The Way for their indoctrination to believe that the individual is subservient to their rightly-divided, true-household doctrine, reproof, and correction. I could harbor bitterness toward my ex-mental health therapist, toward certain folks in the anti-Way and anti-cult movements, toward my parents, toward us and them and that and this and on and on.
I could harbor bitterness toward myself for bad choices, for misspeaking, for impatience, for this and that and the other.
Or I can flip it all, and recall how I made it through those times and challenges. Good choices. Strength. Endurance. Happenstances, serendipities, divine interventions, answered prayers - whatever one wants to call it - saw me through some horrific ordeals. And there might be more to come.
As a teen I bought the 45 vinyl record "War" by the Temptations. I'd never heard their song "Ball of Confusion" until I flipped it over.
I used to be a people-person. I enjoyed socializing, get-togethers, and hosting folks in my home. That is one thing that has drastically changed since developing nerve damage. It was a gradual change, not abrupt. As the fatigue lingered, I grew weary. It became more and more difficult to converse, whether it be by voice or script. So much energy went into, and continues to go into, simple tasks of daily function. I've come to the opinion that others cannot really understand it, unless they've lived it. I have gathered part of that opinion by what people say to me about me, or say to me about others.
And I understand that - that folks really cannot understand unless they've lived it. I have never lost a child, so I cannot really understand what that is like. I can imagine it, put myself in another's shoes. But I've not lived it. I have never been completely paralyzed. But I can imagine it, vividly. I helped care for my quadriplegic father for twelve years. I've never been in combat, or lived through a war on my home turf, or been imprisoned, or a thousand other things. I can imagine. I can put myself in another's shoes, endeavor to understand, engender empathy toward their plight and sufferings. But I don't think one can really understand unless they've lived it. Even then, that understanding is still limited.
In the mid-2000s, I became acquainted with Mary. Mary had MS and had to use a wheelchair. Her wheelchair wasn't electric; her husband pushed it. Before meeting Mary, I had lived the previous two decades with chronic illness and had been able to get well through trial and error and a combination of approaches. One of my symptoms had been overwhelming fatigue and body aches. I thought I understood what Mary was living. After all, I knew fatigue. How arrogant of me. Not until I developed nerve damage could I more fully grasp what Mary endured. I have thought of her from time to time and wondered how she is doing. My symptoms are similar to MS.
Overwhelming fatigue by itself can be debilitating. Add to that pain; and the fatigue is amplified. Add to that nerves being unable communicate properly resulting in dysfunctional motor control; and the amplification is multiplied. Throw in continued developing symptoms, side effects of medications, financial burdens, traversing the sick-care industry and wellness maze, anxiety and depression, and a host of other life events - and it's a wonder that people continue as long as they do.
I could harbor bitterness toward the dental industry for the high levels of mercury that contributed to or caused the slew of symptoms in my previous chronic-illness life. I could harbor bitterness toward the joint-implant-replacement industry that has contributed to or caused my current chronic illness. I could harbor bitterness toward the pharmaceutical industry for the contaminated albuterol that almost did me in in my previous chronic-illness life and for the terbinafine that contributed to my current condition. I could harbor bitterness toward certain integrative and conventional doctors who, in essence, blamed me for my current condition before my surgeon discovered that my hip implant was leaching heavy metals. I could harbor bitterness toward The Way for their indoctrination to believe that the individual is subservient to their rightly-divided, true-household doctrine, reproof, and correction. I could harbor bitterness toward my ex-mental health therapist, toward certain folks in the anti-Way and anti-cult movements, toward my parents, toward us and them and that and this and on and on.
I could harbor bitterness toward myself for bad choices, for misspeaking, for impatience, for this and that and the other.
Or I can flip it all, and recall how I made it through those times and challenges. Good choices. Strength. Endurance. Happenstances, serendipities, divine interventions, answered prayers - whatever one wants to call it - saw me through some horrific ordeals. And there might be more to come.
As a teen I bought the 45 vinyl record "War" by the Temptations. I'd never heard their song "Ball of Confusion" until I flipped it over.
October 2, 2019
Dreadful Week Twelve
Today is Wednesday, October 2nd, 2019. On Monday, October 7th, I'll received my 27th lumbar epidural. I received my first in December, 2013.
Always, always, always, in this final week leading up to the epidural, time slows down. I trudge through a dark place of isolation and self-flagellation for my utter incompetence to accomplish what I "should" and what much of human culture would deem as anything of value. Yesterday was one of those deep, dark days.
The cognitive and physical fatigue go off the up-and-down, back-and-forth rails of manageability and send my mind and body careening down an uncontrollable track that feels it will never end. I remind my self that it will end. That this happens every time I hit week twelve. It seems to be unavoidable. Then my elephant, using Jonathan Haidt's metaphor for the automatic part of me that controls so much of me and all humans, starts chattering, When will I ever learn? I know this always happens at week twelve. Why can I not adapt and adjust?
The truth is, I have adapted. I do adjust. It's just so fucking hard.
Always, always, always, in this final week leading up to the epidural, time slows down. I trudge through a dark place of isolation and self-flagellation for my utter incompetence to accomplish what I "should" and what much of human culture would deem as anything of value. Yesterday was one of those deep, dark days.
The cognitive and physical fatigue go off the up-and-down, back-and-forth rails of manageability and send my mind and body careening down an uncontrollable track that feels it will never end. I remind my self that it will end. That this happens every time I hit week twelve. It seems to be unavoidable. Then my elephant, using Jonathan Haidt's metaphor for the automatic part of me that controls so much of me and all humans, starts chattering, When will I ever learn? I know this always happens at week twelve. Why can I not adapt and adjust?
The truth is, I have adapted. I do adjust. It's just so fucking hard.
September 26, 2019
Lucky buckeyes
My anxiety was high Tuesday. I had to gulp air throughout the morning, like my lungs just weren't getting enough oxygen. That's been the pattern for the past however-many weeks. I finally went to the doctor Wednesday, though I'd already surmised the oxygen drinking was most likely due to anxiety and not a heart condition. Heart disease - another side effect of long term steroids.
I felt panicked last week as I lay in bed while waiting for sleep, drinking oxygen, wondering if my gums felt swollen, thinking of the added fatigue I'd been having, feeling the tingling in my hands and feet wondering if it was nerve damage or pooling of blood from a heart condition, wondering if my pulse was faster than usual, mulling over other symptoms I'd been monitoring... Oh God no. Not this side effect. No. I devised a plan how to handle it if it was heart disease.
One of the elements in my self-diagnosis of probably anxiety and not heart disease was my cycling. How is it possible if I have a deleterious heart condition, to be able to ride my bike like I do, twenty miles or more at a time? And get relief while I ride? Currently it's at about mile five when I feel the flip of the relief-switch.
The switch-flip now includes relief from the oxygen-gulping shortness of breath. Other symptoms are still relieved too. Pain. Fatigue. Weakness. Cognitive dysfunction. Loneliness. Depression. Pointlessness. Disconnectedness. All that and more - relieved by my bike-rides through the woods. With the trees. Oh my beloved trees! How often I feel them cradle me and welcome me, "Hey Carol! It's so good to see you again!"
I began my ride Tuesday with high anxiety. Residual effects from some vicious verbal assaults (containing vile language and false accusations toward me and a loved one) continued to linger - a complex scenario that I was pulled into in February. It's been a difficult, draining seven months. I received the verbal pummeling via texts, late night on August 19th, in Boone, as I was driving back home after visiting one of my sacred places - Roan Mountain (the same sacred ground I visited when an ex-mental health therapist falsely accused me privately in August 2010, and publicly in August 2011 when he tried to smear my character). The August, 2019, evening on Roan had ended in the night hours, stars shining clearly, with a significant, hour-long conversation with Wiley Oakley who claimed to be the grandson of the Wiley Oakley, which I have little reason to doubt.
Brokenness. Shame. My brain in a vice grip. That's part of what I felt when I started my ride Tuesday.
I rode through the woods on a rail-trail alongside the New River in the Blue Ridge Mountains, a 24.6-mile route I've ridden now at least ten times. Along my ride I stopped to remove some obstacles from the trail - five tree branches, one loose rock about the size of a couple bricks, and two broken pieces of glass. This must be my job today. Instead of finding a debit card, or a wallet, or a cell phone. Things I have found on my rides this summer, items which I put in my hip pack until I could find their rightful owners, except for the debit card which I mailed to the address printed on the card.
As I rode along I saw a buckeye on the trail. Aren't buckeyes good luck? But buckeyes don't grow here, do they? Maybe it's a chestnut. Either way, I'll pretend it's a lucky buckeye. I've become a bit superstitious in the last few years. I stopped to pick it up. It was cracked on one side. My heart sank a little. This is me. Cracked. Broken. I stuck the cracked buckeye in my hip pack and continued my pedaling on the trail.
A few miles later I saw another buckeye, and another and another and another and another! Five buckeyes and none were cracked! They were perfectly formed, beautiful, though each had its own distinct features. This is my family! My husband John. And our son Josh and our daughter Sarah and Sarah's dog Yerba. And me!
I thanked the trees and put the buckeyes in my hip pack.
***
I later looked up lucky buckeye: Why is a buckeye seed in your pocket good luck?
And I learned that what I found are indeed buckeyes (and not chestnuts) from the yellow buckeye tree. I recognize the exterior fruit shown in the picture on the link, some of which I saw laying on the trail and I wondered at the time if they were pears, but didn't stop to investigate.
Along my ride Tuesday I had 12 deer sightings; 3 of the deer were probably repeat sightings. Each deer paused to look at me. Then, as deer do, each one took off running, its white tail bright as it gracefully bounded along the trail and then up through the woods or down the bank, stopping to look back once or twice or thrice. And I saw two groundhogs, one on a long bridge. From a distance as I rode onto the bridge I wondered, What is that? A giant squirrel? A cat? Then saw it was a groundhog. Made me smile big; I have a fondness for groundhogs. The little feller ran and would stop, rest a moment, look back, and run again as I very slowly pedaled along staying behind it. We both finally made it to the other side of the bridge. The second groundhog ran across the trail in front of me. He was fast. I often see groundhogs on the Mt. Airy greenway, but not as often on the New River rail-trail.
The doctor Wednesday confirmed that my heart is good, and that if I had a heart condition, I'd feel worse for riding my bike. Anxiety appears to be the culprit. Iron deficient anemia (one of my conditions) can also cause windedness, but my iron levels are good. And this shortness of breath is different from the windedness I've experienced with my anemia. There's more to the story, part of that having to do with my gums. Suffice it to say, I'm again awed at how the psyche can affect our physical condition.
*~*
I felt panicked last week as I lay in bed while waiting for sleep, drinking oxygen, wondering if my gums felt swollen, thinking of the added fatigue I'd been having, feeling the tingling in my hands and feet wondering if it was nerve damage or pooling of blood from a heart condition, wondering if my pulse was faster than usual, mulling over other symptoms I'd been monitoring... Oh God no. Not this side effect. No. I devised a plan how to handle it if it was heart disease.
One of the elements in my self-diagnosis of probably anxiety and not heart disease was my cycling. How is it possible if I have a deleterious heart condition, to be able to ride my bike like I do, twenty miles or more at a time? And get relief while I ride? Currently it's at about mile five when I feel the flip of the relief-switch.
The switch-flip now includes relief from the oxygen-gulping shortness of breath. Other symptoms are still relieved too. Pain. Fatigue. Weakness. Cognitive dysfunction. Loneliness. Depression. Pointlessness. Disconnectedness. All that and more - relieved by my bike-rides through the woods. With the trees. Oh my beloved trees! How often I feel them cradle me and welcome me, "Hey Carol! It's so good to see you again!"
I began my ride Tuesday with high anxiety. Residual effects from some vicious verbal assaults (containing vile language and false accusations toward me and a loved one) continued to linger - a complex scenario that I was pulled into in February. It's been a difficult, draining seven months. I received the verbal pummeling via texts, late night on August 19th, in Boone, as I was driving back home after visiting one of my sacred places - Roan Mountain (the same sacred ground I visited when an ex-mental health therapist falsely accused me privately in August 2010, and publicly in August 2011 when he tried to smear my character). The August, 2019, evening on Roan had ended in the night hours, stars shining clearly, with a significant, hour-long conversation with Wiley Oakley who claimed to be the grandson of the Wiley Oakley, which I have little reason to doubt.
Brokenness. Shame. My brain in a vice grip. That's part of what I felt when I started my ride Tuesday.
I rode through the woods on a rail-trail alongside the New River in the Blue Ridge Mountains, a 24.6-mile route I've ridden now at least ten times. Along my ride I stopped to remove some obstacles from the trail - five tree branches, one loose rock about the size of a couple bricks, and two broken pieces of glass. This must be my job today. Instead of finding a debit card, or a wallet, or a cell phone. Things I have found on my rides this summer, items which I put in my hip pack until I could find their rightful owners, except for the debit card which I mailed to the address printed on the card.
As I rode along I saw a buckeye on the trail. Aren't buckeyes good luck? But buckeyes don't grow here, do they? Maybe it's a chestnut. Either way, I'll pretend it's a lucky buckeye. I've become a bit superstitious in the last few years. I stopped to pick it up. It was cracked on one side. My heart sank a little. This is me. Cracked. Broken. I stuck the cracked buckeye in my hip pack and continued my pedaling on the trail.
A few miles later I saw another buckeye, and another and another and another and another! Five buckeyes and none were cracked! They were perfectly formed, beautiful, though each had its own distinct features. This is my family! My husband John. And our son Josh and our daughter Sarah and Sarah's dog Yerba. And me!
I thanked the trees and put the buckeyes in my hip pack.
***
I later looked up lucky buckeye: Why is a buckeye seed in your pocket good luck?
And I learned that what I found are indeed buckeyes (and not chestnuts) from the yellow buckeye tree. I recognize the exterior fruit shown in the picture on the link, some of which I saw laying on the trail and I wondered at the time if they were pears, but didn't stop to investigate.
Along my ride Tuesday I had 12 deer sightings; 3 of the deer were probably repeat sightings. Each deer paused to look at me. Then, as deer do, each one took off running, its white tail bright as it gracefully bounded along the trail and then up through the woods or down the bank, stopping to look back once or twice or thrice. And I saw two groundhogs, one on a long bridge. From a distance as I rode onto the bridge I wondered, What is that? A giant squirrel? A cat? Then saw it was a groundhog. Made me smile big; I have a fondness for groundhogs. The little feller ran and would stop, rest a moment, look back, and run again as I very slowly pedaled along staying behind it. We both finally made it to the other side of the bridge. The second groundhog ran across the trail in front of me. He was fast. I often see groundhogs on the Mt. Airy greenway, but not as often on the New River rail-trail.
The doctor Wednesday confirmed that my heart is good, and that if I had a heart condition, I'd feel worse for riding my bike. Anxiety appears to be the culprit. Iron deficient anemia (one of my conditions) can also cause windedness, but my iron levels are good. And this shortness of breath is different from the windedness I've experienced with my anemia. There's more to the story, part of that having to do with my gums. Suffice it to say, I'm again awed at how the psyche can affect our physical condition.
*~*
 |
| Sun setting behind Roan High Knob. 8/19/19. |
August 3, 2019
"Why would they lie?"
Note: Since publishing this piece, I've edited it like a thousand times (figure of speech), trying to pinpoint what it is I think I want to convey and to do so accurately. Maybe I've succeeded, slightly. It's a complex subject, and can be exhausting. I find myself slipping into the need-to-explain-my-why-behind-my-every-statement mindset. I don't like that mindset. It can really take the joy out of writing, not to mention life and relationships.
*~*
I recently finished rereading James Comey's book, A Higher Loyalty. I, for one, believe Comey and most others who have shared their Trump gaslighting stories.
All that said, I have questioned my self. What of Comey's story? What of others' stories? Are all these people just lying? Why would they lie?
Comey's Trump experiences brought to mind certain people's experiences who had once been in The Way. Memoirs and accounts like Kristen's and Charlene's and Karl's. An abundance of stories online that aren't published in books on paper. The many unpublished stories shared with me in private. Accounts of Wierwille's and Martindale's and others' abuses -- sexual, financial, verbal, emotional, spiritual. I was a lay-leader when in The Way and am not without blame from the verbal/emotional/spiritual abuse that I doled out -- not a lot, but some, following my mentors' examples who followed their mentors' examples ... all backed up by scripture. I'm not absolving myself (or anyone) of personal responsibility, just pointing out that I was doing as I'd been taught alongside the creeping normalization of doctrine over personhood.
When I was loyal to The Way (beginning in 1977), and first heard stories (around 1989/90) of Wierwille's sexual abuses and possible cover-ups...what did I think at the time? How did I rationalize what I heard? How did I keep my cognitive dissonance in check, in the bubble?
Well, some of my rationalization went something like this...
Skip. forward. A WHOLE lot happened between 1989 and the early 2000s. But I and my husband continued with The Way, our children in tow.
In 2002, or thereabouts, I was hanging at my favorite hang-out spot, Borders Bookstore in Winston-Salem, journaling. I ended up witnessing to a dude, a black man in his 30s maybe, who had been trying to understand the holy spirit field. He was quite excited about what I was showing him from the scriptures. I was too.
When I gave him my phone number, in case he wanted to check out a fellowship, he responded, still excited, "I'll check it out online and give you a call." I responded, having never searched The Way online and being instructed by leadership to not search online and that the evil things posted online about The Way were inspired by devil spirits and only served to destroy the accuracy of the Word and the Ministry, "Well, you might find some controversial information that isn't accurate. The Ministry has had its problems and been through some changes. If you want to know from the horse's mouth, give me a call." After all, I'd been around for decades; I knew The Ministry, or so I thought.
After that encounter, I felt I should search The Way online; in case the guy called me I could handle whatever questions he might have. That's when I found GreaseSpot Café, an online gathering place for former followers. I chuckled at the name because a follower couldn't forget Craig Martindale, The Way's second president chosen by the founder Victor Paul Wierwille, hollering that folks who left the Household would be a "grease spot by midnight!" Due to a "consensual affair," or so I thought, Craig had "stepped down" from being The Way's president in 2000. He had been out of sight for a year.
I perused the Café and read a bit. I laughed when I read an accusation that Rosalie, who became The Way's third president when Craig was forced to step down, was a lesbian -- the same kind of laughs I'd laughed for decades when folks accused The Way of being a cult, and when I'd heard accusations against Wierwille back around 1989. That's ridiculous. Rosalie a lesbian?! Lol. If this place is saying that, how can anything anyone says here be trusted? I read a little more. Murmurings from embittered former followers, was my impression.
But … I had had my own doubts about things in The Way, doubts that had been building for years; and now I had opened Pandora's box. Plus I'd disobeyed leadership by searching The Way online and reading the words of people who were designated "mark and avoid" for "causing divisions" and teaching doctrines "contrary" to the "accuracy of the Word" and who were either "possessed or influenced by devil spirits."
Still … I went back again and again and again.
As I read and read I thought, Are all these people just lying? Why would they lie?
The dude I witnessed to never did call.
*~*
I recently finished rereading James Comey's book, A Higher Loyalty. I, for one, believe Comey and most others who have shared their Trump gaslighting stories.
All that said, I have questioned my self. What of Comey's story? What of others' stories? Are all these people just lying? Why would they lie?
Comey's Trump experiences brought to mind certain people's experiences who had once been in The Way. Memoirs and accounts like Kristen's and Charlene's and Karl's. An abundance of stories online that aren't published in books on paper. The many unpublished stories shared with me in private. Accounts of Wierwille's and Martindale's and others' abuses -- sexual, financial, verbal, emotional, spiritual. I was a lay-leader when in The Way and am not without blame from the verbal/emotional/spiritual abuse that I doled out -- not a lot, but some, following my mentors' examples who followed their mentors' examples ... all backed up by scripture. I'm not absolving myself (or anyone) of personal responsibility, just pointing out that I was doing as I'd been taught alongside the creeping normalization of doctrine over personhood.
When I was loyal to The Way (beginning in 1977), and first heard stories (around 1989/90) of Wierwille's sexual abuses and possible cover-ups...what did I think at the time? How did I rationalize what I heard? How did I keep my cognitive dissonance in check, in the bubble?
Well, some of my rationalization went something like this...
- Dr. Wierwille was human. Humans make mistakes. He shared with us openly that he was only human, that love covers a multitude of sins, that we live in the age of grace, that God is a forgiving Father and He looks on the heart, that people are to be loved and things are to be used. The Bible is full of examples, especially in the Old Testament, of men of God who sinned. The flesh is weak, but God always looks on the heart and has cast our sins as far as the east is from the west.
- Why weren't these accusations brought while Dr. Wierwille was alive? Why wait until he's dead when he can't defend himself? Are the leaders who have split off making these accusations known just because they are jealous and wanted to be president and weren't chosen?
- Some of these accusations are outright looney. How many are based on innuendo? How many are outright lies? If ANY are true, did those women seduce Dr. Wierwille? The devil is the "accuser of the brethren" and the "father of lies." He and his devil spirit realm have access to anything that happens in the senses realm. He will twist and distort and lie, especially about believers who are standing with the Household.
- If ANY accusations have some truth to them ... still, Doctor taught the Word, the Word, and nothing but the Word. The good he's done outweighs any of the bad. And my personal and group experiences with him were always uplifting, always good.
- The devil's ultimate goal is to distort and vanquish the accuracy of th Word, especially the "great mystery" and the "Household." To do that, he attacks the Ministry and its leadership. The Apostle Paul was accused by the brethren. Dr. Wierwille was an apostle bringing old light as new light to our generation.
- My immediate, local leadership has looked into this; they are continuing with The Way. And I trust them. What is the profit in bringing all this dirt up, other than to destroy? The Adversary is always out "to steal, kill, and destroy."
Skip. forward. A WHOLE lot happened between 1989 and the early 2000s. But I and my husband continued with The Way, our children in tow.
In 2002, or thereabouts, I was hanging at my favorite hang-out spot, Borders Bookstore in Winston-Salem, journaling. I ended up witnessing to a dude, a black man in his 30s maybe, who had been trying to understand the holy spirit field. He was quite excited about what I was showing him from the scriptures. I was too.
When I gave him my phone number, in case he wanted to check out a fellowship, he responded, still excited, "I'll check it out online and give you a call." I responded, having never searched The Way online and being instructed by leadership to not search online and that the evil things posted online about The Way were inspired by devil spirits and only served to destroy the accuracy of the Word and the Ministry, "Well, you might find some controversial information that isn't accurate. The Ministry has had its problems and been through some changes. If you want to know from the horse's mouth, give me a call." After all, I'd been around for decades; I knew The Ministry, or so I thought.
After that encounter, I felt I should search The Way online; in case the guy called me I could handle whatever questions he might have. That's when I found GreaseSpot Café, an online gathering place for former followers. I chuckled at the name because a follower couldn't forget Craig Martindale, The Way's second president chosen by the founder Victor Paul Wierwille, hollering that folks who left the Household would be a "grease spot by midnight!" Due to a "consensual affair," or so I thought, Craig had "stepped down" from being The Way's president in 2000. He had been out of sight for a year.
I perused the Café and read a bit. I laughed when I read an accusation that Rosalie, who became The Way's third president when Craig was forced to step down, was a lesbian -- the same kind of laughs I'd laughed for decades when folks accused The Way of being a cult, and when I'd heard accusations against Wierwille back around 1989. That's ridiculous. Rosalie a lesbian?! Lol. If this place is saying that, how can anything anyone says here be trusted? I read a little more. Murmurings from embittered former followers, was my impression.
But … I had had my own doubts about things in The Way, doubts that had been building for years; and now I had opened Pandora's box. Plus I'd disobeyed leadership by searching The Way online and reading the words of people who were designated "mark and avoid" for "causing divisions" and teaching doctrines "contrary" to the "accuracy of the Word" and who were either "possessed or influenced by devil spirits."
Still … I went back again and again and again.
As I read and read I thought, Are all these people just lying? Why would they lie?
The dude I witnessed to never did call.
August 1, 2019
Bullseye
8/01/19
Prompt or not: bullseye
~*~
Winning.
Trump consistently brags about winning.
He rarely mentions service.
In the summer of 2016, when I read Tony Schwartz's exposé, Donald Trump's Ghostwriter Tells All, in The New Yorker, I found myself drawing comparisons to how things turned out with my ex-mental health therapist and I.
I've been through some bizarre things in my life. Most people might think the trip with jimson weed would be the most bizarre.
And it was bizarre -- hellish hallucinations of witch doctors dancing circles around me; of being raped on a mattress with exposed springs that was on a platform in the middle of the local college football field; of living in a circular sanitorium for the insane located in an aquarium in a secret, altered world; of breaking my arm while riding a horse from a castle in medieval times; of being eaten by roaches; of dying and ascending to heaven where Crosby, Steels, Nash, and Young sang for me. My boyfriend and I each ate three pods of jimson seeds on a Tuesday afternoon. They took their effect within a half-hour or so. That evening we both ended up in two separate hospitals. I stayed wide awake hallucinating (having no idea my body was being held by a restraint around my abdomen to a hospital bed with each arm, one connected to an IV, belted to the bedrails in an Intensive Care Unit) until sometime Friday evening after I was injected with a solution to antidote the datura stramonium, the Hindi-Greek botanical name for Jimson weed. It felt like roller coaster coming back into the realm of realty. I was 15 years old.
Yet, even compared to that, my experience with John Knapp was bizarre.
In one of Knapp's thirteen 2011 online smear pieces, he made a statement, "Game on." But he was the only one playing a game. He lied. He threatened. He made himself out as a victim. He name-called. He assigned evil motives. He rallied his supporters, until he then turned on most of them.
Almost a year earlier Knapp's last words to me in an email, where he accused me (among other things) of "destroying our friendship" and for disloyalty, were, "Have a nice life." I was 51 years old.
Almost a year later Knapp threw those same last words publicly at one of his defenders whom he had turned on. Someone who, like me, had been one of his clients. Someone who, like me, Knapp chastised for their disloyalty.
As I read Schwartz's exposé, it was uncanny -- the similarities with Knapp. But the most uncanny words came at the end when Tony Schwartz writes Trump's last words to him, after Trump chastises Tony for not being loyal and for not remaining silent. Trump said, "Have a nice life."
For a moment, I stopped breathing.
Prompt or not: bullseye
~*~
Winning.
Trump consistently brags about winning.
He rarely mentions service.
In the summer of 2016, when I read Tony Schwartz's exposé, Donald Trump's Ghostwriter Tells All, in The New Yorker, I found myself drawing comparisons to how things turned out with my ex-mental health therapist and I.
I've been through some bizarre things in my life. Most people might think the trip with jimson weed would be the most bizarre.
And it was bizarre -- hellish hallucinations of witch doctors dancing circles around me; of being raped on a mattress with exposed springs that was on a platform in the middle of the local college football field; of living in a circular sanitorium for the insane located in an aquarium in a secret, altered world; of breaking my arm while riding a horse from a castle in medieval times; of being eaten by roaches; of dying and ascending to heaven where Crosby, Steels, Nash, and Young sang for me. My boyfriend and I each ate three pods of jimson seeds on a Tuesday afternoon. They took their effect within a half-hour or so. That evening we both ended up in two separate hospitals. I stayed wide awake hallucinating (having no idea my body was being held by a restraint around my abdomen to a hospital bed with each arm, one connected to an IV, belted to the bedrails in an Intensive Care Unit) until sometime Friday evening after I was injected with a solution to antidote the datura stramonium, the Hindi-Greek botanical name for Jimson weed. It felt like roller coaster coming back into the realm of realty. I was 15 years old.
Yet, even compared to that, my experience with John Knapp was bizarre.
In one of Knapp's thirteen 2011 online smear pieces, he made a statement, "Game on." But he was the only one playing a game. He lied. He threatened. He made himself out as a victim. He name-called. He assigned evil motives. He rallied his supporters, until he then turned on most of them.
Almost a year earlier Knapp's last words to me in an email, where he accused me (among other things) of "destroying our friendship" and for disloyalty, were, "Have a nice life." I was 51 years old.
Almost a year later Knapp threw those same last words publicly at one of his defenders whom he had turned on. Someone who, like me, had been one of his clients. Someone who, like me, Knapp chastised for their disloyalty.
As I read Schwartz's exposé, it was uncanny -- the similarities with Knapp. But the most uncanny words came at the end when Tony Schwartz writes Trump's last words to him, after Trump chastises Tony for not being loyal and for not remaining silent. Trump said, "Have a nice life."
For a moment, I stopped breathing.
Knowledge
7/31/19
Prompt or not: knowledge
~*~
I do not want to craft a piece of writing.
I do not want to polish it.
I do not want to make it understandable.
I do not write for you.
I guess that would make me a non-marketable author.
Or no author at all.
What do I desire when I write?
It varies.
Sometimes I dump my thoughts.
Plop. Boing. Richochet. Plop.
There is no bullseye.
But there are margins.
The edge of the page.
The edge of the computer screen.
Is there an edge to consciousness?
I tend to think not.
Consciousness expands to make room
for more thoughts,
for more feelings,
for more space from where ideas originate.
There is a difference between thinking a thought and expressing it.
If we all had our thoughts laid bare for others to see,
to examine, like under a glass dome in a museum...
Would we put ourselves on the critic's pedestal, seeing only "them" under the dome?
Or would we identify and realize those thoughts could, just as well, be "us?"
I'm going absolutely no where with this.
Wait Carol...come on back.
You don't have to know where you are going.
How often has serendipity been with you?
The answer is, "Often."
Do you plan serendipity?
Well no. Otherwise it would not be serendipity.
So back to this edge of consciousness-thing.
What do you envision?
I see something like the universe, or at least its accepted rendition.
An ever-expanding expanse, with no detectable beginning or end.
What if that rendition is wrong?
Or something like that.
At one time, I wholeheartedly believed that is how the universe was set up.
Some literal, some figurative.
I used to wonder if the vast expanse of the Universe is a distortion.
That in reality, what humans are really seeing via Hubble or other telescopes, are multiple reflections from the waters of the Deep reflecting back on themselves from all directions, creating an illusion of forever, like when a person is in a house of mirrors.
The Way had scripture to back up all their teachings.
Some of it was twisted.
I question though, was it anymore twisted than any other group's claim to the right interpretation?
The Way taught that we don't interpret the scriptures; we allow them to interpret themselves.
Twist on that for awhile.
Prompt or not: knowledge
~*~
I do not want to craft a piece of writing.
I do not want to polish it.
I do not want to make it understandable.
I do not write for you.
I guess that would make me a non-marketable author.
Or no author at all.
What do I desire when I write?
It varies.
Sometimes I dump my thoughts.
Plop. Boing. Richochet. Plop.
There is no bullseye.
But there are margins.
The edge of the page.
The edge of the computer screen.
Is there an edge to consciousness?
I tend to think not.
Consciousness expands to make room
for more thoughts,
for more feelings,
for more space from where ideas originate.
There is a difference between thinking a thought and expressing it.
If we all had our thoughts laid bare for others to see,
to examine, like under a glass dome in a museum...
Would we put ourselves on the critic's pedestal, seeing only "them" under the dome?
Or would we identify and realize those thoughts could, just as well, be "us?"
I'm going absolutely no where with this.
Wait Carol...come on back.
You don't have to know where you are going.
How often has serendipity been with you?
The answer is, "Often."
Do you plan serendipity?
Well no. Otherwise it would not be serendipity.
So back to this edge of consciousness-thing.
What do you envision?
I see something like the universe, or at least its accepted rendition.
An ever-expanding expanse, with no detectable beginning or end.
What if that rendition is wrong?
What if, like The Way taught, there is a border to the universe?
What if, like The Way taught, the gigantic bubble of outer space is surrounded by water?
What if, like The Way taught, the water is probably a saline solution, like embryonic fluid?
Embryonic water protects the fetus; the outer waters, called the Deep, protect our universe.
That wasn't always the case. It was those waters, from the Deep, that flooded the earth in Noah's time.
God said he would never allow that again and gave us a rainbow as proof.
In the Deep is where some of the fallen angels were casts and await judgement.
Others of these fallen angels move about on earth creating havoc.
After Jesus was raised from the dead, he visited the Deep to show himself to the imprisoned spirits.
He had conquered death.
Beyond the waters of the Deep is another expanse.
That expanse has no margins; it is eternal.
It is where Christ ascended to the right hand of God, if there really is such a physical place.
What if, like The Way taught, the gigantic bubble of outer space is surrounded by water?
What if, like The Way taught, the water is probably a saline solution, like embryonic fluid?
Embryonic water protects the fetus; the outer waters, called the Deep, protect our universe.
That wasn't always the case. It was those waters, from the Deep, that flooded the earth in Noah's time.
God said he would never allow that again and gave us a rainbow as proof.
In the Deep is where some of the fallen angels were casts and await judgement.
Others of these fallen angels move about on earth creating havoc.
After Jesus was raised from the dead, he visited the Deep to show himself to the imprisoned spirits.
He had conquered death.
Beyond the waters of the Deep is another expanse.
That expanse has no margins; it is eternal.
It is where Christ ascended to the right hand of God, if there really is such a physical place.
Or something like that.
At one time, I wholeheartedly believed that is how the universe was set up.
Some literal, some figurative.
I used to wonder if the vast expanse of the Universe is a distortion.
That in reality, what humans are really seeing via Hubble or other telescopes, are multiple reflections from the waters of the Deep reflecting back on themselves from all directions, creating an illusion of forever, like when a person is in a house of mirrors.
The Way had scripture to back up all their teachings.
Some of it was twisted.
I question though, was it anymore twisted than any other group's claim to the right interpretation?
The Way taught that we don't interpret the scriptures; we allow them to interpret themselves.
Twist on that for awhile.
Hiding and ...
7/24/19
Prompt or not: hiding
~*~
When I was child, us neighborhood kids played a hide-and-seek game called Sardines. One person would hide while the rest of the players closed their eyes. One designated close-eyed would count out loud to 100 giving the hider time to hide. Once the counter shouted, "100!" the seekers opened their eyes and started to hunt. When a seeker found the hider, the seeker would join the hider, hiding from the rest of the seekers. That's why it was called "Sardines," because the hiders packed into the hiding place like sardines in a can.
I don't recall what happened to any seekers who couldn't find the sardines. Looking back, I'm intrigued that any of us trusted that the seekers actually closed their eyes for the whole count of 100. I played Sardines in elementary school.
Werewolf was another favorite. This was a traditional hide-and-seek tag game, except that it was always played at night. That's why it was called Werewolf. One person was "It," the Werewolf, the seeker, who also protected a spot designated as home base. The rest of the players would hide and then try to run and tag home base before Werewolf could tag them. If Werewolf tagged the runner, then the runner became Werewolf, the seeker.
Sometimes we played Werewolf at Oakwood Cemetery. I didn't play Werewolf until my teen years, the same years I was learning how to French kiss and ....
Oakwood Cemetery is where I learned to drive a car at 14 years old. Mom used to take me there so I could practice for when I would legally learn how to drive. I don't think I told her about the Werewolf game. I definitely didn't tell her about French kissing and ….
Prompt or not: hiding
~*~
When I was child, us neighborhood kids played a hide-and-seek game called Sardines. One person would hide while the rest of the players closed their eyes. One designated close-eyed would count out loud to 100 giving the hider time to hide. Once the counter shouted, "100!" the seekers opened their eyes and started to hunt. When a seeker found the hider, the seeker would join the hider, hiding from the rest of the seekers. That's why it was called "Sardines," because the hiders packed into the hiding place like sardines in a can.
I don't recall what happened to any seekers who couldn't find the sardines. Looking back, I'm intrigued that any of us trusted that the seekers actually closed their eyes for the whole count of 100. I played Sardines in elementary school.
Werewolf was another favorite. This was a traditional hide-and-seek tag game, except that it was always played at night. That's why it was called Werewolf. One person was "It," the Werewolf, the seeker, who also protected a spot designated as home base. The rest of the players would hide and then try to run and tag home base before Werewolf could tag them. If Werewolf tagged the runner, then the runner became Werewolf, the seeker.
Sometimes we played Werewolf at Oakwood Cemetery. I didn't play Werewolf until my teen years, the same years I was learning how to French kiss and ....
Oakwood Cemetery is where I learned to drive a car at 14 years old. Mom used to take me there so I could practice for when I would legally learn how to drive. I don't think I told her about the Werewolf game. I definitely didn't tell her about French kissing and ….
July 21, 2019
Cobwebs, Waffles, & Bubbles
10:06 AM
7/21/09
***
When will I ever get around to the projects I want to accomplish...the home and my writing? How can I prioritize them and then follow through? I know what I want to do. I tell myself, it's just a matter of scheduling & prioritizing. Yet, it seems some sort of crisis arises, and the home and writing projects get pushed lower on the list. So, how can I allow those projects to rise to higher levels of importance? Or maybe they aren't that important.
I've recently (beginning in May) had at least four face-to-face conversations about "cults." In these conversations, I realize that I still have a difficult time calling The Way a "cult," even though in these conversations I called it a "cult." But at the time and afterwards when I mull over the conversations, I realize that my feelings waffle; emphasis on the words, my feelings waffle. (That was supposed to be funny.)
In at least three of these recent conversations, I found my self (internally) jostling my head to clear cobwebs. As I think about that now, I picture the more-cognitive me gently blowing the cobwebs. They aren't sturdy, like spider webs. They are old and worn. The wind from my pursed lips causes them to part from the center, causes space to open up so my sight is clearer, instead of translucent.
The most recent conversation was this past Friday night. The most recent before that was Thursday night. Friday was with a longtime friend. Thursday was with a person I met at an overlook on the Blue Ridge Parkway. That's two nights in a row, which is a rare occurrence for me. In the Parkway conversation, the stranger (who didn't feel like a stranger once we became engrossed in some deep subjects) and I conversed for about 2-1/2 hours! Due to my health adversities, I don't think I've been able to converse like that in years. Both conversations began at late dusk and went into the night. No artificial lights were needed.
On Friday, my longtime friend and I sat on my back porch as the night sounds serenaded. As the evening rolled along into total sunset, we noticed the tree frogs joining the chorus with the crickets as the cicadas were bowing out. The porch box fan was on high, but we could still distinguish the different voices. The outside porch lamp was turned off. Our eyes had naturally adjusted to the fading sun and the gradual darkening.
Our conversation had begun around 5:45 PM over supper at a local Japanese restaurant. After the restaurant, we landed at my home for dessert - ice cream. Through supper and into the evening, our conversation flowed along about health, animals, sex, dying, reincarnation, nature...
Toward the end, my friend shared about the resentment she had held onto after leaving a local humanity-service group, a group of which she was a founder and later left, a group she says she misses and would like to return to at some point, a group she says has evolved (I infer) into a more healthy organization.
As I was relating back to her what I thought she might be communicating, I found myself trying to explain "doctrine over person," which to me is fundamental in fundamentalist groups, a defining factor of a "cult." (Hmmm, perhaps I should use the term toxic cult.) And I felt myself falling woefully short of trying to convey my thoughts. And I thought to my self, and maybe even said aloud, After all the reading I've done on this stuff, and my experiences in the cult and anti-cult movements, how can I still not articulate well what it is I'm trying to share?
Shortly thereafter, and after my friend had left, I found my self internally jostling those cobwebs. My feelings and thoughts followed a similar path as they had the night before after my conversation with Parkway dude. Set feelings aside Carol. What are the facts? I thought of James (RIP dude). my ex-Jehovah's Witness friend from Australia who helped me (maybe more than any one person) in cutting through the fog that would cloud my head after my experiences at GreaseSpot Café and with John Knapp. (Both of which fell more into the anti-cult camp.) I thought of a poem I'd written in 2001 while still in The Way, at a time when I as struggling with mood swings and learning how to apply cognitive behavioral therapy.
As my internal dialog went back and forth recalling my life, I relaxed. There are identifying facts that corroborate The Way as a "cult" (or rather toxic cult). When I calm my mind and emotions, I can identify those factors. And it's understandable why I waffle; my entire adult life has been engrossed with cultic circumstances, some incredibly good and some traumatizing. Now, in the current political environment, these cultic conditions seem to be the norm.
7/21/09
***
When will I ever get around to the projects I want to accomplish...the home and my writing? How can I prioritize them and then follow through? I know what I want to do. I tell myself, it's just a matter of scheduling & prioritizing. Yet, it seems some sort of crisis arises, and the home and writing projects get pushed lower on the list. So, how can I allow those projects to rise to higher levels of importance? Or maybe they aren't that important.
I've recently (beginning in May) had at least four face-to-face conversations about "cults." In these conversations, I realize that I still have a difficult time calling The Way a "cult," even though in these conversations I called it a "cult." But at the time and afterwards when I mull over the conversations, I realize that my feelings waffle; emphasis on the words, my feelings waffle. (That was supposed to be funny.)
In at least three of these recent conversations, I found my self (internally) jostling my head to clear cobwebs. As I think about that now, I picture the more-cognitive me gently blowing the cobwebs. They aren't sturdy, like spider webs. They are old and worn. The wind from my pursed lips causes them to part from the center, causes space to open up so my sight is clearer, instead of translucent.
The most recent conversation was this past Friday night. The most recent before that was Thursday night. Friday was with a longtime friend. Thursday was with a person I met at an overlook on the Blue Ridge Parkway. That's two nights in a row, which is a rare occurrence for me. In the Parkway conversation, the stranger (who didn't feel like a stranger once we became engrossed in some deep subjects) and I conversed for about 2-1/2 hours! Due to my health adversities, I don't think I've been able to converse like that in years. Both conversations began at late dusk and went into the night. No artificial lights were needed.
On Friday, my longtime friend and I sat on my back porch as the night sounds serenaded. As the evening rolled along into total sunset, we noticed the tree frogs joining the chorus with the crickets as the cicadas were bowing out. The porch box fan was on high, but we could still distinguish the different voices. The outside porch lamp was turned off. Our eyes had naturally adjusted to the fading sun and the gradual darkening.
Our conversation had begun around 5:45 PM over supper at a local Japanese restaurant. After the restaurant, we landed at my home for dessert - ice cream. Through supper and into the evening, our conversation flowed along about health, animals, sex, dying, reincarnation, nature...
Toward the end, my friend shared about the resentment she had held onto after leaving a local humanity-service group, a group of which she was a founder and later left, a group she says she misses and would like to return to at some point, a group she says has evolved (I infer) into a more healthy organization.
As I was relating back to her what I thought she might be communicating, I found myself trying to explain "doctrine over person," which to me is fundamental in fundamentalist groups, a defining factor of a "cult." (Hmmm, perhaps I should use the term toxic cult.) And I felt myself falling woefully short of trying to convey my thoughts. And I thought to my self, and maybe even said aloud, After all the reading I've done on this stuff, and my experiences in the cult and anti-cult movements, how can I still not articulate well what it is I'm trying to share?
Shortly thereafter, and after my friend had left, I found my self internally jostling those cobwebs. My feelings and thoughts followed a similar path as they had the night before after my conversation with Parkway dude. Set feelings aside Carol. What are the facts? I thought of James (RIP dude). my ex-Jehovah's Witness friend from Australia who helped me (maybe more than any one person) in cutting through the fog that would cloud my head after my experiences at GreaseSpot Café and with John Knapp. (Both of which fell more into the anti-cult camp.) I thought of a poem I'd written in 2001 while still in The Way, at a time when I as struggling with mood swings and learning how to apply cognitive behavioral therapy.
As my internal dialog went back and forth recalling my life, I relaxed. There are identifying facts that corroborate The Way as a "cult" (or rather toxic cult). When I calm my mind and emotions, I can identify those factors. And it's understandable why I waffle; my entire adult life has been engrossed with cultic circumstances, some incredibly good and some traumatizing. Now, in the current political environment, these cultic conditions seem to be the norm.
July 17, 2019
Recent stuff...epidural #26, unoffendable, twitter, rainbow bridge
The past few weeks I've thought so many times about posting something on my blog, and I so often don't have the energy. I'm putting this up without much editing. Though I may come back and edit it later.
The Wednesday night phone writing workshop was cancelled tonight, which was probably good for me. I got Epidural Number 26 yesterday, and today was the usual day-after-let-it-start-working rest day. I finally felt it begin its magic this evening. I'm thankful I have something that brings some quality, systemic relief. Maybe the day will come that I no longer need epidurals. My hope for that wanes and waxes. As I approach the appointed epidural time every 12ish weeks, I have to decrease my daily prednisone. When I do, I know yet again just how bad my symptoms are without steroids.
I recently finished reading the book Unoffendable by Brant Hansen. Brant is a Christian, and the book is written from that perspective. But I still liked it, very much. I'm sure I will refer back to it. Brant is an insightful writer, and funny. As I read the book I thought, If folks like Brant and Tom Talbott were the face of Christianity, it'd have a better reputation.
Sometime between 2008 and 2010, I "came out" as agnostic. Yet, even still, I hold onto some of my Christianity.
But Carol, how can you do that. You either believe or don't believe? There is no holding onto "some". That's what my be-either-hot-or-cold-or-he'll-spew-me-out-of-his-mouth compartment tells me. Scriptures like the spew one are the ones that nudge or push me to my agnostic side.
An aspect of biblical teaching that I have a huge problem with is sacrificial blood, that the only way to redeem mankind was by the shedding of blood. But, I really don't feel like typing out those thoughts now.
If I would again become a "believer," I'd have to go with the Christian Universalist doctrine. It makes the most sense to me. That is, that if Jesus did it for all and it truly is grace, there are no buts. No one will be eternally annihilated or eternally tormented. Everyone in the end will make into the kingdom. Yes, even Hitler. (Gasp!) To me, if the Jesus story is true, that's how big it is.
I learned about the book Unoffendable in January, a few days after I'd written my 2019 "goals". I found it via Twitter under a Jonathan Haidt thread. I read some of the preview pages on Amazon. The book seemed to line up with my 2019 goals (and it did). But I didn't purchase the book until this month.
Twitter. When I read through the political posts I am reminded of the anti-cult and cult camps. When I left The Way (a "cult") and got involved with cult activism ("anti-cult"), I eventually discovered that the two camps were almost like two peas in a pod...just at the two extreme poles of the pod. Both extremes accuse the other of black-white thinking and are consistently accusing the other side of evil motives. Each side name-calls and belittles the other. And yes, I'm guilty of some of that too. Maybe politics is always that way, or runs in cycles of extremes every so-many decades. And Trump feeds the mindset and encourages such, like it is a righteous thing. For the president of a country supposedly founded on ethical Judeo-Christian principles, that is wrong. His rhetoric and tactics remind me of Craig Martindale, the 2nd president of The Way. And yes, the far right of the GOP (which appears to be what the GOP is transforming into) reminds me of a cult more so than the left. If I were a republican, I'd be a never-Trumper. As an independent, I am a never-Trumper. I hope the democratic leadership doesn't screw things up so much that Trump wins again.
I don't want to end this blog entry on a Trump note. So, here's one more bit of news.
My four-legged blind friend died on July 3rd. He was staying with us from June 6th through July 6th. He had developed some more health issues in May. And they flared (plus more), beginning about the second week he was with us. His humans were unable to get back when he took a turn for the worse on the night of July 2; they were on a ship near Scotland. We communicated often. It was a hard decision for them to make while away, but I think they did the right thing. The dog's lifelong vet thought it was the compassionate thing to do. I thought so too.
I gently held my four-legged friend as his vet gently euthanized him. I'd never done that before, held a pet when they were euthanized. It was a tough day. But I was honored to be with him. Perhaps I'll post more about him later.
I'm honored that I got to share in some of his life. He saw me through some of my darkest hours. I loved him dearly and will miss him...
The Wednesday night phone writing workshop was cancelled tonight, which was probably good for me. I got Epidural Number 26 yesterday, and today was the usual day-after-let-it-start-working rest day. I finally felt it begin its magic this evening. I'm thankful I have something that brings some quality, systemic relief. Maybe the day will come that I no longer need epidurals. My hope for that wanes and waxes. As I approach the appointed epidural time every 12ish weeks, I have to decrease my daily prednisone. When I do, I know yet again just how bad my symptoms are without steroids.
I recently finished reading the book Unoffendable by Brant Hansen. Brant is a Christian, and the book is written from that perspective. But I still liked it, very much. I'm sure I will refer back to it. Brant is an insightful writer, and funny. As I read the book I thought, If folks like Brant and Tom Talbott were the face of Christianity, it'd have a better reputation.
Sometime between 2008 and 2010, I "came out" as agnostic. Yet, even still, I hold onto some of my Christianity.
But Carol, how can you do that. You either believe or don't believe? There is no holding onto "some". That's what my be-either-hot-or-cold-or-he'll-spew-me-out-of-his-mouth compartment tells me. Scriptures like the spew one are the ones that nudge or push me to my agnostic side.
An aspect of biblical teaching that I have a huge problem with is sacrificial blood, that the only way to redeem mankind was by the shedding of blood. But, I really don't feel like typing out those thoughts now.
If I would again become a "believer," I'd have to go with the Christian Universalist doctrine. It makes the most sense to me. That is, that if Jesus did it for all and it truly is grace, there are no buts. No one will be eternally annihilated or eternally tormented. Everyone in the end will make into the kingdom. Yes, even Hitler. (Gasp!) To me, if the Jesus story is true, that's how big it is.
I learned about the book Unoffendable in January, a few days after I'd written my 2019 "goals". I found it via Twitter under a Jonathan Haidt thread. I read some of the preview pages on Amazon. The book seemed to line up with my 2019 goals (and it did). But I didn't purchase the book until this month.
Twitter. When I read through the political posts I am reminded of the anti-cult and cult camps. When I left The Way (a "cult") and got involved with cult activism ("anti-cult"), I eventually discovered that the two camps were almost like two peas in a pod...just at the two extreme poles of the pod. Both extremes accuse the other of black-white thinking and are consistently accusing the other side of evil motives. Each side name-calls and belittles the other. And yes, I'm guilty of some of that too. Maybe politics is always that way, or runs in cycles of extremes every so-many decades. And Trump feeds the mindset and encourages such, like it is a righteous thing. For the president of a country supposedly founded on ethical Judeo-Christian principles, that is wrong. His rhetoric and tactics remind me of Craig Martindale, the 2nd president of The Way. And yes, the far right of the GOP (which appears to be what the GOP is transforming into) reminds me of a cult more so than the left. If I were a republican, I'd be a never-Trumper. As an independent, I am a never-Trumper. I hope the democratic leadership doesn't screw things up so much that Trump wins again.
I don't want to end this blog entry on a Trump note. So, here's one more bit of news.
My four-legged blind friend died on July 3rd. He was staying with us from June 6th through July 6th. He had developed some more health issues in May. And they flared (plus more), beginning about the second week he was with us. His humans were unable to get back when he took a turn for the worse on the night of July 2; they were on a ship near Scotland. We communicated often. It was a hard decision for them to make while away, but I think they did the right thing. The dog's lifelong vet thought it was the compassionate thing to do. I thought so too.
I gently held my four-legged friend as his vet gently euthanized him. I'd never done that before, held a pet when they were euthanized. It was a tough day. But I was honored to be with him. Perhaps I'll post more about him later.
I'm honored that I got to share in some of his life. He saw me through some of my darkest hours. I loved him dearly and will miss him...
 |
You will always be in my heart. |
June 19, 2019
June 19th at Mizu...
From my journal.
Wednesday, June 19, 2019.
4:55 PM.
Mizu Japanese Restaurant on Robinhood.
Writing workshop is tonight, and I have nothing ready to read, though I have written multiple times. But to read one of my journal entries from the past week would sound like gibberish, would it not? Snippets of various thoughts and feelings. Meandering and pondering about stuff that is indecisive. Some of which I even feel shame over.
But when I think of how stupid and unintelligent I might sound, I think of Trump. And then I think, "I don't sound that stupid."
I struggle almost daily, or at least it feels like almost daily, and if not almost daily, it is more often than not - that I struggle with being comfortable in my own skin. At least when I have to interact with people.
I sit here at a table in Mizu Restaurant. It is too early for supper guests. I am the only patron at the moment. I have finished my meal and put my leftovers in one of my reusable to-go containers that I carry with me in Edward the Explorer. My little contribution to help reduce non-rottables in the landfills.
At the Sushi bar, located not far from my table, sit six employees. All Asian, four females and two males. They are speaking, what I assume is, Japanese. A lively conversation with laughter. Two of the ladies are rolling silverware into cloth napkins. One male Sushi chef is standing behind the bar, quiet and listening with a slight smile across his face. All look to be in their 20s or maybe early 30s, except one female who I'd guess is about 10 years older. But I really suck at age-guessing.
No one is looking at a cell phone. They are conversing, communicating in oral words with inflection and tone. It's like a song, but not a song. I have no idea what they are saying, but it is refreshing.
I am in the minority at the moment. A Caucasian, monolingual female, sipping green tea. The conversation of this majority relaxes me.
Wednesday, June 19, 2019.
4:55 PM.
Mizu Japanese Restaurant on Robinhood.
Writing workshop is tonight, and I have nothing ready to read, though I have written multiple times. But to read one of my journal entries from the past week would sound like gibberish, would it not? Snippets of various thoughts and feelings. Meandering and pondering about stuff that is indecisive. Some of which I even feel shame over.
But when I think of how stupid and unintelligent I might sound, I think of Trump. And then I think, "I don't sound that stupid."
I struggle almost daily, or at least it feels like almost daily, and if not almost daily, it is more often than not - that I struggle with being comfortable in my own skin. At least when I have to interact with people.
I sit here at a table in Mizu Restaurant. It is too early for supper guests. I am the only patron at the moment. I have finished my meal and put my leftovers in one of my reusable to-go containers that I carry with me in Edward the Explorer. My little contribution to help reduce non-rottables in the landfills.
At the Sushi bar, located not far from my table, sit six employees. All Asian, four females and two males. They are speaking, what I assume is, Japanese. A lively conversation with laughter. Two of the ladies are rolling silverware into cloth napkins. One male Sushi chef is standing behind the bar, quiet and listening with a slight smile across his face. All look to be in their 20s or maybe early 30s, except one female who I'd guess is about 10 years older. But I really suck at age-guessing.
No one is looking at a cell phone. They are conversing, communicating in oral words with inflection and tone. It's like a song, but not a song. I have no idea what they are saying, but it is refreshing.
I am in the minority at the moment. A Caucasian, monolingual female, sipping green tea. The conversation of this majority relaxes me.
June 4, 2019
Round #25: 4/18/19 - 7/16/19
I received my routine, cervical spine, trigger-point, steroid injections yesterday. Nine pokes at the base of my neck.
In my case my neck shots are not, and have never been, only for neck symptoms. The shots work systemically and address the inflammation at my nerve roots at my cervical spine area. They also give me a steroid boost so that I don't have to take as much oral prednisone between my every-12 week, lumbar, steroid epidurals. Injectable steroids have less side effects than oral.
From 2014 into 2017, I received neck injections every six weeks. I began to see marked improvement in 2017, after getting my metal-leaching hip implant replaced in 2016, and I was able to expand that timeframe from every six weeks to every twelve weeks.
I'm grateful that both the pain and weakness in my neck area have pretty much disappeared since my cobalt and chromium metal levels have come down. I don't know how many rounds of neck injections I've received since I started getting them in 2014; I haven't kept count like I have with my epidurals.
I began getting epidurals in December 2013. After receiving three within twenty-four weeks, I had to switch to getting one every twelve weeks because medically that's all that is allowed on a long term basis. On April 18, 2019, I received my twenty-fifth epidural.
Neither my neck injections nor my epidurals render me fully functional, but they temper the symptoms. I can think more clearly. I'm not as weak or as fatigued or as slow. My low-level, ubiquitous pain is relieved. Inflammation is calmed.
After injections (both neck and epidural) and before relief manifests, I feel strange sensations in my limbs. I guess the best way I can describe it is...a letting-down. Which brings to mind breastfeeding and the let-down sensation that happens when the milk flows from the breast. And that is how it kind of feels in my limbs, which makes sense when I think about it.
The breast is swollen with fluid, milk; and then the milk flows relieving the swell. Nutrients are then received by the infant. My nerve roots are swollen, clogged with nerve juice. Then the nerve juices flow freely relieving the swell. And my limbs get fed. The let-down sensation in my limbs lasts a day or two and is not as pronounced as it once was when my symptoms were worse. Worse is an understatement; for a few years they were terrifying.
I always lose weight the day after I get an epidural. Used to be, I'd lose 3 to 6 pounds, in one day. Now it's 2 to 3 pounds. My neurologist said that's not typical, but it is for me. Must be that the inflammation comes from extra fluid as my body tries to cope or address a perceived or real invader. Even though my blood work shows the cobalt and chromium levels are now normal, they may still be active, real invaders. There may be higher-than-normal stores in my tissues that don't register in the blood work. I don't know where that extra fluid goes after an epidural. But I lose weight and I feel smaller, until I gain it back as the weeks move along.
Below is my "trail guide" for this Round #25, which began on April 18. However, the end of this round may not culminate with an epidural. If I feel I'm ready to give it a try, instead of an epidural, I may get trigger-point injections in my lumbar region. They would be less invasive and less expensive than an epidural. Dr. Neurologist said to just let him know what I'd like to do when I get to my appointment. If I opt for the trigger-point experiment, and I don't get enough relief, I can get an epidural four weeks later.
I feel I tried to handle too much since I received my epidural on April 18, and even before that beginning in February. It's a constant balance: Do I push? Do I rest? Sometimes resting isn't restful, so I push.
Which brings to mind the weather and the moon and the ebb and flow of ocean waves. One learns to ride the waves and the storms. One learns to allow the waves to buoy the body. And humans have even walked on the moon. Trust is a crucial factor.
~*~
I received my 25th epidural on Thursday, April 18, 2019.
I'll receive my 26th on Tuesday, July 16, OR will try the trigger-point experiment.
Trail Guide. Round #25
April 18, 2019 thru July 16, 2019
Just as others go to work at jobs, my job & work is selfcare.
Due to only so much time & energy in a day, a job limits one's activities outside of the job.
My job is no exception. I have to go to my job.
I do not have to explain to anyone my lack of commitment to activities outside of my job.
Selfcare isn't selfish. With selfcare I am caring for others.
Stay open.
Sing out loud...
With the rocks & trees & wind & clouds...
Attune to their responses...
Gratitude.
Pace. Pace. Pace.
Stretch. Bike.
Water. Wood.
Rainbows 'round my room.
Acknowledge "little" daily accomplishments.
Have reasonable expectations.
Within that context ask myself, "What can I do today to help alleviate suffering in the world?"
Countdown:
Pre-week: completed Th, 4/25/19.
Week 1: Completed M, 4/29/19: easy does it
Week 2: Completed M, 5/06/19 (FL: 5/03-5/11)
Week 3: Completed M, 5/13/19 (Sophie: 5/17-5/18)
Week 4: Completed M, 5/20/19: easy does it (Annie & Massage: 5/21. AWW-1: 5/22)
Week 5: Completed M, 5/27/19: easy does it X2 (AWW-2: 5/29)
Week 6 (Reality is Week 6-1/2): Completed M, 6/03/19: easy does it X3
Week 8: Completed M, 6/17/19
Week 9: Completed M, 6/24/19: easy does it
Week 11: Completed M, 7/08/19: easy does it X3 (Oliver & crew: 7/06-7/12)
Week 12: Completed M, 7/15/19: easy does it X4
Signed: me, ceo ~ cyclist. explorer. overcomer.~
~*~
In my case my neck shots are not, and have never been, only for neck symptoms. The shots work systemically and address the inflammation at my nerve roots at my cervical spine area. They also give me a steroid boost so that I don't have to take as much oral prednisone between my every-12 week, lumbar, steroid epidurals. Injectable steroids have less side effects than oral.
From 2014 into 2017, I received neck injections every six weeks. I began to see marked improvement in 2017, after getting my metal-leaching hip implant replaced in 2016, and I was able to expand that timeframe from every six weeks to every twelve weeks.
I'm grateful that both the pain and weakness in my neck area have pretty much disappeared since my cobalt and chromium metal levels have come down. I don't know how many rounds of neck injections I've received since I started getting them in 2014; I haven't kept count like I have with my epidurals.
I began getting epidurals in December 2013. After receiving three within twenty-four weeks, I had to switch to getting one every twelve weeks because medically that's all that is allowed on a long term basis. On April 18, 2019, I received my twenty-fifth epidural.
Neither my neck injections nor my epidurals render me fully functional, but they temper the symptoms. I can think more clearly. I'm not as weak or as fatigued or as slow. My low-level, ubiquitous pain is relieved. Inflammation is calmed.
After injections (both neck and epidural) and before relief manifests, I feel strange sensations in my limbs. I guess the best way I can describe it is...a letting-down. Which brings to mind breastfeeding and the let-down sensation that happens when the milk flows from the breast. And that is how it kind of feels in my limbs, which makes sense when I think about it.
The breast is swollen with fluid, milk; and then the milk flows relieving the swell. Nutrients are then received by the infant. My nerve roots are swollen, clogged with nerve juice. Then the nerve juices flow freely relieving the swell. And my limbs get fed. The let-down sensation in my limbs lasts a day or two and is not as pronounced as it once was when my symptoms were worse. Worse is an understatement; for a few years they were terrifying.
I always lose weight the day after I get an epidural. Used to be, I'd lose 3 to 6 pounds, in one day. Now it's 2 to 3 pounds. My neurologist said that's not typical, but it is for me. Must be that the inflammation comes from extra fluid as my body tries to cope or address a perceived or real invader. Even though my blood work shows the cobalt and chromium levels are now normal, they may still be active, real invaders. There may be higher-than-normal stores in my tissues that don't register in the blood work. I don't know where that extra fluid goes after an epidural. But I lose weight and I feel smaller, until I gain it back as the weeks move along.
Below is my "trail guide" for this Round #25, which began on April 18. However, the end of this round may not culminate with an epidural. If I feel I'm ready to give it a try, instead of an epidural, I may get trigger-point injections in my lumbar region. They would be less invasive and less expensive than an epidural. Dr. Neurologist said to just let him know what I'd like to do when I get to my appointment. If I opt for the trigger-point experiment, and I don't get enough relief, I can get an epidural four weeks later.
I feel I tried to handle too much since I received my epidural on April 18, and even before that beginning in February. It's a constant balance: Do I push? Do I rest? Sometimes resting isn't restful, so I push.
Which brings to mind the weather and the moon and the ebb and flow of ocean waves. One learns to ride the waves and the storms. One learns to allow the waves to buoy the body. And humans have even walked on the moon. Trust is a crucial factor.
~*~
I received my 25th epidural on Thursday, April 18, 2019.
I'll receive my 26th on Tuesday, July 16, OR will try the trigger-point experiment.
Trail Guide. Round #25
April 18, 2019 thru July 16, 2019
Just as others go to work at jobs, my job & work is selfcare.
Due to only so much time & energy in a day, a job limits one's activities outside of the job.
My job is no exception. I have to go to my job.
I do not have to explain to anyone my lack of commitment to activities outside of my job.
Selfcare isn't selfish. With selfcare I am caring for others.
Stay open.
Sing out loud...
With the rocks & trees & wind & clouds...
Attune to their responses...
Gratitude.
Pace. Pace. Pace.
Stretch. Bike.
Water. Wood.
Rainbows 'round my room.
Acknowledge "little" daily accomplishments.
Have reasonable expectations.
Within that context ask myself, "What can I do today to help alleviate suffering in the world?"
Countdown:
Pre-week: completed Th, 4/25/19.
Week 1: Completed M, 4/29/19: easy does it
Week 2: Completed M, 5/06/19 (FL: 5/03-5/11)
Week 3: Completed M, 5/13/19 (Sophie: 5/17-5/18)
Week 4: Completed M, 5/20/19: easy does it (Annie & Massage: 5/21. AWW-1: 5/22)
Week 5: Completed M, 5/27/19: easy does it X2 (AWW-2: 5/29)
Week 6 (Reality is Week 6-1/2): Completed M, 6/03/19: easy does it X3
(Neck shots. Willis: 6/01-6/09. AWW-3: 6/05.)
Week 7: Completed M, 6/10/19 (Dieter: 6/06-7/06. AWW-4: 6/12.)Week 8: Completed M, 6/17/19
(Dieter groom & Annie: 6/18. Dieter: 6/06-7/06. AWW-5: 6/19.)
Week 9: Completed M, 6/24/19: easy does it
(Eli: 6/22-6/23. Massage: 6/24. Dieter: 6/06-7/06)
Week 10: Completed M, 7/01/19: easy does it X2 (Dieter: 6/06-7/06)Week 11: Completed M, 7/08/19: easy does it X3 (Oliver & crew: 7/06-7/12)
Week 12: Completed M, 7/15/19: easy does it X4
(7/16: Epidural #26 OR trigger-point experiment.)
Signed: me, ceo ~ cyclist. explorer. overcomer.~
~*~
May 30, 2019
Bug-splats
Today, Thursday, I need to work a few hours at my part-time job. I need to go by the credit union to withdraw cash to pay the housecleaners on Friday. And Sir Edward, my 1999 Ford Explorer, desperately needs a bath from our recent mountain excursion last Friday. So many bug-splats dotted across his windshield and hood and front grill. The automobile, another invention of humans that kills bugs. I didn't invent the machine, but as the machine operator, I am guilty.
That is a lot to accomplish today. I may fall short. And that is okay.
Friday, I really, really want to drive to the mountains and ride my bike. The mountains are usually 10 to 15 degrees cooler than where I live, here in the piedmont. I'm thankful the natural air conditioning is within an hour or so drive. Of course, I'll kill more bugs in the process especially on the drive home in the evening. I guess the bugs are attracted to the headlights, and that's why so many get splattered across Edward's face.
Riding my bike brings relief to my body and mind and emotions. I often ride alongside the New River, graced by the changing scenery of giant, ancient rocks holding up the mountains and of gentle rolling pastures with cows grazing like gentle giants, and the display of trees and wild flowers, and especially the fir and balsam trees whom I have called the guardians of the mountains because they wear their deep green all year long including through the winter months when the gentle shade trees drop their leaves. The conifer trees are another of the gentle giants, reminding me of faithfulness, like the sun and the moon; reminding me of strength and flexibility having endured sub-zero temperatures, ice and snow, howling strong winds, and lightening and heat.
I don't kill many bugs when riding my bike, even when it's dark out and I have to use my headlight. The bicycle, another invention of humans, but much gentler than the automobile. A cyclist can't help but eat a few bugs on a ride. I consider them low-calorie, low-fat protein.
That is a lot to accomplish today. I may fall short. And that is okay.
Friday, I really, really want to drive to the mountains and ride my bike. The mountains are usually 10 to 15 degrees cooler than where I live, here in the piedmont. I'm thankful the natural air conditioning is within an hour or so drive. Of course, I'll kill more bugs in the process especially on the drive home in the evening. I guess the bugs are attracted to the headlights, and that's why so many get splattered across Edward's face.
Riding my bike brings relief to my body and mind and emotions. I often ride alongside the New River, graced by the changing scenery of giant, ancient rocks holding up the mountains and of gentle rolling pastures with cows grazing like gentle giants, and the display of trees and wild flowers, and especially the fir and balsam trees whom I have called the guardians of the mountains because they wear their deep green all year long including through the winter months when the gentle shade trees drop their leaves. The conifer trees are another of the gentle giants, reminding me of faithfulness, like the sun and the moon; reminding me of strength and flexibility having endured sub-zero temperatures, ice and snow, howling strong winds, and lightening and heat.
I don't kill many bugs when riding my bike, even when it's dark out and I have to use my headlight. The bicycle, another invention of humans, but much gentler than the automobile. A cyclist can't help but eat a few bugs on a ride. I consider them low-calorie, low-fat protein.
May 29, 2019
Small places
Wednesday, 5/29/19
2:15 PM
I want to sleep. I want to eat. Both of those indicate me trying to recharge my battery.
After ten hours of sleep last night, I awoke this morning at 9:40 feeling exhausted. My body hurt. How can I describe the pain? Low level. Inflammatory. But what metaphor? I didn't feel like a punching bag.
I felt like a suitcase with too much in it. A tired suitcase that had traveled from plane to plane, shuttle to shuttle, conveyor belt to conveyor belt, turntable to turntable. It just wants to get home.
But at home what happens? It gets unpacked, aired out, and put in a dark closet to await the next time it is needed.
A dark closet sounds awful. Suffocating.
Yet that is how this illness feels as the benefits of the routine injections wear off.
One would think I'd be used to it by now. "It" being the predictable roller coaster. I know where the steep hills are. I know when to expect the crest of the hill and when I'll go down the other side and when the steep climb begins again. Over and over and over.
This has been the pattern since I began receiving routine steroid epidurals in December 2013. And even before that, since July 2011, the roller coaster was a predictable pattern as I would titrate my daily prednisone up and down, up and down, up and down.
Yet, after eight years, I am still not used to the roller coaster. Maybe that is a good thing. Maybe it indicates I am not giving up the hope that I can get off steroids and still reasonably function.
On the other hand, my not-getting-used-to-it might indicate that I am in a type of denial of irreparable damage.
Yet I'm not naïve enough to think that eight years of daily prednisone, along with 5-1/2 years of steroid injections every 6 to 12 weeks, has not damaged my normal adrenal function. I question if my adrenal glands could reasonably function at all right now without steroid supplementation. And what of the eight years of a metal hip implant leaching cobalt and chromium into my body, slowly poisoning it from within?
And then there is the trauma from my ex-mental health therapist which began in 2010 and crescendoed in 2011 when he tried to smear my character with outright lies. In 2012, NY state flew me to Albany to be a witness for the state in front of the state licensing board. In 2014, he lost his license. That alone would tax even healthy adrenal glands.
I was a loyal follower of The Way International for 28 years, a true believer. I left and got involved for a short time with an ex-Way splinter group. I got deeply involved in an anti-Way online forum. I drifted from the splinter group. I became anathema at the anti-Way online forum after I stood up for someone who, unknown to me at the time, was a nemesis of the forum administrator.
That's why I hired a then-licensed mental health therapist who supposedly specialized in cult recovery. He became my mentor and 'colleague" in cult-recovery activism. Then we became "friends." Boundaries became blurred; I found myself enmeshed again. All the while I was his client. And then he tried to smear my character among the cult-recovery community. He was partially successful.
And that's only a fraction of the trauma and loss since the onset of this dis-ease.
It's a wonder I'm doing as well as I am.
2:15 PM
I want to sleep. I want to eat. Both of those indicate me trying to recharge my battery.
After ten hours of sleep last night, I awoke this morning at 9:40 feeling exhausted. My body hurt. How can I describe the pain? Low level. Inflammatory. But what metaphor? I didn't feel like a punching bag.
I felt like a suitcase with too much in it. A tired suitcase that had traveled from plane to plane, shuttle to shuttle, conveyor belt to conveyor belt, turntable to turntable. It just wants to get home.
But at home what happens? It gets unpacked, aired out, and put in a dark closet to await the next time it is needed.
A dark closet sounds awful. Suffocating.
Yet that is how this illness feels as the benefits of the routine injections wear off.
One would think I'd be used to it by now. "It" being the predictable roller coaster. I know where the steep hills are. I know when to expect the crest of the hill and when I'll go down the other side and when the steep climb begins again. Over and over and over.
This has been the pattern since I began receiving routine steroid epidurals in December 2013. And even before that, since July 2011, the roller coaster was a predictable pattern as I would titrate my daily prednisone up and down, up and down, up and down.
Yet, after eight years, I am still not used to the roller coaster. Maybe that is a good thing. Maybe it indicates I am not giving up the hope that I can get off steroids and still reasonably function.
On the other hand, my not-getting-used-to-it might indicate that I am in a type of denial of irreparable damage.
Yet I'm not naïve enough to think that eight years of daily prednisone, along with 5-1/2 years of steroid injections every 6 to 12 weeks, has not damaged my normal adrenal function. I question if my adrenal glands could reasonably function at all right now without steroid supplementation. And what of the eight years of a metal hip implant leaching cobalt and chromium into my body, slowly poisoning it from within?
And then there is the trauma from my ex-mental health therapist which began in 2010 and crescendoed in 2011 when he tried to smear my character with outright lies. In 2012, NY state flew me to Albany to be a witness for the state in front of the state licensing board. In 2014, he lost his license. That alone would tax even healthy adrenal glands.
I was a loyal follower of The Way International for 28 years, a true believer. I left and got involved for a short time with an ex-Way splinter group. I got deeply involved in an anti-Way online forum. I drifted from the splinter group. I became anathema at the anti-Way online forum after I stood up for someone who, unknown to me at the time, was a nemesis of the forum administrator.
That's why I hired a then-licensed mental health therapist who supposedly specialized in cult recovery. He became my mentor and 'colleague" in cult-recovery activism. Then we became "friends." Boundaries became blurred; I found myself enmeshed again. All the while I was his client. And then he tried to smear my character among the cult-recovery community. He was partially successful.
And that's only a fraction of the trauma and loss since the onset of this dis-ease.
It's a wonder I'm doing as well as I am.
February 13, 2019
Room enough for dreams...
Cross-posted from my poetry blog.
~*~
When my muse seems absent,
where does it hide?
I know it always follows me,
hanging around without stepping into the light.
I wish it would take the lead, more often.
If I could climb into my shadow,
what would I see?
Is that where my vivid sleep-dreams originate?
Somewhere in my two-dimensional shadow?
If so, my shadow has more than two dimensions.
As a child, I thought my sleep-dreams took place in my torso.
There simply wasn't enough physical space in my head
for all the people and animals and beings from another realm,
for all the running and climbing and sailing and flying
and floating in midair, which is different than flying.
The only part of my body
with room enough for all those happenings
was in my torso.
Thus my torso is where I thought
my sleep-dreams happen.
As an adult, I still feel that way,
that my sleep-dreams happen in my torso,
even though science says that our sleep-dreams
happen in the brain in our heads.
But the heart is in the torso.
Maybe science is wrong...
~*~
When my muse seems absent,
where does it hide?
I know it always follows me,
hanging around without stepping into the light.
I wish it would take the lead, more often.
If I could climb into my shadow,
what would I see?
Is that where my vivid sleep-dreams originate?
Somewhere in my two-dimensional shadow?
If so, my shadow has more than two dimensions.
As a child, I thought my sleep-dreams took place in my torso.
There simply wasn't enough physical space in my head
for all the people and animals and beings from another realm,
for all the running and climbing and sailing and flying
and floating in midair, which is different than flying.
The only part of my body
with room enough for all those happenings
was in my torso.
Thus my torso is where I thought
my sleep-dreams happen.
As an adult, I still feel that way,
that my sleep-dreams happen in my torso,
even though science says that our sleep-dreams
happen in the brain in our heads.
But the heart is in the torso.
Maybe science is wrong...
 |
| Rocky Knob. Virginia. Circa 2009(?). |
January 28, 2019
Outstretched wings...Round #24
Entertaining visuals often visit me in my sleep dreams. Dr. Seuss-type animals, like wildebeest-wolf hybrids running in a herd at Grayson Highlands State Park in Virginia. Or tiny pink elephants running in a line up the living room wall next to the doorway in Mom and Dad's old house, the home where I grew up.
Last night I dreamt of miniature calico pigs who jumped into a pond and swam. When they got out they gave each other kisses. They were so cute! But then I learned from an animal guide at the pond that the humans were trying to teach the pigs to not kiss so much; they had developed raw spots on their chins and noses.
Last night's dream also included Hubby and I flying in the open air above a waterway as we sat straddled upon something; seems like it was a long cardboard box with stationary, cardboard wings. We were in Florida, flying north. To our right in the distance, also flying north, were a teenage-boy standing upon one of the two outstretched wings of a giant heron, and a girl-child sitting upon one of the outstretched wings of a giant seagull. I was amazed at their ability to balance upon these flying winged creatures and how easy they made it look.
Upon rising one morning sometime in the past few weeks, my first conscious thought was, What can I do today to help alleviate suffering in the world? I can't recall what I dreamt the preceding night.
The question somewhat startled me. I've asked it of myself multiple times since.
~*~
I received my 24th epidural on Monday, January 21, 2019.
I'll receive my 25th on Thursday, April 18, 2019, or thereabouts.
Trail Guide. Round #24
January 21, 2019, thru April 18, 2019
Just as others go to work at jobs, my job & work is selfcare.
Selfcare isn't selfish. With selfcare I am caring for others.
Due to only so much time & energy in a day, a job limits one's activities outside of the job.
My job is no exception. I have to go to my job.
I do not have to explain to anyone my lack of commitment to activities outside my job.
Remind myself, "Easy. Easy." Lower expectations to regulate frustrations.
Factor in some certainties, so I feel more tethered to what is important & to help keep me grounded.
At the same time remember that weather is always changing. "It's wind, man. It blows all over the place."
Remind myself, "I have intrinsic value. My experiences & knowledge count."
When I arise, ask myself, "What can I do today to help alleviate suffering?"
May I be present.
May I have ease of well being.
May I be peaceful.
May I embrace 10,000 sorrows & 10,000 joys.
Countdown:
Week 1: Completed M, 1/28/19: easy does it
Week 2: Completed M, 2/04/19
Week 3: Completed M, 2/11/19
Week 4: Completed M, 2/18/19: easy does it
Week 5: Completed M, 2/25/19: easy does it X2
Week 6: Completed Tu, 3/05/19: easy does it X3
Week 8: Completed Tu, 3/19/19
Week 9: Completed Tu, 3/26/19: easy does it
Week 10: Completed Tu, 4/02/19: easy does it X2
Week 11: Completed Tu, 4/09/19: easy does it X3
Week 12: Completed Tu, 4/16/19: easy does it X4
Signed: me, ceo ~ cyclist. explorer. overcomer.~
Last night I dreamt of miniature calico pigs who jumped into a pond and swam. When they got out they gave each other kisses. They were so cute! But then I learned from an animal guide at the pond that the humans were trying to teach the pigs to not kiss so much; they had developed raw spots on their chins and noses.
Last night's dream also included Hubby and I flying in the open air above a waterway as we sat straddled upon something; seems like it was a long cardboard box with stationary, cardboard wings. We were in Florida, flying north. To our right in the distance, also flying north, were a teenage-boy standing upon one of the two outstretched wings of a giant heron, and a girl-child sitting upon one of the outstretched wings of a giant seagull. I was amazed at their ability to balance upon these flying winged creatures and how easy they made it look.
Upon rising one morning sometime in the past few weeks, my first conscious thought was, What can I do today to help alleviate suffering in the world? I can't recall what I dreamt the preceding night.
The question somewhat startled me. I've asked it of myself multiple times since.
~*~
I received my 24th epidural on Monday, January 21, 2019.
I'll receive my 25th on Thursday, April 18, 2019, or thereabouts.
Trail Guide. Round #24
January 21, 2019, thru April 18, 2019
Just as others go to work at jobs, my job & work is selfcare.
Selfcare isn't selfish. With selfcare I am caring for others.
Due to only so much time & energy in a day, a job limits one's activities outside of the job.
My job is no exception. I have to go to my job.
I do not have to explain to anyone my lack of commitment to activities outside my job.
Remind myself, "Easy. Easy." Lower expectations to regulate frustrations.
Factor in some certainties, so I feel more tethered to what is important & to help keep me grounded.
At the same time remember that weather is always changing. "It's wind, man. It blows all over the place."
Remind myself, "I have intrinsic value. My experiences & knowledge count."
When I arise, ask myself, "What can I do today to help alleviate suffering?"
May I be present.
May I have ease of well being.
May I be peaceful.
May I embrace 10,000 sorrows & 10,000 joys.
Countdown:
Week 1: Completed M, 1/28/19: easy does it
Week 2: Completed M, 2/04/19
Week 3: Completed M, 2/11/19
Week 4: Completed M, 2/18/19: easy does it
Week 5: Completed M, 2/25/19: easy does it X2
Week 6: Completed Tu, 3/05/19: easy does it X3
(Neck shots.)
Week 7: Completed Tu, 3/12/19Week 8: Completed Tu, 3/19/19
Week 9: Completed Tu, 3/26/19: easy does it
Week 10: Completed Tu, 4/02/19: easy does it X2
Week 11: Completed Tu, 4/09/19: easy does it X3
Week 12: Completed Tu, 4/16/19: easy does it X4
(Epidural #25. Th, 4/18/19)
Signed: me, ceo ~ cyclist. explorer. overcomer.~
January 18, 2019
I'll be glad when winter is over
Cross-posted from my poetry blog.
~*~
I'll be glad when winter is over.
But that could be the end of March.
Ugh.
Until then, I'll trudge along...
After all these years,
I'm still amazed at the relief cycling brings
to my brain and body and soul.
But I don't get as much soul-relief when cycling indoors
compared to cycling through woods and meadows and mountains.
Soul-relief comes when my soul is filled, satisfied.
Where do I experience that?
When is my soul lifted beyond the material?
When I solo-travel into nature,
cycling greenways and rail-trails
and driving the winding roads of the Blue Ridge Mountains
as I listen to music, which also
feeds my soul.
I am transported into the multidimensional,
a space in time where I feel connected and whole,
where Father Time seems to slow down and whisper,
"This is what you were made to do..."
Life pulsates all around-within.
The presence and witness of the trees
and ancient rocks and cliffs and the rolling river.
The presence and witness of gnomes and tree fairies,
whether or not they really exist.
The presence and witness of wildlife,
who oftentimes make themselves known.
Sometimes our eyes meet and time stands still.
Sometimes the life moves alongside or above or below me.
Upon answering my two questions,
which for me are really one,
I felt a tiny inkling of guilt.
Shouldn't my answer be when I am with friends or family or loved ones,
the people dearest to my heart?
Or when I witness another's freedom from a long-term bondage,
another's wellness and wholeness?
But if I were to choose my two shouldn't-answers,
I would be lying.
I'll be glad when winter is over.
Until then, I'll pedal mostly indoors
allowing memories to roll me along
into the multidimensional...
~*~
I'll be glad when winter is over.
But that could be the end of March.
Ugh.
Until then, I'll trudge along...
After all these years,
I'm still amazed at the relief cycling brings
to my brain and body and soul.
But I don't get as much soul-relief when cycling indoors
compared to cycling through woods and meadows and mountains.
Soul-relief comes when my soul is filled, satisfied.
Where do I experience that?
When is my soul lifted beyond the material?
When I solo-travel into nature,
cycling greenways and rail-trails
and driving the winding roads of the Blue Ridge Mountains
as I listen to music, which also
feeds my soul.
I am transported into the multidimensional,
a space in time where I feel connected and whole,
where Father Time seems to slow down and whisper,
"This is what you were made to do..."
Life pulsates all around-within.
The presence and witness of the trees
and ancient rocks and cliffs and the rolling river.
The presence and witness of gnomes and tree fairies,
whether or not they really exist.
The presence and witness of wildlife,
who oftentimes make themselves known.
Sometimes our eyes meet and time stands still.
Sometimes the life moves alongside or above or below me.
Upon answering my two questions,
which for me are really one,
I felt a tiny inkling of guilt.
Shouldn't my answer be when I am with friends or family or loved ones,
the people dearest to my heart?
Or when I witness another's freedom from a long-term bondage,
another's wellness and wholeness?
But if I were to choose my two shouldn't-answers,
I would be lying.
I'll be glad when winter is over.
Until then, I'll pedal mostly indoors
allowing memories to roll me along
into the multidimensional...
January 16, 2019
Working Things Out
Five days from now I will get my 24th steroid lumbar epidural.
I received my first one in December, 2013.
I'm so tired of them.
Yet, without them, I am so tired and weak, slow and shaky.
It's not unusual when an epidural is closely approaching that I'll think, Maybe I won't need one this time. Maybe I'm doing well enough that I can function well enough without it, and just get neck shots instead of the epidural.
I was thinking that last night, as I sat on the chair in our bedroom, a straight back chair that we inherited from Mom after she died. Or maybe we got it before she died. Mom died in February, 2009. I like the chair. The back is made of thinly cut wood in a woven-type pattern; it's not wood slats. The chair has wooden arms. The seat is upholstered with a fabric printed with foliage of deep greens and blues and golden and burgundies. It'd probably be three shades lighter if I ever got it cleaned.
I sat, brushing my teeth with the electric toothbrush mulling over the next day, which is now today. What do I need to do tomorrow? Okay. I need to feed myself. I need to bathe. I need to dress. I need to do my stretches. I'd like to ride my indoor bike. And I have writing workshop tomorrow night.
Then, as I've done a multitude of times, I let out a half-sigh and a "hmmpf," simultaneously thinking, What normal person thinks like that? I need to feed myself? I need to bathe? I need to dress? These are things most people do without having to calculate the effort required to do them.
This isn't the first time I've been through that thought process. That maybe I won't need my epidural and then in an instant of clarity - in that moment as I struggle to put on socks or get dressed or put on a seatbelt or whatever - the reality hits me that this isn't "normal." But it is normal for me, until I get the temporary relief that the epidural provides.
How can I ever communicate how hard it is to live with the constant calculation of tasks that would be routine if I weren't challenged by this dis-ease?
Yet, I have progressed much from where I was, even a year ago.
As I titrate down on my daily prednisone this week, come Sunday or Monday, I'll know if I feel confident enough to get neck shots instead of the epidural. It's a scary thought to me. How well would I be able to function with just the neck shots and not the epidural?
I started reading James Comey's book this week, A Higher Loyalty. It wasn't on my reading list. It was on the shelf at the used bookstore. I forget what section of the bookstore. But a section that I was interested in, as I sat on the seat of my walker perusing titles. It was $7.00, a hardback. I bought it. I prefer hardbacks.
In the last line of the Introduction Comey writes, "How on earth did I end up here?"
I don't know how many times I've asked myself that same question over the past eight or so years.
It's a long damn answer.
I received my first one in December, 2013.
I'm so tired of them.
Yet, without them, I am so tired and weak, slow and shaky.
It's not unusual when an epidural is closely approaching that I'll think, Maybe I won't need one this time. Maybe I'm doing well enough that I can function well enough without it, and just get neck shots instead of the epidural.
I was thinking that last night, as I sat on the chair in our bedroom, a straight back chair that we inherited from Mom after she died. Or maybe we got it before she died. Mom died in February, 2009. I like the chair. The back is made of thinly cut wood in a woven-type pattern; it's not wood slats. The chair has wooden arms. The seat is upholstered with a fabric printed with foliage of deep greens and blues and golden and burgundies. It'd probably be three shades lighter if I ever got it cleaned.
I sat, brushing my teeth with the electric toothbrush mulling over the next day, which is now today. What do I need to do tomorrow? Okay. I need to feed myself. I need to bathe. I need to dress. I need to do my stretches. I'd like to ride my indoor bike. And I have writing workshop tomorrow night.
Then, as I've done a multitude of times, I let out a half-sigh and a "hmmpf," simultaneously thinking, What normal person thinks like that? I need to feed myself? I need to bathe? I need to dress? These are things most people do without having to calculate the effort required to do them.
This isn't the first time I've been through that thought process. That maybe I won't need my epidural and then in an instant of clarity - in that moment as I struggle to put on socks or get dressed or put on a seatbelt or whatever - the reality hits me that this isn't "normal." But it is normal for me, until I get the temporary relief that the epidural provides.
How can I ever communicate how hard it is to live with the constant calculation of tasks that would be routine if I weren't challenged by this dis-ease?
Yet, I have progressed much from where I was, even a year ago.
As I titrate down on my daily prednisone this week, come Sunday or Monday, I'll know if I feel confident enough to get neck shots instead of the epidural. It's a scary thought to me. How well would I be able to function with just the neck shots and not the epidural?
I started reading James Comey's book this week, A Higher Loyalty. It wasn't on my reading list. It was on the shelf at the used bookstore. I forget what section of the bookstore. But a section that I was interested in, as I sat on the seat of my walker perusing titles. It was $7.00, a hardback. I bought it. I prefer hardbacks.
In the last line of the Introduction Comey writes, "How on earth did I end up here?"
I don't know how many times I've asked myself that same question over the past eight or so years.
It's a long damn answer.
January 5, 2019
2059 in 2018: Rollin', rollin', rollin' ...
Cross-posted from my cycling blog.
*~*
In April, 2018, I began my cycling blog. I titled it Adventures with Olivia.
On April 19th I posted my first entry. I gave it a very creative title: First Post.
From April 19th through July 11th, I posted entries about specific rides.
On July 26th, I began posting a summary-for-the-month entry, which lists each ride for that month with links to tweets of the corresponding ride. Since then, I have not posted any entries about specific rides.
On September 11, I bought a new bike and named her Bleu, short for Black Beauty.
I then changed the title of the blog to Adventures with Olivia & Bleu.
I'm glad I began this blog and the summary entries.
The summaries are an easy way to collate my rides.
The entries with their corresponding links provide a tangible storehouse for my memories, encouraging me to continue onward, reminding me that even though I'm abled-differently, I can do.
I pedaled a total of 2058.6 miles in 2018.
Below I've listed my mileage for each month of 2018 with links to corresponding entries.
The miles represent more than just miles...
2018: Miles per month
*~*
In April, 2018, I began my cycling blog. I titled it Adventures with Olivia.
On April 19th I posted my first entry. I gave it a very creative title: First Post.
From April 19th through July 11th, I posted entries about specific rides.
On July 26th, I began posting a summary-for-the-month entry, which lists each ride for that month with links to tweets of the corresponding ride. Since then, I have not posted any entries about specific rides.
On September 11, I bought a new bike and named her Bleu, short for Black Beauty.
I then changed the title of the blog to Adventures with Olivia & Bleu.
I'm glad I began this blog and the summary entries.
The summaries are an easy way to collate my rides.
The entries with their corresponding links provide a tangible storehouse for my memories, encouraging me to continue onward, reminding me that even though I'm abled-differently, I can do.
I pedaled a total of 2058.6 miles in 2018.
Below I've listed my mileage for each month of 2018 with links to corresponding entries.
The miles represent more than just miles...
Cycling hillsides and woodlands is, dare I say, as lifegiving to me as breathing. It provides pain relief, energy, movement, mental acuity, purpose, confidence, adventure, solace, companionship, communion, hope - all of which have suffered since developing polyradiculitis.
Unlike walking, when I cycle, I do not have to carry my body weight. My bicycle supports me. I do not have to lift my legs. They push the pedals round and round which acts as leverage to move me forward. I do not have to use my arms and hands for anything except support, steering, and changing my gears.
My bicycles, Olivia and Bleu...they truly are my freedom.
Freedom because my body feels lighter on wheels - I do not have to work so hard in order to move.
Freedom from the concentration and calculations required to perform routine, daily self-care tasks - my mind has more margin.
Freedom from having to string together words in order to communicate - there is no need to explain anything to anyone.
In those moments - cycling the wind, immersed in communion with nature - words aren't necessary; sentences even less so. In those moments, the linear alphabet - strung into words, stretched into sentences - feels a primitive and archaic way to communicate. In the woods, among wildlife and trees, is where I feel most alive, most connected.
Unlike walking, when I cycle, I do not have to carry my body weight. My bicycle supports me. I do not have to lift my legs. They push the pedals round and round which acts as leverage to move me forward. I do not have to use my arms and hands for anything except support, steering, and changing my gears.
My bicycles, Olivia and Bleu...they truly are my freedom.
Freedom because my body feels lighter on wheels - I do not have to work so hard in order to move.
Freedom from the concentration and calculations required to perform routine, daily self-care tasks - my mind has more margin.
Freedom from having to string together words in order to communicate - there is no need to explain anything to anyone.
In those moments - cycling the wind, immersed in communion with nature - words aren't necessary; sentences even less so. In those moments, the linear alphabet - strung into words, stretched into sentences - feels a primitive and archaic way to communicate. In the woods, among wildlife and trees, is where I feel most alive, most connected.
2018: Miles per month
- January: 124.5 ~Salem Lake, 1/24/18
- February: 64.6 ~American Tobacco Trail, 2/15/18
- March: 62.4 ~Mt. Airy Greenway, 3/16/18
- April: 147.1 ~April Entries
- May: 216.9 ~May Entries
- June: 187.8 ~June Entries
- July: 224 ~Memories: July Rides, 2018
- August: 227 ~Miles of Smiles: August Rides, 2018
- September: 280.7 ~Rolling Toward Autumn: September rides, 2018
- October: 227 ~October, 2018, rides: Herons & Deer & Praying Mantises
- November: 176 ~November, 2018: Pedal Carol Pedal
- December: 120.6 ~December, 2018: 0 to 21.2
Total miles: 2058.6, or 2059 rounded up.
 |
| Salem Lake. 1/24/18 |
 |
| Neuse River Trail. 4/19/18 |
 |
John entering Austinville tunnel. |
 |
Ponce Inlet route. |
 |
| Neuse River Trail. 6/07/18. |
 |
One of the tank farms. |
 |
| Railroad Grade Road. 7/28/18. |
 |
| Mt. Airy Greenway. 9/05/18. |
 |
Great heron flasher pose. Yes, that's what it's called. |
 |
| New River Trail. 11/19/1918. Night cycling. |
 |
| Mt. Airy Greenway. 12/03/18. |
January 4, 2019
"New Year" "Resolutions"
I don't make "New Year" "resolutions."
That doesn't mean I don't set "goals;" I do.
Just not as "resolutions" and not necessarily at the "New Year" which begins for most (if not all?) human societies on January 1st, every year.
I think more in terms of "focus," rather than "resolution."
Like a "goal," a "focus" can change, culminate, or be discarded depending on what life presents, on circumstances outside one's control, or on whatever.
So, I currently have three (plus three more, added later) personal "focuses" for 2019:
Rereading those, they sound like "goals."
And maybe they are.
But, I'm still gonna call them "focuses."
And maybe they will evolve into "resolutions."
*~*
~*~
Regarding January 1st as the "New Year," I recently wrote in a poem:
That doesn't mean I don't set "goals;" I do.
Just not as "resolutions" and not necessarily at the "New Year" which begins for most (if not all?) human societies on January 1st, every year.
I think more in terms of "focus," rather than "resolution."
Like a "goal," a "focus" can change, culminate, or be discarded depending on what life presents, on circumstances outside one's control, or on whatever.
So, I currently have three (plus three more, added later) personal "focuses" for 2019:
1) Tribe
Find myself among folks with integrity, compassion, respect, empathy. Is it possible to attract this? I don't know, but I can at least be on the lookout. (The word "tribe" in the current political polarization may have an almost inflammatory connotation. I hate when words get hijacked like that. When I chose the word "tribe," the current connotation didn't even enter my mind. Too often I feel misplaced, like I don't really have a 'tribe.')
2) Biases
Figure out what to do to allow them to loosen their grip. Be aware of the hue they paint in my filter from my perch. Endeavor to change that hue; is it distorting the view? Shift my position on my perch to gain a different perspective. If needed, change perches; at least momentarily. Seek how to forgive the unforgiveable, and whether or not that is a worthwhile pursuit. All this applies especially in regard to my "hold-out" against the psychopathic personality.
3) Flash-feelings
Don't ignore and dismiss them when they glimpse themselves momentarily and immediately go back into hiding, especially the often-recurring ones. Recall, observe, identify, and examine to find out why they glimpse-and-ghost.
Find myself among folks with integrity, compassion, respect, empathy. Is it possible to attract this? I don't know, but I can at least be on the lookout. (The word "tribe" in the current political polarization may have an almost inflammatory connotation. I hate when words get hijacked like that. When I chose the word "tribe," the current connotation didn't even enter my mind. Too often I feel misplaced, like I don't really have a 'tribe.')
2) Biases
Figure out what to do to allow them to loosen their grip. Be aware of the hue they paint in my filter from my perch. Endeavor to change that hue; is it distorting the view? Shift my position on my perch to gain a different perspective. If needed, change perches; at least momentarily. Seek how to forgive the unforgiveable, and whether or not that is a worthwhile pursuit. All this applies especially in regard to my "hold-out" against the psychopathic personality.
3) Flash-feelings
Don't ignore and dismiss them when they glimpse themselves momentarily and immediately go back into hiding, especially the often-recurring ones. Recall, observe, identify, and examine to find out why they glimpse-and-ghost.
Rereading those, they sound like "goals."
And maybe they are.
But, I'm still gonna call them "focuses."
And maybe they will evolve into "resolutions."
*~*
1/15/19, added note
A few days after I posted this blog piece, as I thought over "goals" and "focuses" and "themes," it dawned on me that, maybe more importantly than the 3 "focuses" listed above are three underlying "focuses."
A few days after I posted this blog piece, as I thought over "goals" and "focuses" and "themes," it dawned on me that, maybe more importantly than the 3 "focuses" listed above are three underlying "focuses."
1) Gratitude
To have lived almost 60 years and never have gone without food except by choice; that alone is cause for gratitude.
2) Service
Before my disability, I sought to serve. Now, I hold back. I have to. If I overextend, the price is too detrimental. Then I end up needing someone to serve me. So, if I first serve myself in the sense of self-care, recognizing and accepting my current limitations, that is serving others. Consider how my choices affect others. Ask myself, "What can I do to help alleviate suffering in the world?" Recognize that begins at home.
3) Humility
This ties in with "Biases" above. Thomas Carlyle's and Ralph Waldo Emerson's statements apply here, somehow even to my "hold-outs." ~"...every man is my superior in some way; in that I learn from him."
To have lived almost 60 years and never have gone without food except by choice; that alone is cause for gratitude.
2) Service
Before my disability, I sought to serve. Now, I hold back. I have to. If I overextend, the price is too detrimental. Then I end up needing someone to serve me. So, if I first serve myself in the sense of self-care, recognizing and accepting my current limitations, that is serving others. Consider how my choices affect others. Ask myself, "What can I do to help alleviate suffering in the world?" Recognize that begins at home.
3) Humility
This ties in with "Biases" above. Thomas Carlyle's and Ralph Waldo Emerson's statements apply here, somehow even to my "hold-outs." ~"...every man is my superior in some way; in that I learn from him."
~*~
Regarding January 1st as the "New Year," I recently wrote in a poem:
Man devised a calendar numbering the days.
I think Nature's New Year would be the moment after Winter Solstice,
when Sun begins to shine longer in the day-sky,
starting the cycle anew, again.
Each year would have two different New Years,
one in the North and one in the South.
If a body had the means to live in each hemisphere,
they could begin a New Year every six months.
I think Nature's New Year would be the moment after Winter Solstice,
when Sun begins to shine longer in the day-sky,
starting the cycle anew, again.
Each year would have two different New Years,
one in the North and one in the South.
If a body had the means to live in each hemisphere,
they could begin a New Year every six months.