A ghost story...

Okay, so if I just start writing, what will come out?

Ah, what about the toilet valve story?

If I share that one, readers might think I've really lost my marbles. 

Marbles.. 

Varied in color and size...

Some large, some small... 

Some solid-colored, others marbled...

After all, they are marbles...

So, from my journal archives...

The ghost story...

.

~*~*

Wednesday, May 22, 2019

Shortly after waking up, I make my way to the bathroom, sit down on the toilet seat, and pee. 
Once finished, I push the lever and swoosh-choo, down goes the water waste. 

But then nothing; the bowl isn't filling up. 

That's odd, I think. 

Is the toilet valve off?

I sit on the floor gazing at the valve. 

Is it off or on? I don't want to break it, if it's on. 

I first put my right hand on the valve, then my left.

My hands and arms are weak; it will take both hands to turn it. if I can turn it.

I remind myself of the rhyme, Lefty loosie, righty tighty. 

But the valve won't budge either direction. 

I don't want to apply more strength and possibly break it. 

I text Hubby, "Good morning. Did you turn off the toilet valve in the front bathroom?" 

I wait about ten minutes. 

No response.

I try calling, but the call goes straight to voicemail.

I don't leave a message.

I gaze at the toilet valve. 

I again attempt to turn it to the left, putting more strength into my effort. 

It turns! 

As it turns the toilet fills with water, then stops when it is full.

So weird. Why would Hubby turn off the water? 

What if he didn't turn off the water? 

What if there is someone hiding in the house? 

My heart skips five beats.

Carol, calm down. That's just crazy.

How would anyone get in? 

And when?

"Anybody in here!?!" I shout with cautious confidence.

I bang on closet doors and open them. 

I feel like a child making sure the boogie man isn't under my bed.

I am quivering inside and out.

Okay Carol, calm down. 

Maybe Hubby turned off the valve. 

But why?

Well, if a person didn't turn it off; was it a ghost?

We've had ghost-like incidents before.

But nothing so blatant as this.

I shake my head.

I recall one of those incidents...

Remember the shadow you saw years ago, around 12 AM walking into Son's room? 

You thought Son had come home. So, you went into his room to say "Hi," but no one was there. 

You chalked it up to your eyes playing tricks on you. 

But still, that shadow has lingered in your memory.

I immediately close the door to Son's old room.

I move the TV tray in the hall, that holds the humidifier, in front of the door.
If someone or something opens it and walks out, it will make a racket. 

From the stairs at the end of the hall, I sit and watch for shadows below the door. 

We have all hardwood floors so there's a gap at the bottom of all our doors.

Then Hubby texts, "No. I didn't turn off the water."

I read it. 

Holy shit...

I immediately call Hubby.

He answers.

"Holy fuck," I say out loud. 

"The toilet valve was turned off. I checked closets but there are no signs of anyone being in the house. Should I call the police? Or Neighbor? But they'll think I'm nuts."

I'm quivering inside and out. 

I'm more concerned about an actual person than a ghost.

I let Hubby know that I'd made noise, opened closet doors, and put the TV tray in front of Son's door.

"That's really weird," Hubby responds after a pause of silence. 

"Wow."

Another pause.

We talk for a few minutes, and both decide that I shouldn't call anyone. 

But I'm on guard the rest of the morning.

Once I'm convinced that no one is indeed in the house, I ponder the situation...

Well, maybe it is a ghost.

Or maybe it's an angel, or something.

But why the toilet valve? 

I mean, why not do something useful like wash the dishes or clean the house? 

About five days later. as I lay on the bathroom floor taking in a coffee enema which is supposed to help my liver detox the heavy metals and any poisons I've absorbed, I stare at the valve.

I tilt my head to the right multiple times as I think, Off.

I tilt my head to the left multiple times as I think, On.

 The On-Off thoughts then change to...

Opened....

Closed...

Oh my gosh. 

I just wrote in my journal last week that I need to remain open. 

Open to possibilities beyond my five senses. 

Opened...

Closed...

I repeat while tilting my head to the left and then the right as I stare at the valve...

~*~*

We never discover anything in the five-senses realm to explain how the valve was securely turned off...

Neither Hubby nor I are sleepwalkers...

I doubt angels, ghosts, or Spirit need sleep...

~*~*

Related post: Filled with purpose...

~*~*~

When I posted this piece, I couldn't think of a song to go with it...

A few days later, Pandora played Ghostbusters...

Oh yeah! I chuckled...

"I ain't 'fraid of no ghosts..."

Ray Parker Jr. with Ghostbusters...

~*~*~

"Let it ride..."

I recently wrote a blog piece about acceptance. 

Within a day or so, another "A" word come to mind -- Adaptation. 

Every living thing has to adapt. 

As I pondered my current plight of how difficult walking is for me these days... 

Actually, walking has been difficult for over 10 years. But now, it's to the point where I simply don't have the umph to push through and walk beyond around a quarter-mile; it is painstakingly laborious. I used to love to walk and hike. Over the years after the onset of polyradiculitis and having to give up walking more and more, I discovered I could ride a bike. So, I pedaled; for over eight years I rode and rode and rode and rode. Rail trails, greenways, and a few small mountain roads conducive for bicycles.

Then, beginning in 2022, due to having to give up my epidurals and the relief they provided, I could no longer bike outside.

So, I walked, as best I could until it too became so laborious that I could no longer do it for exercise.

I miss the woods and trails, the connection they provided me...

Last week as I pondered my current circumstance and the word adaptation, I asked, What can I do next? How can get out of this isolation? What can I do to get outside again? 

What about a power chair, like the Hoveround Mom used to have? 

Wow. I could "stroll" the neighborhood. Visit with my friend William who panhandles and makes art down on the corner. I could visit stores, not to buy anything necessarily, but just to be out and about. 

I could get a motorized rack to carry the Hoveround to greenways and even some rail trails. 

What could I name it? "Albert," after Daddy. (Dad's name was Albert.) His wheelchair took him on many adventures. And he used to smoke Prince Albert tobacco in his pipe. How about "Sir Albert?" Sir Albert it is. 

I got an image of me in my power chair, wearing my biking helmet and gloves, with a triangular flag on a long pole like Dad used to have on his surrey. I'd be Mario Andretti in my power chair. Lol. As I pondered the idea, I felt a sense of freedom and independence.

But then the next day came... 

As I looked up power chairs, I wasn't "feeling" it. 

Okay. So, if not that, then what? 

The next day as I was driving the hour-plus trip to one of my doctors, Bachman Turner Overdrive began singing "Let it ride," through Sir Edward the Explorer's speakers... 

"Try, try, try, Let it ride," I sang the chorus and could feel it deep into my very bones... 

Wow. I gotta play that again... 

So, I did; nine times...

As I sang the chorus over and over and over (times 3) with BTO, memories flowed...

 

Dynamite, a Shetland pony, my first... 

Princess, my second pony... 

Black Eagle, a Welsh pony, my third... 

Little Smokey, a Tennesse walker whom I use to climb upon using a rope ladder to get up onto the saddle until I was tall enough to reach the stirrups... 

Big Smokey, Little Smokey's dad... 

Georgia Girl, Jetstream, Rambler... 

Horses and ponies were my life for nine years; I used to even ride in the mornings before school... 

So many memories...

What about horses Carol? 

You could call the Ogburns. If they can't help, maybe they know of someone who can? 

I can't saddle the horse; my arms can't do that work...

But I think I could bridle the horse...

I'll have to have help mounting and dismounting...

But once on its back, I could ride...  

I doubt my arms and hands would be able to clean their hooves... 

But I could groom their coats...

And I'd feel connection...

Wow. Wow. Maybe, maybe, maybe...

Within two days I made an appointment with a therapeutic riding center...
I go for a tour and evaluation this upcoming week... 

Oh, how I pray that I qualify... 

~*~

BTO with Let It Ride...

All that really applies to my circumstance are the words, "Let it ride"...

So many times on our riding excursions, we'd allow the horse/pony free reign to make the decision as to how to best navigate certain hills and woods...

We would, "Let 'em ride..."

HAARD...

I wrote the following on November 14th. 

I'm hesitant to click publish. Why? 

I don't want to misrepresent myself... 

The piece may come across as a bunch of insubstantial muddle...

As clear and thin as muddy water...

And maybe that's okay...

Maybe that's a good reason to click publish...

~*~

11/14/24

So how did I feel when I learned that Trump had again won the US presidency?

Maybe I should start with what I did not feel.

I did not feel disgust or anxiety or shock.

Perhaps disappointment?

But... I can't even say I felt disappointment.

I felt more like someone who, through a series of explorations, reaches the acceptance phase of living with a rare, incurable disease.  

With an incurable diagnosis, after the initial shock, at some point, comes acceptance, resolve, determination and adaptation. 

Acceptance for what is and what may come.

Resolve to do one's best despite the diagnosis or prognosis.

Determination to accept and live each day, each moment, as it unfolds.

Adaptation as one finds a new way to function in their new abnormal-normal life.

I'll call it AARD. (Hmmm...if I add an H for Human, it becomes HAARD. Ain't that the truth?) Depending on the length and severity of symptoms, the afflicted goes through AARD multiple times with ever widening and deeper levels.

One learns to adapt and live with their changing limitations; to navigate the physical-emotional-mental roller coaster of symptoms, remedies, laborious self-care, appointments, ups and downs, twists and turns, and isolation.

One learns to mourn and grieve their losses, often alone in the privacy of their own world.

If the person is fortunate, they have one or two confidantes whom they can trust to be with them through their various levels of grief and acceptance.

And one learns to find joy, despite their circumstance.

To find silver linings.

To discover how to flip a dire circumstance (without bypassing the reality) into something meaningful, finding something to hang on to, something to help ground them, to help find peace with it all without allowing the condition to become one's full identity. It can be a huge undertaking with circumstances that the disabled did not consciously choose. (Again, I think of Dad who lived over 12 years as a quadriplegic.)

Like others, I have lived this up close and personal. not only in my own life, but in others for whom I have cared, human and non-human -- from quadriplegia to blindness. I penned a prose recently, endeavoring to relay a bird's eye view of what one woman has felt in her journey to acceptance. That woman is me. 

This feeling of accepting the presidential election news like an incurable disease wasn't about Trump himself, but more about our society with so many of us trapped in an insular loop of rationalization, justification, true believerism; where opinions and beliefs beyond one's own are judged as wrong, evil, demonic. I think I think that this incurable disease is the narcissistic side of our human condition depicted by traits such as lust, greed, arrogance, self-righteousness.

I, like others, have lived this also. I once "knew that I knew that I knew" the truth. I didn't just believe, I knew that "the Bible was the revealed Word and Will of God." I knew that The Way was the genuine "household of God" teaching the "rightly divided Word," the only accurate interpretation of the Bible. 

Then that which I had known as absolute and inerrant, shattered.
And I began to puzzle back together the shattered pieces to form a new vase.  (Poem: Shattered Pieces)

From my experience, one of the main characteristics of cultic thinking is limited choice.

It's what I discovered not only in a religious cult but also in the anti-cult movement.

And I learned that that cultic behavior is human behavior which happens on a continuum. 

We all have biases.

So, what about you Carol?

Where are you trapped?

I feel trapped in a crippled body which (figuratively) climbs a mountain every day to perform the simplest of tasks such as clothing and feeding oneself, making the bed, and squeezing a toothpaste tube,...

I feel trapped in a continual repetition of levels of AARD, over and over and over, like Groundhog Day...

Does that mean that I am trapped in the tribe of the disabled, though I rarely communicate with others in that tribe? I rarely communicate with others in general. Engaging takes energy that I seldom have. ( A prose from 2021: Bubbles of isolation into sacredness...)

It seems, through much of my life, I have been/am often in the minority.

Polyradiculitis is no exception.

In the over 13 years that I've lived with this condition, I've only met one other person who has the same. 

But they have it only on one side of their body affecting only one arm.

I have it on both sides affecting all four limbs and extremities, my back, my neck, my jaws, and more. 

Even though it determines my choices in my day-to-day life, polyradiculitis is not my identity (or at least I don't want it to be)...

This is just my life...

Given to me to live...

One day, one moment, one circumstance at a time, with its continual adaptations...

Thus far, it's been a rich, full, ever-learning, and sometimes wild ride...

~*~

Acceptance...

How does one feel when given the news that she has a rare, incurable disease?

First, there is puzzlement and shock which might be mixed with relief, if she's been searching for answers for months or years.

Then, grit and determination.

Then, loss and grief.

Then, acceptance.

Acceptance is the lynchpin. 
That which keeps the wheel on the axle, going round and round, to carry the weight of the wagon to its next destination.

Acceptance flips the initial shock, determination, grief.

With acceptance comes resolve.

Determination returns, but not so lofty as before.

Loss and grief again follow, deeper than the initial round.

Which brings another layer of acceptance.

Acceptance that she can no longer participate like she once could.

She recounts her life, weighing its worth.

What, of merit, has she accomplished?

When she struggles to find value in real time due to her disabled circumstance, her heart recalls its first love -- the mountains, the woods, the open sky, the earth and its wonders.

And her heart is comforted.

For she has loved Gaia, and Gaia has loved her. 

Even if I can never again be with the trails I love so dearly, I am gifted with rich memories that bring me joy, that lift my confidence, that bring me peace.

And there is human motherhood, of which I am most proud, my children.

I recently attended a Zoom gathering.

I felt seen. I felt comfortable in my own skin.

Oh girl, wouldn't it be great to feel that way every day?

But, that's not how skin works. 

~*~

Enigma with Return to Innocence...

~*~

11/17/24

A few days after penning Acceptance, another "A" word came to mind: adaptation...

Perhaps it is the lynchpin instead of acceptance...

~*~

Go Heels...

Tuesday, 10/29/24

As I walk through the small store, my eyes grazing upon books and cards and trinkets and soaps and jewelry and apparel, a man walks by wearing a UNC Tarheels long sleeve tee. 

"Go Heels," I say with a smile. He responds with a smile and affirmative, "Yup." 

"I have a kinda funny short story, if you have a moment," I respond. 

"Sure, " he answers still smiling.

"My mom was one of 13 children though only 10 made it to adulthood. So, I have lots of cousins. Most of them went to UNC - Chapel Hill. But one of my cousins had a different idea. He applied and got accepted at UNC-CH and then proudly showed his acceptance letter to us cousins and announced with a chuckle, 'I only applied to turn 'em down. Just wanted to show everybody that I ain't goin' there. Instead, I'm going to App State.' :D " 

The man in the Carolina tee chuckles, "Well that's even funnier because I went to App State. But I'm a true-blue Carolina fan."

Some ten minutes later our paths cross again in our store perusals, and I ask, "Where are you from?" (I often ask this question of folks I encounter along my day-trip adventures in the mountains.) 

"Eden," he responds and then proceeds to explain where Eden is located (which I already knew). While listening I search my brain for a name. Thankfully, Brain comes through...

"Did you know Harold Matthews?" I ask. I figure he would know Harold because Harold had been superintendent in Eden, and the UNC-tee man (whose name is Tim) looks old enough to have known Harold.

His face lights up, "Yes! I knew Harold well. And his family."

My face lights up too. "Wow. Harold was my husband's uncle. We went on a few trips to Topsail Beach with the Matthews. Hubby's having supper tomorrow night with Bruce." (Bruce is Harold's son-in-law.)

"Wow," he echoes. And then continues "I just talked to Bruce this morning. My wife and Cherly were best friends." (Cheryl was Bruce's wife who passed away years ago from cancer.)

"Cheryl was the closest thing to a sister that Hubby ever had." I add.

Tim calls and motions for his wife, also named Cheryl, to come join us. Her jaw drops upon the introduction.  One of things she tells me is, "I remember going to Aunt Kate's!" (Kate is Hubby's mom who is still alive and well at 89 years old.)

We swap stories, all three of us delighted at this serendipitous encounter.

I later drive north on the Parkway to Smart View at Mile Post 154.1, my soul feeling satisfied, grateful, and seen as I allow the magical flow that so often accompanies me (especially in the Blue Ridge) on these daytrip portals into life beyond my symptoms and problems reminding me of how very rich I am. These mountains, they are my true home on this earthly sojourn...

~*~

Tim and Cheryl visit the store mentioned above one time a year -- in October. The store? Poor Farmers Market in Meadows of Dan, Virginia. A place I frequent on my daytrips to my beloved Blue Ridge Parkway. 

The store-deli-gas station-produce stand is a feel-good gathering place. Hubby and I have grown fond of this special place -- its owner and staff, the regular patrons, and the magic it has brought into our lives. The story above is not the first of these magical encounters at the Poor Farmers Market, but it probably takes the winner. However, there is that time when, on one visit up there, Hubby and I came home with an extra $10,000 (in the form of two $5000 checks) in our wallets! It was a gift of gratitude from a previous pet-sitting client. (Woah doggies, was that I surprise!) Another time, I met a man who was born the same year in the same hospital as me in Daytona Beach, Florida. (Who woulda thunk...) There are other stories, but those three are probably at the top of the serendipity-magic list.

If any readers are ever driving the Blue Ridge Parkway in southwest Virginia, I highly recommend checking out Meadows of Dan located right off the Parkway at Mile Post 177.7.

~*~

The Youngbloods with Get Together...

Threads...

Threads turn into tapestries...

Pulling a thread can unravel a garment...

Hanging on by a thread can save a life...

 

~*~

As I continue to reread the book, The Dangerous Case of Donald Trump (2017), I find it grounding. Why is that? I wonder. 

Perhaps that seems odd - that such a book would have a grounding effect. It seems odd to me; then again, I fall in the "odd" category regularly. (To read why I chose to reread that particular book, click here: Thoughts and sighs... .)

What are some possible reasons for this grounding effect? 

• What I am reading affirms some of my thoughts, experiences, feelings regarding people who display same or similar traits that the book outlines. 
• As I read the chapters, I think less about Trump and more about those people in my life who have displayed these traits, which may help clear any cobwebs left over from those personal experiences.
• Interestingly, I do not think about Way leadership -- Wierwille or Martindale or Rivenbark or others. Why is that? I think because (for me) The Way was not so much a cult of personality as it was a totalistic system where the doctrine superseded everything in my life. Yes, I was definitely influenced by leaders, but my focus was always the doctrine, part of which was to obey leadership as long as the commands/demands/directives were based on the accuracy of the Word (doctrine) as taught by The Way. (Robert J. Lifton calls this "doctrine over person" which Lifton lists as number 7 on his "Eight Criteria for Thought Reform.")
• As I read, I question, How many of these traits do I display, and where do they fall on a continuum? 

So that's part of what's happening in that thread... 

~*~

What about the effects of Smile Therapy? :)  

 

So far, good. It's not necessarily easy to put on a smile, especially on high-symptom days. This smile often helps me redirect from a path of despair to a path of peace. It's like... I'm more accepting of my limits, and I feel/believe that my work of selfcare is commendable. This can be really difficult at times -- finding value in the often-solo care of my symptoms. It can feel pointless at times -- Why continue with all the selfcare details if all I do is maintain a crippled body? 

At some point, I may write about my low-level laser therapy, which is part of my selfcare routine. Hubby and I have no doubt that the treatments have kept me from becoming bedridden since having to give up my routine lumbar epidurals in April 2022. (I had approximately 38 epidurals over a course of eight-plus years, 2014 into 2022.)

~*~

The Gaither Vocal Band with Good Things Take Time...

Smile Therapy

 Plenty of stuff floating around in my head which I could write about...

I choose smile therapy...

~*~

I received some candid photos via text last week of me holding my 4-month-old granddaughter in mid-September. I was somewhat shocked. My face looked drawn, wearied, sad. 

This is not who I want to be.

You've been here before; remember? Some years back when you realized you weren't smiling because you were so seldom around people. 

Oh yeah; I remember that...

So, this week I've taken up what I call smile therapy. It's kind of like being aware of one's posture. When you note you aren't standing straight, you pull the imaginary string coming out of the crown of your head to straighten up. I do similar with smiling. When I notice I'm not smiling, I put on the smile. It seems to be helping. (I just web searched "smile therapy." It's a thing. :) Smile Therapy: Harnessing the Power of Grins for Mental and Physical Wellbeing)

My day kinda begins as follows...

I open my eyes in the morning and say, "Another day. I accept my fulltime job - being my own caregiver. It is not selfish; it serves my family. At this point in my life, it is what I have been called to do. This is simply my life." 

 

I tell my self: I am loved and supported. I trust in the healing power of time and self-compassion. I am grateful for all life brings to me.

 

I remind myself of my caregiver role: to direct me to act toward myself as I would toward another who lives with limited function and mobility. I wouldn't condemn them; I'd commend them.  I know how hard it is (physically and emotionally) to simply get out of bed each day; most of those days, alone.

I remind myself to remind myself to smile throughout the day and for my disability part to thank my caregiver part and for my caregiver part to commend and have empathy toward my disability part.

September was a hard month. I suffered multiple days in deep despair. I felt it and let the tears roll. At these times, the temptation to self-loathe visits with its harsh judgment of how little value I have because (for one) I'm not able to serve others like I once did and still want to. During these episodes I seldom reach out. 

Why not? Why do I not call upon folks when in this deep despair? 

• People live busy lives with problems of their own. 
• It's human nature (at least with good humans) to want to help which (too often) leads to someone giving unsolicited suggestions or advice, which leads to me explaining things I've tried and blah, blah, blah. And that's on me. Instead, I could respond, "Thanks. But right now, I'm not looking for suggestions; I just want to be seen." 
• Sometimes (often?) when one is in deep despair, it simply takes too much energy to try to communicate. 

I continually renew my commitment to this job that fell in my lap and one which I can't ignore -- being my own caregiver. Yes, Hubby helps, and without him I would need to hire assistance or move in someone. Hubby is also our breadwinner and is gone 12 hours a day on weekdays (which includes about a 3-hour round-trip commute in heavy interstate traffic), except that he has started working from home one day a week so that I'm not physically alone in the house Monday through Friday.  He usually texts me once and calls me two to three times a day. (He takes good care of me, and for that I am grateful.) Often, he is the only person I hear from through the week, other than spam and medical texts. A few times a month a friend or my children might call. Or I'll call them. 

But, like I stated above, I seldom call when I am in the depths of despair (though my children have invited me, even encouraged me, to do such). I admit, part of the reason for not calling my kids is pride. I want them to be proud of me, but anymore, I too often feel there is so little to be proud of. I have to remind myself of what I have accomplished in my life. The accomplishment I'm most proud of? My children; they are good people.

"Pride" brings to mind a scripture I have adapted to help break my checking-and-rechecking X-Twitter habit (which I don't like at all, but I also understand how and why online life can draw me in):

"All that is in the world, the lust of the flesh and the lust of the eyes and the pride of X, is not of the Father, but is of the world." 

I chuckled when I first saw that thought. 

Carol, regardless of what life brings with its sorrows and joys, keep smiling...
You have an abundance to be grateful for... 
And remember, wherever you go you are not alone; you always bring Mia Long...
And sing Ezra's lyrics: "...You're not alone, although you feel alone; you're just like everyone; you're holding on ..."
And remember AAA: Ask. Act. Accept...

~*~

Micheal Franti: Nobody Cries Alone

Crow and I...

 Friday September 13, 2024

I sit on the cushioned bamboo lounger on the screened-in back porch, my legs stretched out before me. Tears roll down my cheeks. Fatigue. Weakness. Pain. Monotony of the day-in, day-out regimen of self-care. And to what end? I feel I make no worthwhile contributions to life. I know that's not literally true, but it is how I feel. 

I've been here so many times before...

If all I do is take care of myself, it's like...

Why?  I'm just maintaining simply to keep maintaining a crippled body that can't shop, cook, clean, do laundry, change linens, garden, tend to our infant granddaughter, engage regularly in conversation, and on-and-on... 

This state of mind is often a result of fatigue -- this focus on my can'ts.  I know why children cry when they're exhausted. It's like an overload; the mind-body simply can't process anymore. The reserves are low or non-existent. 

It's a lovely North Carolina September day, but I have not the energy to take a walk and enjoy it. So, I sit witnessing the songbirds as they drink from the water dishes on the deck and eat the nuts and some of the millet I'd sprinkled earlier. And I cry, questioning my value. 

I get up, make my way to the storm door, and enter the kitchen. I retrieve a glass and fill it with filtered water. I look out the kitchen window from where I can see the deck. A lone crow is drinking from one of the water dishes on the deck floor. I'd filled it with fresh water about an hour earlier. 

As I cry, I counter this feeling of valuelessness with, You would never think this way in your care of another who suffers with a debilitating injury, disease, or disability. You would not think the person is valueless or that your care was in vain. You are your own caregiver, so be kind to yourself as you would another... 

The reminder helps some, but the feeling still lingers. 

As I gaze out the window, my (understandable) self-judgement is confronted, as I witness Crow stagger-walk to a different side of the dish. 

Oh no. He looks like he's injured. 

I witness as he attempts to jump onto the wooden bench built into the deck. Usually crows can hop-fly right up with no problem. But this guy/gal struggles. He eventually makes it to the bench.

He pauses like he has to take a rest. I continue watching through the window. He repeats the same struggle as he stagger-jumps up to the wooden rail where I sprinkle millet and nuts for the wildlife and birds. (It's a decent-sized deck. I usually sprinkle nine different small piles of millet spread out on the deck rails and scatter-place the walnuts and almonds atop the bench and rails. That way, multiple animals can eat without arguing over the feeding stations. Also, with the food spread far apart, it may help prevent the spread of viruses among wildlife.)

Then, Crow stagger-walks a few steps and sits on his belly and starts eating some millet. 

I've never seen a crow do this. They always stand to eat. I wonder if maybe one of his legs is broken or injured though he doesn't appear to be favoring a leg. I also wonder if Crow suffers from a neurological disorder. His stagger kind of reminds me of distemper. But I don't think crows can get rabies or distemper, can they? 

I go quietly back out onto the screen porch. Usually, any wildlife who are eating take off when a human visits the porch during their meals. If the human is already on the porch, the wildlife sticks around. 

But Crow just glances up at me and then returns to eating millet. I take a seat on the chair right beside the deck, still inside the screen. Crow glances up at me again and then returns to his meal. 

I speak to Crow, "Hey there. I'm sorry your injured. I know how it feels man. But we are here together. We are not alone." 

He finishes the pile of millet and then wobbles to the next pile. He doesn't finish it. He turns around and faces me. He then looks down and surveys the bench as he weakly stands. It looks like he wants to jump down, but three times he hesitates deciding the jump is too risky. 

He reminds me of me, the delicate and diligent concentration it takes to maneuver so that one doesn't fall or drop stuff. (When I start dropping things, I know I am trying to move too fast. I often say aloud to myself, "Slow down. I don't have to hurry. I can't hurry.")

I wonder if Crow wants some water., if that's why he was contemplating how to get down off the rail.  Hmmm, maybe I'll put the dish up on the bench later to make it easier for him to drink, if he visits again. 

Next, he stagger-walk-hops to a deck rail that is slightly lower. He pecks around like he's looking for some nuts which have already been eaten by other birds. 

I wonder if he'll stay there if I bring out some almonds?

I make my way back into the kitchen, open the almond jar, pour a few almonds into my hand, and make my way back out onto the porch. He doesn't flinch...until I open the screen door to take the almonds out to the deck. He then flies away with no problem, so I know his wings are okay. 

I guesstimate the whole scenario lasts about twelve minutes. 

Injured crow. 

Not with the flock for he can't keep up. 

Most times in nature, the flock doesn't have the luxury of caring for the injured. 

They have to keep moving; it's about survival.

I have to keep moving to survive.

My tears ceased, I thank Crow for his timed-just-right visit...

Nature has again provided me a companion in my pain and grief...

A companion to remind me I am not alone, even though I may feel alone...

Gold Rush Kid by George Ezra...

~*~

Later that day I place one of the water dishes up onto the bench, just in case my friend returns. Two crows visit, neither one injured. But one of them seems to be trying to pull the water dish from the bench down back onto the deck floor. I chuckle as I watch through the kitchen window. He doesn't succeed. The water bowls are glass pie plates which prove to be too precarious to try to move. I later place the dish back down onto the deck floor. 

I don't witness the injured crow again. I hope he's doing okay.

~*~

I later looked up bird flu. From what I read, crows don't typically get bird flu. But they can get West Nile virus. However, I've not seen in other birds with any symptoms. We clean the pie-plate watering dishes regularly.

~*~

10/26/13...

August 2024 

I reach into the pocket located on the back of the front passenger's seat in Edward the Explorer. I keep maps in that pocket, and a recorder (the flute kind), and a nature book or two. I felt something odd -- a small, glossy-coated, hard square. What is this? I wonder. I pull it out with curiosity.

"Wow..." I hold it up for Hubby to see. 

It's a small handmade (not by me) journal, about 3 inches by 3 inches square. A copy of a painted white peony graces the front cover. The artist's name is handwritten in the lower right corner, "Jean R. Reynolds." The cover is overlayed with clear contact paper giving the cardboard a glossy feel. 

I open it. My handwriting on the inside of the front cardboard cover reads: "Purchased 10/26/13. Art and Coffee Cafe near Massanutten Resort, VA."

"So, I last saw bears in 2013," I say to Hubby. "I was thinking it was 2012 that I took that Massanutten trip. But it was 2013. I guess this journal has been back here for almost 11 years. Wow..."

On that October 2013 visit, I'd seen a cub (or maybe it was 2 cubs) high up in a tree at dusk. I was in my vehicle. I didn't get out; I'm sure Momma Bear was close by. Not did I hang around; Momma Bear could get the best of me even in my vehicle. 

I've been wanting a bear sighting since that last sighting. I hear that this year (2024) there are a plenty of bear sightings in the mountains, but none for me...yet. 

There is only one entry in the journal. Interestingly (to me) it mentions politics. In the last coupleish months, I've found myself, yet again, navigating the poly-ticks (ha ha) of our time. I know I'm not alone. 

In October 2013, I had not yet begun the steroid lumbar epidurals. But I had been properly diagnosed with polyradiculitis in May 2013. (The onset had been the end of April 2011.) So, I was pretty sick with symptoms at the time. August 2013 is when I downsized my pet-sitting business from approximately 180 clients to maybe 20. (I slowly downsized more until I had to close completely around 2018.) The folks who worked for me inherited many of the clients I had to give up. 

Anyway, Poly Rad was the dominant force in my life at the time. And it has been relentless to this day. Some may advise, "Don't say it's the dominant force in your life." But that is my day-to-day reality. I've had to learn to embrace Poly, while at the same time continuing to find ways of relief and living with my limitations. It's probably better said that these "ways" find me. 

With most (any?) chronic illness or disability, isolation is part of the package. That isolation happens for different reasons -- limited mobility, limited energy to engage, folks not understanding the debilitating symptoms which is especially true with a rare disease, and other stuff. One has to learn to evolve from loneliness into solitude. I've made that transition for the most part. I rarely feel lonely anymore. This is simply my life...

So, below is the journal entry, mostly unedited...

I share with a little embarrassment, but it is what is and was what it was...

Maybe it will somehow help someone...

10/26/13

Yet another little journal. I used to be somewhat organized with my journals. Now my scribblings are spread around. 

I have become a loner. I think it is official. 

I'm, I can't think of the word, some "dis" word with Facebook. I don't want to pursue relationships. There was a time when relationships were important to me. But not anymore. The only time or thing I really feel passion about is nature. And I don't get in it that often. I just think about it. 

I feel again that I am unintelligent. 

How can I right my course? Then again, it's not like anyone pursues me. If they did, I'd put my arm up and say, "Back away." 

I desired this loner life, after the Knapp stuff. I now have it. I feel guilty and selfish. What am I contributing anywhere to anyone?

I'm not attached. Except to animals. 

What is the best thing about America? The air quality. Clean water. Roads. Trails. 

What are my thoughts on politics? Large scale, it overwhelms my mind. Like a huge corporation. Poly ticks. 

Politics is like a large debate. What does the word itself mean? "Poli" comes from polis = "affairs of the state." "Ics" = "matter relevant to." So, matters relating to the state or the nation. If I am alive, I am part of a family, community, city, state, nation, globe, solar system, universe. 

Politics itself is the various opinions in the system, the voicing of those opinions, debates to prove their opinions are right.

What is right?

~To deal honestly is right.

~Accountability is right.

~To think of the consequences or our actions is right. 

So, in order to vote I determine who is right. How can any of the people running be right when each has to spend bundles of $$? 

It's a mess.

Religion -- a person's belief system in action. 

I believe it is more important to give than to prove I'm right. 

I'm not a critic. It's something I don't do well -- criticize. 

I can be myself more when I am alone. When with others, my perceived expectations of things can inhibit me. It can even cause me to say things contrary to what I really believe. I get too concerned about another's opinion. 

This online life. It causes disorientation. How can I disentangle? 

I think I tire of talk and debate. I think I look at something and think, "Well, let's fix it." 

And I write some more. 

Well, another weird solo vacation. I guess it was okay. No art. No writing -- or very little. 

I am lost. I am alone, I guess I'll stay that way until I am not. 

~*~

A song came to mind while transcribing the 2013 journal entry. 

It's short (1 minute, 19 seconds) and funny.

Be sure sound is on; for me it comes up muted, and I have to click the unmute icon. 

Also, the captions that show up on Twitter, generated by AI (I reckon), aren't right. Lol.

Hansen is one of my favorite contemporary Chirstian authors... 

Click the link below to hear Brant Hansen sing...

"I'm Right About Everything..."

Below are the correct lyrics... 

By Brant Hansen...

Well, it's hard

Harder than people think

It's rough

Rougher than a kitchen sink

This burden I bear 

To be so unfair

Oh, it's hard to be right 

About everything

I'm right about everything

I'm right even when I sing

Every conclusion that I draw

Every bit of my dogma

Oh, it's a heavy thing

To be right about everything

You can sing along

If you just admit

You are wrong

Thank you for listening

To me being right 

About everything

~*~

No more pictures...

 I sit here, at this keyboard, thinking about what to share...

The daytrips I've not written about --

Love Valley; Lin Cove Viaduct and the rain washing away my cares and then being able to climb into the back of Sir Edward the Explorer in the pouring rain and maneuver which is quite a feat for me; the fresco viewings in Statesville, Morganton, and Montreat; Hickory to visit a longtime friend and Bunker Hill Bridge; Grayson Highlands which was a huge trip that took me three days to recover from but was worth it; Meadows of Dan and visits with folks at The Poor Farmers Market; and whatever else I'm not recalling at the moment.

The political deluge -- 

I was disappointed that Kennedy dropped his campaign. I was appalled he decided to endorse Trump, and that switch causes me more doubt about Kennedy. I had had a couple red flags but had put them aside. So now, I trust Kennedy less. And I wonder, How can a person have unity with a psychopath? Only by agreeing with the psychopath. Does the psychopath fulfill a certain role in society? Do I really believe "psychopathy" is a real thing? I mean, it's hard to fathom that a person has no empathy. How can a person be human without empathy? Unfortunately, experience has taught me that maybe... "some humans ain't human." But deep down, I don't believe that. I want to believe that one day, all wrongs will be made right, even with people who seem to have no empathy. 

I won't be posting any more personal pictures on my blog; Google now requires a blogger to allow Google access to the blogger's photos to post a pic. That wasn't the case previously; I could upload a pic straight from my computer without granting another machine access. But then, who knows; maybe Google had access before but didn't make that known. Still, I'm not comfortable with the new(?) set up. My pictures aren't that good anyway; I use an old SE iPhone, and my hands most always tremble.

~*~

The other week as I was thinking about the frescoes, the thought ran through my noggin, These frescoes. They are so rich and deep. It's like the people and animals could walk right out of the wall. They feel so real. Ahhh....in another time they were physically there. Each animal and person in the frescoes had a real (most of them living) animal or person as a model...

The past couple months I've been meditating on II Corinthians 4:18 attributed to Paul the Apostle: "So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporal, but what is unseen is eternal." 

I cannot see those models in the flesh now. Nor can I see, in real time, the people whom the models represent. And even if I could, they are temporal. Everything dies, eventually. Perhaps everything breaks, eventually. So, I can only see these stories of the past in my mind's eye. Are stories temporal? But the past cannot itself be changed. It can only be remembered or forgotten. And memories are a tricky thing. One reason I like journaling in the present moment - to capture any given moment in real time. 

I've looked at the unseen air as I've pondered that scripture. Air cannot be seen. Breath cannot be seen. Spirit cannot be seen. Music cannot be seen but can be heard. Aromas cannot be seen but can be smelled. Tender touch, or harmful touch, cannot be seen but can be felt; same goes for emotions. Thoughts cannot be seen but can be expressed into art, into words. 

Soul itself cannot be seen, but it is the mechanism which makes me, me and you, you. It includes the life force that keeps our physical hearts beating. It includes our genetic make-up. It includes cellular memories which date back to the first blood. It probably includes aspects that are beyond our human grasp.

Ecclesiastes 3:11, attributed to Solomon, states that God has set eternity in the hearts of humans. Does that not imply that every heart has divinity within it? Does it mean the soul is eternal? But Jeremiah 17:9 states that the human heart is deceitful above all else, wickedly sick, and beyond cure. A prayer attributed to David states, "Create in me a clean heart, O God..." So, did the ancients believe that the human heart contains eternal divinity and also a wickedness beyond cure but that the cure was for God to create a new heart within an individual? Of course, that heart is not the physical organ, but is figurative representing 'the seat of one's personal life.' 

~*~

I think if I had to make a choice as to which daytrip has been the most magical, that's a hard choice. But Grayson Highlands would be near the top, along with the trip to Montreat. 

As most of my trips go, I was one of only a few humans at Grayson. By the time I got back to Edward to eat my picnic supper, he sat alone awaiting me in the parking area. I was the sole human as I ate my salad with nuts and chips and took in the scene(seen) and the unseen and the just-hiked memories on the mountain. I had seen 16 feral ponies, four of them foals. 

Montreat was completely different in that I wasn't solo; the campus was bustling with students and faculty...

I first met up with an online friend in Black Mountain. We had never met face-to-face. Funny thing - we each brought a small gift to give to the other. After our visit I headed up the hill to Montreat College campus where school was in session and where I had gone to college in the fall of 1977. I enjoyed the fresco and other art in the Chapel of the Prodigal which didn't exist when I went to school there. I really enjoyed talking with some of the students and faculty. In talking with one professor I asked, "What do you profess?" He chuckled and answered, "Philosophy and biblical studies." I asked, "Did you know Dr. Newton? He was my favorite professor back in '77." The man's eyes lit up, "Yes! I knew John. He was a good man. He died a few years back." 

~*~

While at Montreat, a lady mentioned that she had seen something on PBS about Ben Long and the frescoes. Later I searched and found the footage below. The narrator describes my thoughts from a few weeks prior to finding this footage.

The fresco that the clip shares the most about is located at CoMMA Performing Arts Center in Morganton. This fresco is on the ceiling in the large area right outside the auditorium where musicians perform. The music volume has to be kept below a certain decibel; if it's too loud it can crack the fresco. On the floor directly under the fresco is a large round braided rug. The rug hides a turntable that is built into the floor. So, I lay down, stared up at the fresco, and watched the parade of muses as the turntable slowly turned. The fresco is too large to fit into one picture frame. 

When I visited, I was, as typical, the sole visitor. Two employees were working, one who had worked at the time when the Sacred Dance of the Muses came to life. So, I received some personal information including a copy of a handwritten list of the models for the fresco. After looking it over the next day, I realized that the list was probably written by Ben Long; beside his name was penned "Woe is me." In the fresco he is sitting on the stairs, wearied from frescoing a ceiling. The CoMMA employee told me that Long had a massage therapist with him during his, and his team's, time putting pigment to fresh plaster on the ceiling. 

PBS: Our State -- Ben Long Frescoes/Peaches & Cream/Fort Macon

Destruction might be just around the corner...

 Are we catastrophizing our current state as a nation? 

"This is the most (or one of the most) important election(s) in our history."

"The country is on the brink of collapse."

"If the other side wins, we'll be a third world country."

"If the other side wins, we'll go backward to the 1950s." 

And on, and on, and on, and on...

The othering, especially from the Trump camp because to me it seems more prevalent than in the Harris camp, but maybe I look at too many Trump videos and tweets and not enough Harris, though I'm pretty burned out on all of it at this point. (How 'bout than for a run-on sentence...) So back to othering. The thought ran through my noggin recently, Trump's obsession with Harris reminds me of Martindale's obsession with devil spirits. But it's not just an obsession with Harris. Hmmm, I think that it's more Trump's obsession with "evil" that so reminds me of the second president of The Way; evil and devil spirits were a main focus through his entire tenure as president. And his hollering from the pulpit got louder as the years rolled along. I once asked a prominent Way leader why Martindale hollered so much. I was told it was because he doesn't want the Household to get tricked by the adversary. There were times in The Way that I thought, It seems like the devil is more powerful than God. It was all about control. We followers were treated as children, and we complied. Similarly, Trump's rhetoric paints a picture of the US as a terrible place to live -- for one, a country invaded by foreigners who commit horrendous crimes. How many crimes have been carried out by US citizens in comparison to these 'lawless invaders'? I wonder how many US mass shootings have been carried out by these 'evil people'? (And there, ladies and gentlemen, you have a run-on paragraph.) 

No, I do not believe that this is the most important election in history. 

Maybe it's one of the most important in this century, which just started 24 years ago. 

Looking back, which election was the most important in American history? 

Perhaps the very first election?

Or the election that first allowed women voters?

Or the election that first allowed black voters? 

Or an election when the US was in a boots-on-the-ground war?

If Trump wins, he wins. (But it won't be by my vote.)

If Harris wins, she wins. (Which would be historic - the first woman US President.)

If Kennedy wins, he wins. (It's a moon shot. I sure wish the debate hosts, or whomever makes the rules, would allow Kennedy as well as other third-party candidates on the stage.) 

On the other hand, our country and world may be on a course of soon-collapse regardless of who wins the US presidential election. (Will there be a "bloodbath," regardless of who wins or loses?)

A past friend once asked my thoughts on climate change.

I responded, "What did the dinosaurs do to cause their own extinction?"

Point being, that was one earth cycle. 

Eventually, regardless of what humans do or don't do, this current earth cycle too will/may eventually end, perhaps similar to the dinosaur age.

That said, I think we humans have a big impact on climate and environment. 

And we are to steward the earth with care and foresight for the future.  

Sadly, pollution is kind of like government corruption -- there's so much of it how can we ever clean it up? 

But we humans are a prideful bunch...

And as Solomon wrote, "Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall."

So, destruction might be just around the corner...

~*~

I don't know about the hereafter...

But I want to believe there is something good awaiting...

The Highway Men: Live Forever

~*~ 

A couple essays, about our times, which I read after posting the above:

1. Charles Eisenstein: An Us that requires no Them

2. Pilgrims in the Machine: 2030 and Beyond: Are the end times coming, again?

Majestic magic portals...

I so enjoy my weekly daytrips, most of them to the mountains. 

Yesterday I had a doctor's appointment in Sparta, NC. I estimate that I've made this trip over 200 times since May 2022.

After my appointment was over, I look at the time. 4:15 PM. 

Do I take 18 South to Cumberland Knob or take a longer drive and go to Doiughton Park?

I check in with my energy levels. Cumberland Knob would be quicker. But Doughton Park would be more magical. 

Do I want magic or efficiency? Which would better refresh my soul? 

Doughton Park wins. Hubby and I had just visited there on July 6th. That's when met the timber rattler.

(Doughton Park picnic area is large -- 80 acres -- a part of the 6000-acre Doughton Park with its over 30 miles of trails which includes an approximate 7-mile section of the Mountains to Sea Trail (MST). The MST is 1170 miles stretching from Clingman's Dome in the Smokies to Jockey's Ridge at the Outer Banks.)

As my manner is, I drive first to the Comfort Station. I park Sir Edward and do the strenuous task of getting out of the vehicle. I open the back door on the driver's side. I open my hiking hip pack to get my whistle on a string and hang it around my neck. 

I've heard from multiple sources that bears are a plenty this year. Decades ago, a ranger told me to wear a whistle, that the loud noise can scare away bears. I've never had to use it, so I don't know if that's true or not. I now wear it for an additional reason when I hike; in case I fall, or something, I can blow my whistle until someone hears it.

I don my cap to help prevent any falling ticks from lodging in my hair. I place my phone in my hip pack and place the hip pack over my shoulder; I'm not going far so no need to go through the labor of clicking it around my body. I get my two trekking poles, lock Edward, and make my way down the path to the Comfort Station.

After visiting the Comfort Station, I climb back into Edward and drive the loop that goes to the end of the picnic area. I read the trail signs informing me of the trail names and lengths. One trail is only .2 miles long and goes to the summit of Bluff Mountain.

I can do .4 miles. But I think I'll eat supper first. 

I drive back up from the loop and turn right onto the road that makes its way to an old lodge which has been closed since 2011. I loop the parking area, then drive back to the intersection in the picnic area and turn left. I stop at a picnic table where I've eaten before. O the majestic view...

(As I'm composing this, I'm enjoying looking up and reading about some of the history of the area.)

I am the only human in the 80-acre picnic area, which is often the case on these day trips -- one solitary human...
The trips have become like sacred journeys... 
Sometimes I feel I enter a portal where time slows down...
As I drive, I often listen to music through Sir Edwards speakers which enhances the magic of the journey... 
I often ride with my windows down blowing my tresses freely...
My eyes and heart take in the blessed scenery on these drives... 

My heart spills over with gratitude... 

After supper, I load my cooler and myself back into Sir Edward and drive to the trail I'd decided upon. Again, I park and unload, this time strapping my hip pack around my lower abdomen. It's one of my harder tasks. I have to put the pack around my low back which is supported by a lumbar brace outside my clothing. (I wear a rib belt under my clothing; it provides back support for my thoracic area.) As I hold the left and right straps with both hands, I lean my right arm up against a wall or tree or car for leverage and strength, and then I concentrate as I click the buckle. Then I pull the straps, smoothly yet awkwardly, turning the hip pack so that the pack part is in front. Yes, all this hurts. But it's not too bad; plus, I've grown used to the pain. I grab my trekking poles and lock up Sir Edward. 

It's another glorious hike...

Peaceful...

O the blessed peace...

Wide open vistas... 

Life is large... 

I make it to the summit and then hike the other direction to Overlook Shelter on Bluff Ridge Trail. I end up hiking .65 miles instead of .40. 

On my drive home, I am the only vehicle on Hwy. 18 South for about 22 miles until I get to Wilkesboro. 

This too is a regular occurrence...

The only vehicle on the road for miles and miles and miles and miles...

Miles of smiles...

  

Dining spot

Overlook Shelter, Bluff Ridge Trail

View from Overlook Shelter

Golden days of summer

Church of the Frescoes: E.H. Sloop Chapel

On July 2nd, I visited my fourth location on the North Carolina Fresco Trail -- E.H. Sloop Chapel in Crossnore at the Crossnore Children's Home and School. 

~*~

I did not want to drive through Boone, but that's the route I drove to get to Crossnore. I thought maybe since App State is out, it wouldn't be as crowded as when school is in. And it wasn't as crowded, but it was still crowded. Highway 105, a mostly-two-lane, not-to-curvy mountain road, is always busy. July 2nd was no exception. But I enjoyed getting a view of Grandfather Mountain and driving by Profile Trailhead. I have fond memories of both. 

It's a beautiful day for a drive, especially through the mountains. I arrive at Crossnore and drive onto the campus and grounds of Crossnore School. It's a pristine campus, but not in a stuffy way. It's welcoming, homey, peaceful. It feels cared for with love. 

As my manner is, my first task is to find a bathroom. (Haha... Maybe I should write a book for women, "Where to Squat.") I've learned that not all these little chapels have a public bathroom. 

I see a small building. It's bathrooms. Yay! But they are locked. I stand out in the parking area and look around searching for any bathroom-looking buildings. As I stand peering, two young boys around 10 years old show up on their bicycles. 

"Hey there... I like your bikes."

They smile. We talk a little about bike-riding, the outdoors, and mountains. They say that they like it here at Crossnore. One of the boys shares, "I used to run with my dad in the mountains. One day we ran 10 miles!"

"Wow! That's a long way!" I respond realizing his sharing may be an innocent exaggeration, but maybe not. My heart feels for both boys. I wonder what/if something had happened to the one boy's father and that's why he lives here. But I dare not ask, of course. 

I did ask something else...

"Do y'all know if there is a public bathroom in the chapel?"

"Yes!" one boy excitedly answers providing me detailed directions on how to get there. 

We say our friendly good-byes, and away they ride on their bicycles. All three of us are smiling.

I climb into Sir Edward the Explorer and drive to the parking area for the chapel. There are no humans anywhere to be seen. 

~*~

I enter the chapel through the handicapped entrance toward the back of the chapel, near the pulpit area. I turn left to make my way to the front of the chapel where the stairs are located that go down to where the bathrooms are. 

There, above the front entrance doors, I see the large fresco entitled Suffer the Little Children.

I pause momentarily taking in the breathtaking scene which includes the beauty of the chapel itself with its deeply colored wooden pews and walls, its windows, and the deep red carpet that leads from the chapel entrance to the pulpit. 

Then I follow the boy's perfect directions downstairs to the bathrooms.

After my bathroom visit, I spend probably fifteen minutes or so downstairs viewing the various paintings. I enter The Miracle of Healing room. Hanging on the wall is a painting which appears to me to be the woman who touched the border of Jesus' garment and was healed. In front of the painting is a kneeler for prayer placed on top of a small throw rug. That is all that is in the room...other than myself.

My critical mind notices the crowd around the woman isn't large, as stated in the gospels. But that's okay with me. The focus in the painting is on the healing and this woman's reaching out for it. 

The room feels sacred, holy... 

My heart feels open... 

Life feels large... 

I take in the painting and enter into it... 

I know I shouldn't touch the painting, and normally I wouldn't. But in that moment, I very lightly, deliberately, and quickly touched the hem of his garment with my index finger. 

I have touched his garment. May I too be healed...

I make my way back upstairs. Again, like with my visits to other frescoes, I am a lone human in this unique, beautiful, sacred chapel. I press the button for the narration about the fresco and how it came to be here at E.H. Sloop Chapel.  I take a seat in a front pew and enter the fresco as I listen to the recorded narration....

~*~

The Miracle of Healing

Suffer the Little Children

Suffer the Little Children

E.H. Sloop Chapel replica

E.H. Sloop Chapel 

~*~

I take a different route, avoiding Boone, for my drive back home. I end up on roads that I haven't driven in decades. The sky is that gorgeous blue with white friendly clouds. There are few vehicles on my route. These kinds of drives are a part of these fresco visits.

I stop at Brown Mountain Overlook on Hwy. 181. I lift my small cooler out of Edward and make my way to one of the picnic tables to eat my supper. Of course, I look around for a place to maybe use the green-leaves relief station. I see a path into the woods. Yay! 

I meet a family who moved to Morganton from Mexico some years back. We exchange hellos and talk about the mountains. They love this area.

I deeply experience Carolina Rolling By...  

My heart overflows with gratitude...

On July 6th, I post a short thread on Twitter about my trip...

Table Rock and Hawk's Bill

Overlooking Brown Mountain

~*~

Carolina Rolling By by Mipso ....