Multiplication Factors

I'm currently sitting at Joshua's Cafe in Woodstock, NY.  With free wifi! Ha! ;-)

Daughter and I spent two nights backpacking south of here along the AT. It was a short trek from south of Perkins Tower on Bear Mountain, north to the Graymoor Monastery ball field, and then back to Bear Mountain Zoo. Funny how the AT goes right through a zoo. I enjoyed camping in the ball field, the bells tolling from the monastery, reminding me of the hours, of time. More later perhaps, about the trek. I did compose one poem, or some would say "prose." Hopefully I'll get it posted on my poetry blog today.

I thought much along the trek about what am I to do with my life now. What direction do I take? The recent fall out with my previous counselor has prompted me to re-examine my focus. My focus comes back to the story.

The story. The story. The story.
Stories within the story.
My story. Your story.
His story. Her story.
Stories in which I'm guilty.
Stories in which I'm innocent.
Paths winding in and out.
Life crossings.

Happenstance hinges which swing doors and windows, opening new corridors and landscapes.

That is my driving passion still. To continue to write my story, to discover and rediscover that story. To embrace it and hopefully by doing that, another can embrace their story. By owning our stories, do we not get to  know ourselves more intimately? By that, perhaps we can love ourselves more? Perhaps we can more easily allow the same for others? Perhaps mutual respect rises? Perhaps more acceptance of another's truth?

As I was working on an activist project in the past fourish months, I had gotten somewhat away from my story. That was my choice as I had only so much time and energy in a day. Now that that project has been aborted; I will get back to my story. At least that is my inkling at the moment.

I've pondered whether or not to remove a recent "anger" rant from toss & ripple. I waffle back and forth. Why would I leave up a rant? As I consider the why and whether or not to let it be, I lean toward letting it stay. It sits as a witness (so to speak) to that small snippet of the story. A small snippet that may seem insignificant to others. But it is not to me. It was how I felt at the time of writing. Those feelings will dissolve and will be integrated into my life. Adding more to the story within the story, which changes as I change. [Added note a few days later: after a few more nights in the Catskills, my leaning changed and I've put the anger rant blog entry in draft.]

I know myself well enough to know that it will take me time to move through the scenario(s) of the recent conflict. Aborted relationships involving folks who I am close with take me time to process. It's not unusual for the process to last a couple years. I was counting the relationships that have affected me deeply like that. Relationships that have ended without specific closure. There have been six. Three, I chose to end. Three, the other parties ended. Two were with females. Four were with males. With all except one, it took me one to two years to move through the residual emotions. The "except one" took much longer. How long, I'm not sure.

If ever another dual (or more) relationship presents itself with a mental or healthcare provider who I am seeing professionally...well, I just don't know if I'll approach that. The two times I've had various dual relationships with those type providers, both times ended in disasters with the other party abruptly ending the relationship. Three common factors were me, the other party had provided professional service that involved intimate knowledge, and the various dual relations with the two different providers. There are probably other common factors.

Common factors abound in multiplication problems.  Relationships abound in complexities that sometimes seem to multiply all by themselves. But they don't multiply all by themselves. There are always identifiable factors.

Primal Beings

Not sure what will roll off my keyboard right now. I just feel I should allow some words to flow. Maybe like a stream of consciousness type writing.

I worked a lot again this week. We've been busy, busy for over a month. That's good I guess. As long as we are able to keep up with the growth.

When I get home from work, if Yerba hasn't been with me at work, she licks and licks me. It's like she is giving me a bath.  Probably just slurping in all the salt from my sweaty skin.

I continue dealing with the repercussions of the events with my ex-therapist. I'm still stunned by it. And I think, who would believe this? I know some would. My psychologist is continuing to read through the emails, weighing stuff out, seeing objectively what transpired. I wonder if my ex-therapist even gives a shit? I gather he doesn't. Why would anyone recommend someone on Twitter that they say they can't trust, like my ex-therapist still recommends other folks to follow me, but he doesn't trust me? I don't understand that.

I sometimes wish I had a "don't care" switch. I could just flip it and wouldn't care when people are mean and cruel and liars. Liars. We all lie to some degree. We blind ourselves to certain things in order to survive, in order to function. Isn't that a bit like lying?

I was talking today with a lady, at the restaurant. She and, I assume, her husband sat in a booth next to ours, where John and I were eating. They had a 5 month-old boy with them. He wanted to see all around him as he furiously sucked his pacifier. He and that passy reminded me of Yerba and her bones. Primal, instinctive needs.

His mom, the lady I was talking with, had a tattoo on her back. It was of the back of a girl who appeared to be standing with the wind blowing back her hair.  The lady's dress was covering most of the tattoo. But I could see enough to know I liked the tatt. It brought to mind an image of Nanna. Nanna, who lives in my heart life.

I inquired, "What does the tattoo represent?"

"It's Cosette from 'Les Miserables,'" she responded. "I saw the play four years ago in New York, on Broadway. Some of the original cast were in it. I love the music and the play."

She shared a bit more and I could see she was passionate about it. I sang a couple lines from the only song I know from the production. "Do you hear the people sing...singing the song of angry men..it is the music of a people who will not be slaves again..." Her eyes lit up. Yes, she knew the song well.

I wonder what her son will do when he grows up? I'm sure he won't be sucking that passy.

Giants and the Roan

I stood on the rock. The wind brushed my cheeks. I closed my eyes.

The breeze enveloped me, rocked me. Gently, yet wildly.

I opened my eyes.

I gazed across the Balds. I gazed at Roan one ridge over. I gazed over the ocean of mountains.

Again I closed my eyes. I allowed my heart to feel. Tears rippled down my cheeks. I entered within.

And there was my friend, John. The gentle giant gardener whom I first met years ago in my dream. I love this gentle giant.

He was glad to see me and that made me smile. We sat in a swing, a porch swing for two. But it wasn't on a porch; it was on a swing set stand like used to be in my parent's back yard when I was little. The one I used to stand on the side bar and pretend I was the Captain of a pirate ship. Sometimes I'd be the Captain. Sometimes I'd be a kidnapped princess.

John smiled gently. He assured me that it was o.k. to cry. Understandable.

"Understandable." Dr. McColloch used to say that to me, in real life. Not in my heart life..where my friend John the gentle giant gardener lives.

I looked around, across my heart, my inner playground, and the Tender was there. He looked younger than last I saw him. More agile, though he is still elderly. He was energetic as he oiled the gears at the water wheel. He performed his work with joy and was so glad to see me.

And Abe. And Nanna. And Gremlin. And Sally. All came around to say hi. All were glad to see me. It made me feel good...all these parts of me doing well. Maybe I was doing o.k. Maybe I wasn't a destructive person...a phrase from real life that kept looping in my head.

I opened my eyes. The sun warmed me. The wind still blew. The Appalachian Trail called. I hearkened.

The rest of the day was glorious. I saw sections of the Balds I hadn't witnessed before. Hump Mountain was huge. A giant bald stretching toward the sky as it led across other ridges of balds. Yerba loved the tall grass as we hiked up Hump. The overgrowth on the trail was up to my shoulders in one section. Yerba would run and jump...chasing butterflies or something.

I saw only a few people on the trail after Overmountain Shelter. Well, only three people for the next eightish miles. And two snakes.

In the 1970s I used to wonder why all the talk of over-population. I'd visit the mountains and bask in all the open space. I guess Josh is right that the issue really wasn't or isn't overpopulation, but rather over-concentration.

Sometimes I over concentrate.