Warrior Rampage! Beware!

This is why my warrior gets activated! All I want to do is live a quiet life, a peaceful life, a life filled with love and sunshine, a life at one with the world around me. But that's not possible when everytime I turn around I am force fed toxicity created by the choices made by OTHER people!

In less than ONE SECOND of the history of the earth, human beings have decimated the planet. ONE FRIGGIN SECOND!

I don't know how to live in peace and harmony when it's nothing but toxic warfare everywhere I turn! The food I eat is toxic! Even supposed "organic" food is slowly being eroded by genetic engineers. The water I drink is toxic. The air I breathe is toxic. How am I supposed to live a peaceful life when my body is bombarded by the consequences of corporate greed mongers?!

The ONLY peace I have is that I did not bring children into this dying world, so at least I can die in peace with that. I can't even imagine the anxiety I would feel to leave behind my most beloved to fend for themselves in this dying, toxic world!

I can't take in any more information about things over which I have no fucking control!

Yet I can't turn my back on it, either. I can only change MY choices, but it's not enough! And it pisses me off that unless I go live as a hermit eeking out a meager life hidden away, I also can't escape the fact that I am also contributing to this toxic chaos!

We are a virus! We are the nastiest, most insidious of all cancers upon this earth, because we are SUPPOSED to have a conscience! We are SUPPOSED to have higher cognitive functions that allow us to understand the laws of CAUSE and EFFECT! We are supposed to be "INTELLIGENT" beings!

Free will sucks, when the "free will" of others rapes and pillages everything and anyone around them!!!

As far as I'm concerned, the earth has every right to erradicate this toxic cancer virus that threatens the existence of all life. Every gd right!!!!

Quantum Leap

Transition is never about just one thing, but rather about many things, some of which sneak up on us and bite us in the ass because we haven't been listening or paying very much attention.

Today I have been asking myself what I would experience, how I would feel, if I were to work along side of my 20-something self, that part of me that was so filled with the spirit of the white bear. The feelings that arise are shocking, actually, because the truth is that I would feel exactly the way that I feel now working with these other young whipper snapping white bears. . . lol.

My 20-something self would roll her eyes at me, mock me (both to my face, but especially behind my back), disregard any contribution I had to make, and would treat me with great disdain as if I were invisible and no threat at all. I would not enjoy working with her, of course. I would think she was arrogant and completely full of herself. I would also think she was impetuous and irresponsible in all of the ways that mattered, especially the way she walked away from family, friends, jobs just because they were difficult or inconvenient. But I would also recall with great joy what it had once felt like to be that spirited and care free, but I wouldn't want to be that way now. I would smile at and admire her bold spirit, but I would feel grateful that I no longer embodied this overwhelming spirit of the white bear.

It's funny how time really does change us.

I haven't gone through life stages the way most of my friends have. I am basically living exactly the same life I was living when I turned 20. . . .single and free to live my life on my terms, in any way I see fit. I was married for a while, but I didn't have children, so I never really had to embrace new and emerging parts of a life progression in stages. So I think that's one of the reasons why I'm having such a hard time with this one. . . .it's a quantum leap progression, rather than in those smaller stages. But the not so simple truth is that even though I may have the same essential freedoms, I'm no longer the person I was when I was 20. . . . not on any level.

I am almost 50 years old, now. I'm gray and wrinkling with eyes that can no longer read without assistive devices and a brain that just doesn't have the same capacity to hold on to trivial pieces of information. I remember what's important. . . .how I felt in a given experience. . . .but I just don't even care to recall the insigificant minutia of details. And the things that were important to me when I was 20 just hold no meaning for this me at all. I've done the party scene. . . .spent too many mornings puking up enough bad memories to last ten lifetimes. . . .lol. I've done the college scene. . . .spent enough money also to last at least ten lifetimes. . . .lol. And I've done the professional scene. . . .spending my own life energy units to save ten other lifetimes.

I think I need a new scene.

One of my favorite animated films is Howell's Moving Castle. The young protagonist Sophie goes through many changes, but her transformation is possible only because a witch has turned her into an old lady, which frees her from all of her fears and limitations. In the form of the old lady she is free to speak her mind with no regard of what people think of her. But there is this one scene when she's sitting at the edge of the lake and she makes a comment how all old people want to do is sit and look at things. I really love that scene. . . .because I can so relate to that now.

I think I'm invisibly resisting the natural evolution of my aging self. My priorities HAVE changed. I'm not looking for who I want to be any more, I'm looking for a space to just be who I am already. I think I really am done fighting, because it's really not important any more. . . .not to THIS part of me. What's important now is how I feel as I move through each day. What's important is my quality of life.

The truth is that I have spent my whole life fighting for everyone else, but not for me. My childhood was spent taking care of my mom and my little brothers, but no one was really taking care of me. I made a comment once to my little brother Scotty about how for that year when we lived with our aunt and uncle, that was the only time in our life that we'd had a childhood. He corrected me by saying, "No. WE had a childhood. . . .you gave that to us." It stopped me dead in my tracks, because he was right. While they were outside playing, I was the one who was cleaning and making dinner and taking care of my incapacitated mother from as early as three years old. . . .and yes, I can actually remember that. . . lol.

Even my career choices have been about trying to save other people. During my early college days, I was actually a math major (I have always wanted to be a math teacher). When I got cancer the first time it was during my first year of college, so I changed my major to nutrition so that I could help other people never get cancer. However, after a year of dietetics study I transferred to another university as a math major again because the only class that really excited me was the one unit statistics for health professionals class.

My major quickly changed to art and creative writing when my life started falling apart because it was the only voice I had at the time, and any effort I made to work my way back to math has been thwarted in one way or another. My graduate studies as a family therapist was about helping other families to heal from the trauma and abuse that infected their family life. And my work as a social worker was to help foster kids heal from their abuse and have a wonderful and successful life.

Yes. . . .these choices were also about me, but not about the "me" me.

So that's why this transition is so hard. I have spent my life fighting to change the conditions all around me so that I could live my life in peace, but I've also been putting my own self on hold while I do that. There is a me that never got to be that is rising up inside and begging to be heard. I have a right to be here! I have a voice! she cries out in defiance of the spirit of the white bear all around her.

What I am just in this moment realizing is that the spirit of the white bear gave me strength at a time when I needed to learn how to fight and trudge on until I was strong enough internally to fight in my own way. I think I can finally remove the white bear's coat God so graciously cloaked around my overburdened shoulders as a child. The spirit of the white bear protected me and kept me safe even when the people in my young world could not, and I am ready to embrace this unknown spirit rising up from within.

So perhaps I can envision a post warrior me.

There is a point in everyone's life when we really begin to understand that we don't have an indefinite amount of time to do the things we want to do on this earth. I have fallen through this truth several times, but I am only now beginning to walk through its inevitability, and I have a choice to make: Do I continue fighting for the life I never got to have? Or do I lay down my sword and armor to sit at the edge of the lake and admire all of the beauty that surrounds me?

Post Warrior?

So what does a warrior do when there's no more fight left inside? I am told that it is a good thing that I have no more fight left in me. . . .that all it means is that I am transitioning into a new me. . . .and that's why I don't recognize who I am right now. . . .which is why I have no self-confidence. . . . .and I'm exhausted because I am letting go of the need to fight.

The key is alchemy. . . .or so I have been told.

Maybe this is an inevitable transformation. I don't really know. What I do know is that I can't even begin to imagine a me who isn't a warrior. But maybe that is precisely the problem, because if I honestly can't imagine a post warrior me, then I will only fight the inevitable. . . ..which is exactly what a Warrior self would do.

Fight. Battle. Resist. These are the ways of the Warrior.

This isn't the first time my Warrior self has been confronted. I remember how one of my professors in grad school suggested that perhaps I needed to rest and let other people pick up the fight, that by me always being the one to pick up and carry "the banner" it releases others from needing to do so. My internal response was then (and continues to be), "But if I don't do it, then it won't get done." Hmmmm.....

Without psychoanalyzing the obvious roots of this belief, I need to come to terms with the question this world view begs to be answered: Can I accept the expected chaos that inevitably would ensue if I didn't fight the fight if, in fact, nobody else did pick up the banner?

There is a philosphical belief that we are always living in the best of all possible worlds. It's a very optimistic belief, but one I can't attach myself to, because we do NOT live in the best of all possible worlds. In this world there are children being abused, women being beaten, men being murdered, entire families starving, political corruption, global decay, and the list could go on and on. So, no....I do NOT live in the best of all possible worlds. And someone DOES need to fight for any and all who can't advocate for themselves. But I don't think these are the fights that are exhausting me. . . .

I know what it is. . . .I know exactly what the fight is that has me so exhausted. . . .I just can't say it. To actually say it, out loud, would be to hear a truth so painful, I don't know if I could bear its weight. And I can't walk away from it, either. But which me can't bear the truth? Because it's certainly not my Warrior Self. . . .

The Long Slow Breaking of Spirit

Spent the afternoon resting and thinking about how much I have changed. . . .how when I started out in life I was intrepid. . . .no fear. . . .how I was once filled with the bravado of the white bear and a depth of knowledge that no matter what I attempted I would succeed. But something happened along the way. . . not really a single something, but a long series of somethings that have left my spirit broken. . . . broken and in need of that which ever eludes my exhausted mind.

Where is the spirit of the white bear? Where is the me who wore elf (and chicken) suits just for the fun of it and never, ever cared what anyone else thought about it? Where is the she who barked and snapped at first sergeants and slammed doors when wrongs weren't righted? Where is that woman with more balls than any man her platoon sergeant had ever known? I don't even recognize the me I have become, this anxious, chronic insomniac afraid to snap and growl back at the white bears surrounding me and treating me as an invisible and inconsenquential threat.

I think the word I'm looking for is shellshocked. That is exactly the word I'm looking for. I have had to fight for so long that I have no more fight left in me. I just want to be left the fuck alone so that I can have whatever peace I can find in the solitude of isolation.

That is exactly how I feel.

I touched this place ten years ago when I was coming out of my last cancer surgery. I had this weird experience where my body was under deep anaesthesia, unable to move or speak, but my mind was perfectly clear. As they were trying to awaken me, I was aware of how exhausted my spirit was. . . .aware of how much I did NOT want to fight to come back. . . . aware of how much I wanted to just lie there and let the struggle leave my battle fatigued body. But I wasn't ready to give up, so I fought to rise up out of that dark fog slowing trying to lull me into complete and utter submission.

But now, my spirit is broken. . . .broken with no more fight left. . . .no more fight and just wanting to be left alone in this dank cave with the spirit of the white bear somewhere off in the dense misted fog that has once again wrapped itself around me. I think I will be here for a while. . . .yes, I think I will be here for quite a very long while.

Fable of the Porcupine

(Author Unknown)

It was the coldest winter ever.  Many animals died because of the cold.

The porcupines, realizing the situation, decided to group together to keep warm. This way they covered and protected themselves; but the quills of each one wounded their closest companions.

After awhile, they decided to distance themselves one from the other and they began to die, alone and frozen. So they had to make a choice: either accept the quills of their companions or disappear from the Earth.

Wisely, they decided to go back to being together. They learned to live with the little wounds caused by the close relationship with their companions in order to receive the heat that came from the others. This way they were able to survive.

The best relationship is not the one that brings together perfect people, but when each individual learns to live with the imperfections of others and can admire the other person's good qualities.

The moral of the story is: Just learn to live with the Pricks in your life!

I think I might just be an alien

Today I feel like an alien, like I don't belong on this planet, and don't even want to belong on this planet. My friend tells me the problem is my expectations, my expectation that human beings will treat each other kindly, with dignity and respect. She tells me that's why I am chronically dissapointed. . . . because of this expectation that I have about the fundamental nature of human beings. She tells me that if I would simply expect to be treated like crap that I would then feel gratitutde and appreciation when I am treated kindly. Interesting perspective. . . .

If I were an alien, today's report to the home planet would inform that the humans of this planet are sad and unhappy people who treat each other with great insensitivity. Happy people just don't push and pull people down around them just to make themselves feel better! And yet on other days my report would be how amazing these human beings are to overcome so many hurdles in life by forgiving and accepting those who hurt and offend. The bottom line is that I just don't understand the mean and hurtful things people do to each other.

Perhaps I should stop trying to figure out why people treat each other so badly, and figure out instead why I am so turned upside down like a desert tortoise who can't upright herself when they do. Why can I not very easily let go of the hurtful things people do? Is Gayle right? Is the fundamental human journey the path of forgiveness? Am I failing to walk on my path of forgiveness?

Today I just feel like a pollyanna alien in a world filled with mean, hurtful, and insensitive people. But with enough pizza and Dr Pepper, this, too, shall pass. . . .even this day shall pass :)

Call of the Ravens

It’s another beautiful day at the canyon. Blue sky. Green trees. Feeling good to be alive. As I walk along immersed in the beauty of the day I notice some ravens cawing over across the way, so I turn to look for them as I continue walking on. I can’t see them, of course, but I can tell that there are several of them up inside the scraggly branches of two tall pine trees across the railroad tracks just beneath the village road that loops a complete circle around where I am in this moment palpably pulled into these enlivened trees as the ravens continue to caw.

How many times have I walked past these trees, tall and silent on my way to work in the wee darkness of the eerie walk to my graveyarded shift? Yet now they openly speak to me in the full brightness of day in a way that makes me suddenly very aware of the sun’s heat rising up off the dry brown dirt puffing up around my tennis shoes as I walk along, now fully immersed in the inescapable cawing of the ravens.

The dry path slopes downward now, about to cross a small creek. I don’t even stop to wonder where this tiny flow of water sources itself, I just step across making sure to land squarely upon the large single rock bridge that gaps the two dry sides. My crossing disturbs a lone raven just up the other side hopping like a three legged dog, its mouth full of something dead and fleshy. It’s amazing to me how large the raven is, and I remark to myself the irony of crossing paths with this dark harbinger whose mouth is filled with dead carcass like a symbolic piece of a long ago me, long since dead, perhaps, but not very long forgotten.

I am in love with this moment that has opened up the flow of spirit through what would have otherwise been nothing more than a mundane walk to lunch as I consider the urging of a friend to write down my dark stories and publish them for others like me to read. It’s an interesting and enticing thought, yet something that would most certainly change my life forever. And as I begin the last trudge to the top of this short craggy climb, the invisible ravens continue to caw out to me as if to warn of the dangers that lurk just beyond. . ..yet, I continue on. . . .I continue on.

Only Half of a Face

I finally have words for what I feel.

It's like I only have half of a face on Facebook.

One of my friends talked recently about using Facebook as "smoke and mirrors" to hide what was really going on in her life. I told her that if smoke and mirrors was the only way for us to get through, then smoke and mirrors it shall be. Perhaps it's simply human nature to post only the warm and the fuzzy, but I'm tired of feeling like there is no place for the stories in my life. I have always invisibly felt this, but Facebook is just bringing this truth to the surface.

All throughout the year there are these Facebooking opportunities to post stories and memories of a person's life. I love reading the stories, but they also make me feel. . . .well, they make me feel exactly the way I used to when I was growing up, actually. Hmmm. . . . very interesting. I remember how when I was a young person how envious I felt of the stories I heard from my friends. Not envy for the obvious reasons of a superficial jealousy, but because of how bad my own stories made me feel. My stories made me feel like I was an inferior person, because even from a very young age, I always knew that there was something inherently "wrong" with my stories, something "wrong" with me. I also knew that I was never supposed to tell my stories. I was ashamed of my life, ashamed of the stories that comprised my life, and that made me feel like I was less than everyone else around me. . . .both friends and family alike.

And so I kept my stories to my self.

I was twenty five years old before I started to tell my story, and I think it was only because I had to. . . .my life was falling apart, and the panic attacks were creating an internal prison from which I could not escape. My best friend in high school knew nothing at all about my so called secret life. . . .no one did. . . . not even my mother before she died. When everyone around me was excitedly sharing stories of first kisses and first sexual experiences, I cringed in horror to know that I could never share the truth of my real first kiss, of my real first sexual experiences. And my husband, bless his heart, married a woman he honestly knew nothing about, with a collection of stories that in the end were just too dark and too intense for him to live with. And so he did what I was afraid people would do once they heard my stories. . . .he turned his back and walked away from the damaged wife he would have never chosen had HE known the truth of my stories.

Perhaps the wedding vows should have been rewritten to include, "In sickness and in health, In stories dark and light, 'Till death do you part." Maybe then he would have been able to honor his vows.

I honestly don't blame him for walking away. I've been trying to run away from these stories for my entire life. They're not the stories that I want. I would never have chosen these stories. My life journey has irrevocably been altered by these stories. And they're not the stories that I want to share, either. But I'm tired of holding back the truth of my stories just to make other people feel comfortable.

These stories are like shrapnel inside of my mind and body. . . .and so they need to be released, because they are the very truth of who I am, the very fabric that interfaces every step of the life path I have been forced to walk upon. And, yes, I do grow weary of always having to "put my best face forward," because I'm tired of having only half of a face.

So in the famous words of Marilyn Monroe, "I'm selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best."

Falling through the Cracks...

I have recently come to understand that pieces of my life have fallen through the cracks, pieces that when viewed as a collective whole paint a completely different picture than when viewed as individual pieces. Specifically, the pieces that I'm talking about are the panic attacks, insomnia, ongoing nightmares, and the chronic anxiety that all still plague my every day peace. The question is, what do I do with this bigger picture? What do I do with these four letters that finally explain the collectiveness of experience? And is there a way for the PTSD to rearrange itself into an acronym with less friendly fire?

I can't run from this. There is no place on this earth where I can escape this anxiety, no place where a peaceful night's sleep exists waiting for me to arrive, and no place where the images of my dreamscape are filled with warmth and light. I can not run from what happens on the inside of my existence.

I'm done self accommodating. I'm tired of the distractions. And I'm exhausted by the journey in search of a therapy that will finally heal these wounds and dry up this never ending sadness like a stagnant pool across a deserted oasis. It's all too easy to say, "You need to move on...why do you dwell on the past?" But it's not that simple...because it's not in the past...it's in my every day present like tiny invaders in cells that remain invisibly flowing through me, but ever and always just outside of my awareness.

No one wants to hear the dark stories of childhood filled with real life monsters and silent dualities that leave me cut off still from truth and power. The book of my life sits upon the shelf covered in dust, while the books filled with happy stories and smiling faces are checked out daily by readers in need of the warm and the fuzzy. The little story of a depressed and lonely child just isn't filled with Rockwellian images, so I carry this sad tale tucked far beneath the surface in search of the one who is not afraid to read this dark little book of me. But there's no one to listen, because there's no one to tell. And so the story remains locked up inside my body while the whispers of its truth evaporate through anxious moments and quickly passing thunderstorms through the mind.

I have fallen through the cracks, both above and below, both in light and in darkenss. Is it enough that there is only the One who is not afraid of my truth, or afraid to walk with me as I make my way through the remnants of dust and shadow?

Tough Choices Make the Person

No one said life was going to be easy, and neither are the choices that we have to make, but I tell you with absolute certainty that it's the tough choices that makes us who we are.

I love that peace that over takes me once the choice is fully resolved. I have been vacillating back and forth (should I stay or should I go), and this morning the options were fully laid out before me: I can stay here (with single status), but not with my cat, and that simply isn't an option for me.

For some people their pets are just that. . . .their pets. But for me, they are my furry family, a part of my life that comes with me or I don't go. I have reordered my life many times so that my furry family can remain a part of my life, and trust me when I say that it is NEVER the lesser expensive of options. But since Sarra will not be able to continue living with me here with my new housing option, then I will not be able to remain myself. So the packing and purging continues :)

Well, it's finally off to Nova Scotia for the summer. . . .and who knows what will happen while I'm there!

Dichotomies are so Passe

So which is it? Half empty? Or half full? If you say "half empty" you're a pessimist. If you say "half full" you're an optimist. But there is a third option to this dichotomy, and that is called the realist. . . .the person who can look at this glass and say, "Well, it's half empty and  half full, both at the same time."

That's me. I tend to see situations in terms of contingencies based on all possibilities, or at least as many possibilities that I can identify. I don't like surprises (so no surprise birthday parties, please...lol).

My friend Gayle thinks I'm thinking negatively if I consider the possibility that my request may be denied. She tells me to bend my entire thought on the outcome that I want, and if I do that, then it will manifest the way I want it to be. The universe responds to what you focus on, she will tell me. While I appreciate this kind of optimism, to me it's magical thinking and not realistic, because I know that it is actually possible that even though there is no legal basis for denying my request, they may still do so. That doesn't make me a pessimist. . . .it makes me a realist.

I can hope for the best, but I'm still going to prepare for the worst.

As a realist, I anticipate all possible outcomes (as many that can be anticipated, both positive and negative, both wanted and unwanted), because I need to know that I have a plan in place for whatever decision is made, regardless of which path is laid before me. I really don't like surprises. . . .I tend to be much more reactive to surprises than what I have planned for and anticipated. Also, if I can anticipate the possible contingencies, then I don't feel so anxious about a given situation, so it's all about anxiety management. . . .lol.

However, I also recognize that I create a LOT of extra work for myself. By anticipating multiple outcomes, and having contingency plans in place for each possibility, I hold all of these ideas as potential outcomes, too. I think this is why I slide between life plans so easily. . . .lol. In a moment of reactivity I already have several potential plans worked up, so I can change gears quickly. . . .very often too quickly, I'm afraid. Another reason why I enjoy living a solo life. . . .lol. Changing gears like this doesn't usually settle well with another person who's involved in the plans. . . .lol.

So this week I am anticipating several life altering outcomes of this meeting on Friday. But I most definitely have contingency plans for each one, of course, because I'm a realist. . . .so I may be hoping for the best, but I have definitely prepared for the worst :)

Home

All I can think about these days is my home. My home that's on the verge of being invaded by someone I do not want to live with. But these are the rules here. . . .and that is precisely what the sacrifice is if I choose to remain here. So yeah, all I can think about lately is my home.

But if I pull away from the angst of this current dilemma, I feel the truth that I have actually felt homeless ever since my mother passed on some twenty five years ago now. She created my home for me. I was living on the other side of the world stationed in (what was then) West Germany in government barracks when she died, but my home had always been that place where my mom anxiously awaited my return. It wouldn't have mattered to me where she lived. . . .that still is where my home would have been.

So, yes. . . .I've been homeless for a long time.

I have tried to create home here at the canyon, but it's been one long fight, so home feels more like a battle ground than a safe haven right now. Is it worth the fight? And what does that mean for me if it's not worth the fight? Do I leave the canyon? Do I find alternate housing more locally? These are no simple or easy questions to answer because there are both practical and emotional components to what a home means. Home is where we store our personal belongings and pieces of history. Home is where we eat and sleep and cleanse our bodies. Home is where we socialize and connect with the outside world via TV, phones, and computers. Home is that safe place we come home to at the end of a long day, that place where the hearth fires burn for us until we return.

I've started reading Waldon  by Henry David Thoreau, and it's resonating deeply with where I am in my life. He believed that the masses lived lives of quiet desperation, which he did not want to do. So he conducted a personal experiment where he built a log cabin out in the middle of some New England wildnerness and examined his life and its relationship to the outside world of creature comforts for more than two years. People of the day thought him to be crazy, but he wanted to understand his place in the world in a self-examined way. Very few people ever do that.

I have also conducted such experiments. I once shaved my head to understand the role that my hair had in my personal power as a female. After that I wanted to understand why I kept toting around all of these "things" from place to place, so when I moved into my home in Riverside I kept everything in boxes just sitting in the middle of my living room for what turned into many, many months. Nothing could be touched, not even the dust balls that were collecting in the corners. I wanted to sit with and study everything within my personal space until I understood why I paid to store what I felt compelled to own and possess. Neighbors probably thought I was crazy, too. . . .lol. Others asked when the house was going to be vacant, believing that I was packing to move. . . .lol. But I am beginning to think that it just may be time again for another critical self-examination of my life, specifically what "home" means to me.

I woke up this morning and sat here looking around at everything I have in this space, wondering why I am fighting so hard to maintain the space to house it. I haven't touched an art supply in probably nine years, yet I still have them, and pay to house them. The same with my books and trinkets. When do I actually look at them or utilize them in some meaningful way? I walk past them a hundred times in a day, but I don't ever really see them. They fill the negative space, the empty space of my home, but once they are placed, when do I really interact with them again?

There is an entire genre of paintings from antiquity where the wealthy aristocrats would commission an artist to paint them with all of their belongings. This wasn't done to document belongings for insurance claims, but rather to document their wealth and status. What would it say about me. . . .to view this kind of painting of me and all of the "stuff" I have? That's how I feel today looking at all of the "things" I have. . . .not as an aristocrat, but just wondering why I feel the need to provide space to maintain it all? Why do I have so much stuff? The more stuff I have, the more space I need to house it.

My friend (and sister by Edmondson adoption) Stacey posted something recently about how God's plan isn't so much for us to be happy as much as it is to be holy, and more like Jesus. I have been thinking about this a lot, because Jesus lived the most simplest of lives. Jesus didnt have a bunch of "stuff" to tote around from place to place. No. . . .God wants us to be holy, to be spiritual.

Things are things. . . .and I feel so burdened by all of these things I have right now. I also don't like that my home has become a fancy prison of sorts, because it is all of this stuff that forces me to have a home in the first place.

Healing

The human body is amazing. I once read about benefits of deep cleansing, and how if we don't have everything we need at the time of an injury to heal a wound, the body will do the best it can with what it has. But later, no matter how many years later it takes, when the body has the time and resources to do so, it will go back and break down old tissue (even scars and adhesions) and rebuild new tissue in a way that creates a healthier and stronger body. It is painful. But in the end the body is stronger. . . .and healthier.

I beleive that the human psyche does exactly the same thing. When we are too young to know how to heal psychological wounds, the mind will heal itself as best it can with what it's got at the time. That doesn't mean that makes us "functional" lol...but it does make it possible to continue on in the journey. . . .until we find or create the healing that we need.

We do the best with what we've got. . . . and we heal in layers, as we are willing and able to do so.

Over the course of the past eighteen years I have done a lot of "healing" work, one layer at a time. Personal therapy, art therapy, recovery, acupuncture, reiki, massage, bio-feedback, grad school, self-help ad infinitum. But parts of me (unfortunately) still feel broken and beyond repair, and I don't want to live in this psychologically "crippled" place any longer. I'm not "broken" per se, but the way my mind has healed from the life-trauma wounds leaves me with a high maintenance life of having to manage the never ending anxiety and panic and inability to get a good night's sleep. I don't want such a high maintenance life, and I also don't want to simply medicate these symptoms away. I want to be rid of these limitations. . . .once and for all.

It is possible. . . .I have seen PET scans and SPECT scans of brains that have healed. Dr. Amen's ground breaking book, "Change Your Brain, Change Your Life" is an amazing road map into neuro-psychology, and cutting edge therapeutic modalities are now able to document the concrete evidence of how the mind can heal, even after living many years with disordered and chaotic hardwiring caused by abuse and trauma. It takes a lot of time, but it is possible.

As for me, I love the person my life has forged me to be, but I do want a better way of responding to life's challenges. And sometimes when a bone (whether physical or psychological) does not get set right the first time, you have to go back and rebreak that bone so that it can heal correctly and make the body/mind functional and strong again.

So I have some more layers of healing work ahead of me. It will be painful, of course. . . .but  the pain will be worth it. . . .the pain is always worth it when you gain a stronger, healthier life on the other side. . . .

It Is What It Is

One of the things I love about life is how unpredictable it can be. When I came to the canyon more than a year and a half ago, I thought I was coming here for a "working vacation." Turns out there was very little vacation about it. . . .and the "work" part turned out to be more emotional than occupational.

There was something I needed to learn. . . .and I believe that's why the canyon called me here. When I sat on the edge in 2005 and felt my spirit stand up and walk through the canyon like Paul Bunyon, it refused to squeeze back into the box my psyche had created to protect it. But it has taken all of these six long years to understand what that really means.

Evil Kneivil broke 433 bones during the course of his life. . . .they healed, left scars, imposed limitations, and probably hurt a LOT....but they never stopped him from doing what he loved. Evil Kneival is the epitome of the Phoenix in human form (or is it the epitome of human stupidity? lol). Regardless of which he best embodies, I think the more broken and beat up we are by the journey, the more courage and strength it takes to rise up again and again out of the ashes of personal tragedy and lost love. But I also believe that the struggle and pain help to make us appreciate the journey from a deeper place of gratitude because of  the never ending obstacles needing to be overcome in order to simply continue on. But we do. . . .because the Phoenix spirit in all of us rises up to live and love again.

My life has left me deeply scarred. . . .with parts still feeling like they are broken beyond repair. But my journey here at this amazing canyon has helped me to accept this truth about my self without apology for these scars that bind and blind me.

It is what it is. . . .I am what I am. . . .and I still deserve to live, love and laugh my way through the journey. . . .

Mother's Day from the Edge

Today is Mother's Day. It's been 25 years since my mom passed on, and I have many mixed feelings on this day. For more than a week I've been reading all of these happy posts about everyone's wonderful mothers and their gratitudes and appreciations. Trouble is that for some of us, our relationship with our mother was/is complex and difficult. . . .and it feels like there is no place for this truth on what is supposed to be a "happy" day. So this is my mother's day post to my mom, written from a personal truth that's real for us. . . .

Mom, I love you. . . .even with your flaws and imperfections. But when you died, there was still so much conflict going on between us, and after 25 years there is still this great big hole in my heart and in my life from your absence. I don't know what to do with this gaping black hole. What do I do with all of the guilt for feeling so angry with you? Not anger for leaving, but anger for being so sick and perpetually absent in my life.

I have needed you every day since you left. My bearings are still off, like my compass can't find its true north, can't find its home. . . .because you were my home. . . .you were the hub that grounded me no matter where I was in the world. . . .even when I was angry and indifferent. . . .and now I just feel bereft with no place to find safe haven any more. I'm still lost, even after 25 years, lost without your unconditional love for me.

I don't even remember. . . .mother's day 25 years ago. . . .did I even send a card home? I was half way around the world trying to deal with my own craxy mixed up life. . . .did I tell you that I love you? I can't recall. . . .I can't remember. . . .would it have made a difference had I told you? I had only a few short weeks left with you, but I was half way around the world with no clue about what was about to happen. . . .would I have made different choices had I known? I was so indulgent then. . . .indulgent because I thought I had a lifetime of happy mother's days ahead of me. . . .my selfish ignorance made me indulgent and carefree. And now I must live with how utterly alone that indulgence has left me.

I'm sorry that our relationship growing up was so complex and difficult. I'm sorry that I couldn't be more supportive when you were sick and I was so angry with how sick you were. But mostly I'm sorry that we didn't have enough time to work through the long distance still between us when you passed on from this world. I feel "stuck" in that moment, like a part of me remains blacked out in the shock of the finality of your loss. And so I don't know what to do with this black hole that remains. . . .

. . . .except to tell you that I love you. . . .I'm glad that you were my mother, even with your flaws and imperfections. . . .I appreciate how you loved and believed in me so completely unconditionally. . . .how you gave me the strength of confidence to believe in myself no matter what anyone else thought, especially when it was "you and me against the world". . . .and I miss you more than you could possibly imagine.

So, Happy Mother's Day to the woman who chose me to be her first born and only daughter. My life is possible only because of you. . . .may our relationship one day find the peace we both need and deserve.

Change and Permanence

The problem is perspective. I came to the canyon with the hopes of being able to make a life, to settle down and enjoy a wonderful working vacation. But that's the problem. . . .I have been working hard to create a permanent life in a temporary reality. It's not set up for long-term permanent here. . . .that's why they force us to have a roommate, even in our own tiny apartments. I would have to be here for 10 years before I would be allowed to live here on my own. . . . TEN years! That feels unbearable. . . .especially given other personal limitations. . . .

But the problem as I see it now is perspective. . . .my perspective. I want what I can't have here. And the bigger problem is that I don't think I'll find what I want anywhere else, either. Then the even bigger problem from there is that I think about this stuff way too much. . . lol. But it's who I am. . . .I am a creative observer to life. . . .and I think deeply upon what I see. . . .especially when what I see changes with perspective much like how the canyon changes depending on the light. Perspective changes everything.

I once read this amazing book about the mind of an artist, I think it was called Creating Minds. Yes, that's what it was called. The author looked at a small collection of iconic creative minds that revolutionized a part of the world. . . .Albert Einstein. . . .Picasso. . . . Martha Graham. . . .Freud. . . . .Gandhi.. . .and I can't recall the others. But the basic premise of the book is that the artistic mind is essentially not a "normal" mind, but rather is fueled by some form of mental/emotional angst or imbalance of sorts. A mind in balance doesn't seek to make sense of the disorder. It's an interesting premise. . . .one that I am holding near and dear right now. . . .lol.

My journey is constantly changing as I seek to make sense of the disordered fragments within my life, yet I long for permanence and stability, which makes no sense. I am a walking paradox. It's a good thing my friends love me for who I am, because I honestly don't know from day to day what I will do or where I will end up. Every day is a potential opportunity for me to turn my life upside down and head off into the middle of a grand adventure. Every day is also an opportunity to leave myself only to return finding that everything has changed.

I feel a bit like Siddharta right now. . . .ever searching for truth only to find that truth changes depending on one's perspective on life in a given moment. Nothing is permanent, not even personal truth. So for now, I am here. . . .and that is all I know for certain. . . .

Self Acceptance

There is a lot going on in my life right now. The past several months in particular have been some of the most stressful ones of my entire life. But a most interesting thing is happening. . . .the awareness of certain limitations that I have is actually serving to liberate me. By accepting myself as I actually am, rather than keep working to change into who I would like myself to be, I am starting to feel a sense of peace come over me that I find surprisingly unexpected.

Personal growth is a wonderful thing, but there is also growth to be found in self acceptance. For 26 years I have been living with life experiences that I thought could be "fixed" or "healed" or "changed" in some way, and I have been beating myself against an unyielding wall. But there are some things that no matter how hard a person tries, they just aren't going to be able to fix or change. There comes a point when we simply are who we are, with no apologies, and no regrets. And I think I have finally reached that point in my life. And I'm ok if this is as good as it's ever going to get.

But the other side of self acceptance is a sense of purposefulness. . . .a line that gets drawn in the sand. . . .an inner voice that rises up and says, This is who I am, and I'm not going to stuff myself into anyone else's box for even one more moment. . . .and I won't let this box suck the life out of me.

I see now that change happens all on its own. I can't will it to happen, and I certainly can't stop it when it does. All I can do is let the river carve the canyon. . . .and so I will. . . .

The Fight that Chooses Us

All we humans want is to live our life in peace and harmony. And while I believe this generally to be true, why then is there so much war? So much conflict? So much struggle? I do not know the answer to these questions, but what I am coming to understand is that we do not choose the battles that need to be fought. . . .they choose us. . . .and the only part we have control over is how we choose to respond to the battles that choose us.

I have had so many fights to fight across the journey of my that I can't help but wonder why. But right now a very specific battle is choosing me. Do I tuck tail and quit? It is certainly the easier option, as it is a David and Goliath type of fight, one that I most certainly will not win. But what makes it not so easy to quit is that the circumstances are affecting me personally, meaning that it is my fight to fight. . . .so what am I going to do about it?

We may all want to live in a happy-go-lucky peaceful world, but that is not the way of life. We fight for our children in a million different ways. We fight oppression when it is forcing itself against a person's right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. We fight disease of a million faces when it invades a life and the relationships that surround in support. We fight governments and organizations that deny our rights. There are many fights to be fought, but they are always the fights that choose us. . . .the fights that drop themselves like houses falling out of tornado infested skies smack into the middle of the journey to our life purpose. But these life altering battles actually end up defining  our life purpose by the forging of our character and the calling upon our personal passion with which we fight these most unwanted fights.

No one wants war, whether they be global, local, or personal. We all want peace. So how can peace and war coexist? Is there a way for a Peace Warrior to walk with integrity? There are many guides on how to fight this kind of fight because I'm not talking about battling injustice with violence. Jesus lived the truth of his passion telling us to Pick up your cross and follow me!  This has always held great power for me in my journey, as this tells my heart that I am actually responsible to carry the burden of responsibility for my own fight. Gandhi showed another way to fight the fight, as did Martin Luther King, Jr.

These Peace Warriors serve as guides, not because they fought for other people, but because they responded to the battles that rose up in their time and space and chose them. They weren't fighting someone else's fight, they were fighting their own. And they didn't shrink away from the battle because it was uncomfortable or inconvenient, they rose up in protest at great personal cost.

There are many Peace Warriors in my life. My aunt who battled long and hard to make sure her two children received the medical interventions they needed in response to the unchosen birth defects. My friend whose parents are both battling for their lives. My cousin who battles for the environment, and her son who battles for the voiceless children on the other side of the world. My brother who battles diabetes and the ever encroaching disability that results. My friend whose husband battles throat cancer. And the list goes on and on. . . .but not a single one of these people wanted these battles. . . .no, these battles all chose them.

The powerlessness I feel about global battles does not apply here. In this situation I am not powerless at all. I hold a great deal of power because this is actually happening to me right here. . . .in this time and space. . . .and within my personal capabilities to stand up and fight. So now I have a choice to make. Is this battle worthy of being fought? Is it something I feel passionate enough about to step up and become a personal target of the subsequent negative forces that have already started to rise up and surround me with pressure to sit down quietly and stop making such a raucus? Do I silence my personal truth so that other people around me feel more comfortable?

I may not want this battle. . . .but I will most certainly find no peace if I simply turn around and quit.

As Good As It Gets?

Spending a week in the hospital with nothing to do but think about my life. . . .where it is. . . .and (more importantly) where it's going. . . .has me thinking about that quirky Jack Nicholson/Helen Hunt film. I love that line when he's sitting in the psychiatrist's office looking around at everyone as he's waiting to get his prescription filled and he says to the "oddball" group, What if this is as good as it gets?

Recent events are forcing me to take a deep hard look at who I am and accept what I see on a level that is actually painful. I hated how emotionally fragile my mother was, and the thought that I may actually be more like her as not makes me cringe in horror. So, what does it mean for me to accept that I may be more emotionally "fragile" than the average person? And, perhaps more importantly, to not apologize for it?

Perhaps I do feel more deeply, or am affected more deeply. But does this necessarly have to be a bad thing? Or is it just what it is? I have also had to experience more life challenges than the average person, so these experiences (or more importantly, the journey to heal from them) has given me an emotional strength that I think many people do not have. I'm not afraid to experience "hard" emotions (the way my mother was), and I don't walk around them or try to change them when someone else is feeling them, either. I can "walk through hell" with someone else precisely because I have had to face my own long dark walk through hell. The difference between me and my mother is that I am not permanently incapacitated by my emotions as she was. . . I am compelled to take action because of their power to incapacitate.

I'm about to go through another period of transformation. There is a part of my personal hell that has opened up a portal that I will step through, because I am only just now beginning to understand how my avoidance of this part of my history limits me in some very important ways. And if there is some way for me to work through these blocks, then I will do that hard work, because I'm not yet willing to accept that the current state of affairs is going to be as good as it gets for me.

I will not allow my mother's fate to be my own.

However, there is a price to be paid for liberating my spirit from the power that the expectations of others has held over me and the choices that I make in my life, because by so doing, I am forced to ask for my needs to be met directly by an environment that may be unable or unwilling to do so.

I can't help but wonder, though. . . .what will remain if this environment can not meet my needs?

Perspective and Truth

I've had an interesting week :) And spending four days in the hospital with my insides all tied up in knots (literally) left me with not much to do but rest and try to understand how I ended up in the hospital at all.

While I was lying in wait, I read the latest installment of James Redfield's Celestine books, The Twelfth Insight. The part of this story that jumped out and grabbed me was the idea about how we are living in a time when Absolute Honesty is an imperitive, if we are to navigate through the sea of globalized manipulation and corruption.

For the past year and nearly a half, I have been immersed in an environment that was very toxic for me, but I felt (for many reasons) unable to "speak my truth," so to say. I wasn't dishonest, technically, but I also never verbalized directly to the significant player how her actions were affecting me. Hence, I remained feeling all knotted up inside each day, absorbing all of that caustic toxicity, which resulted in very painful intestines physically all knotted up. So I can't help but wonder if the practice of Absolute Honesty could have made a difference. Would the environment have changed had I told it how my anxious body cringed in its presence?

The hard truth for me to own is how much of my personal truth I actually hold inside, and not just with this experience, but in many ways. I withhold the complete truth so as to not hurt a friend's feelings. I give partial pieces of information in such a way as to present a reality the way I would like it to be for any number of reasons. I love the line from Something's Gotta Give when Jack Nicholson's character declares that he never lied, that he always gave some "version" of the truth. (You gotta love Jack :) But the bottom line is that there are a lot of ways that I withhold all or part of my personal truth.

The problem is that I have never really seen Absolute Honesty in motion. The socio-political world is nothing but half truths and outright lies, and I grew up in a trio of family systems that practiced varying degrees of feeling avoidance, secret keeping, image making, and self-interested deceptions. There were always at least three sets of "truth" on the table: the version we invisibly agreed to support, the version we shared publicly, and the version I experienced inside. . . .and they were very rarely (if ever) the same. So I'm having a hard time comprehending how to put this idea of Absolute Honesty into motion in a meaningful way, but I absolutely feel the need to do so.

Truth is a funny thing. Everyone can look upon the exact same "reality," yet every person sees it differently through their personal perceptions, lenses, and interpretations. . . .much like the white light of reality being split through a prism of multiple perspectives. But I wonder. . . .is there a difference between truth and honesty?