Food and Chemicals

Lynne McTaggart’s blog this morning, citing the work of Dr. Grace E. Jackson, highlights the increasing volume of evidence linking some pharmaceutical medications to dementia.

The list of medicines cited as the biggest offenders against our brain matter:

• Cholesterol lowering or blocking
• High Blood Pressure
• Anti-depressants
• Sleeping pills
• Certain Medications for ADHD

All have been shown to have debilitating effects on our grey matter, often resulting in some form of dementia.

Now I know why the recent elections in my area went the way they did.

Silly me, I thought people were just too lazy to research – turns out, they are probably suffering from some stage of dementia.

I feel bad about my previous harsh thoughts towards my fellow citizen voters.

Sick people deserve compassion.

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I’m also concerned about Dr. Jackson’s career.   History tells me she’s on a path that ends in being ostracized from the Lodge of Modern Medicine.  I’m awaiting her being added to the Quackwatch list.

(No, you don’t get a link for quackwatch.   This guy doesn’t do his homework.  I only know about him because he came out with egg on his face when the Weston A. Price foundation refuted his findings on a point-by-point basis.   Those folks know how to research and footnote, therefore are link-worthy. )

Maybe I should send her Mr. 11 Dimensions’ address – they can hang out in seclusion together.   Although I think he may be currently enjoying genius status….his status in the world of Physicists has changed frequently – so not sure if he’s in seclusion or not.

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I’ve always held that modern medicine has gotten very good at keeping the body alive while what’s wrong is figured out.   Broken bones, gun shot wounds, blocked airways…hey!  Modern is where it’s at.

I’m still convinced that daily health and quality of life comes from ingesting properly prepared, nutritious food and seeking assistance from a holistic provider when you’ve gotten yourself ‘jacked up’ (Politely referred to as ‘out of balance’ by the holistic circle.)

And taking supplements if you’re not getting nutritious food.

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When I first entered the Traditional Diet world, I ran my mouth to friends, family and neighbors nearly 24 hours a day.   The changes I observed in my own body were so significant I could hardly wait to share.   So many things became clear on why I had suffered from various health problems for so long.

I turned my back on USDA and FDA guidelines.   My new guidelines were: “Was this available to my ancestors who lived 40,000 years ago?  In this form?  If not, how much would they have to eat in order to get that amount?”

(Did you know that to get a cup of corn oil into your system, you would need to ingest 1/2 bushel of corn or more, at one sitting?)

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I’m a big fan of ‘experiential data’ – I’ve seen what happens to data when the graph doesn’t look just like someone wants it to…especially if that graph is directly tied to that someone’s paycheck.

I’m also a big fan of ‘natural selection’ – even though completely adhering to that would mean I would be dead by now…and wouldn’t have lived long enough to procreate….

My brain full of history tells me that if physical bodies evolve slowly to survive in new conditions, our bodies haven’t had enough time to catch up with all the wondrous food products that come to us via the Industrial Revolution.

I can trust my brain – I’m not on pharmaceuticals.

I can go crazy all by myself, thank you very much…

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I have my own set of data on whether to believe Modern medicine or Age-Old practices.   I’m not afraid to experiment on myself.   And I’m not afraid to say, “oops!  that didn’t go well, let’s try something else”.

I think my ‘all or nothing’ personality combined with a healthy skepticism of anyone who makes grand promises with a similarly attached price tag, along with personal mishandling by both modern and holistic practitioners,  has placed me in a position to be rather open to views that go against the majority consensus.

I also refuse to knowingly purchase anything with Aspartame in it.   My son sorely misses chewing gum.    We haven’t been able to find one that doesn’t contain aspartame.

If you do a search of Aspartame, you’ll find plenty of people crying “Poison!” and about the same number shouting, “Shut up, quacks!  It’s fine!”

My deductive reasoning says, “If it’s ‘fine’ then why do your footnotes (if you have any) contain studies 20 years old and dissenters cite numerous studies conducted almost non-stop for the last 10?”

Until proponents indicate to me they are willing to back up their claims with current, 3rd party performed, non-grant funded research, then I’ll stick with avoiding it.

(Maybe they are suffering from dementia and can’t remember to put footnotes in….)

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I changed over to ‘good fats’ in 2006.   As of January, 2010, blood tests revealed my Cholesterol (good, bad and trigs) to be in normal ranges.   2 modern medicine doctors, a chiropractor and an acupuncturist all stated they couldn’t see any problems there. (although one of the modern medicine folks suggested I should start medicine, to keep the number good…arggghhh!)

I’m over 40, my exercise entails typing and doing housework, I’m a smoker with a kitchen devoid of ‘fats’ except for the following: homemade lard, real butter, coconut oil, olive oil, tea oil and a smidge of peanut oil.

I’ve stubbornly ingested in large quantities the very fats the FDA, USDA, AHA and AMA have all told me to avoid like the plague.

Hmmm….still here.    Good Cholesterol levels.   Brain functioning (okay, maybe not to your standards, but I do not leave my house only to be found 6 hours later, wandering around in the woods, unable to tell you what my name is or where I live…)

I don’t take my blood pressure.   I don’t have any scales in my house except for those to weigh food (Uniformity in homemade dinner rolls necessitates this piece of equipment….)

I look over each day and ask: “Did my health prevent me from doing something I wanted to?  Do I have clothes that fit?” (I hate to shop – I still have the nightgown I wore on my wedding night…and yes, it still fits….)

I check in with my body after I eat.   Is my tummy happy?   How’s the digestive process going?  Painful?  Loud?  Smelly?

I also analyze my sleep patterns and dreaming.   If those are unusual, then I know something has gone astray either in my brain or my body.

(day 2 of no coffee…. day 3 of no Tylenol pm…..tummy is happier, body still not sure how to sleep 8 hours straight, on its’ own…but I did get to 4 last night….)

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In short, I come back to the same thinking.   I’m not particularly afraid to die, nor am I trying to extend my life as long as I can.   I instead am trying to enjoy whatever time I do have.

Home cooked meals with Hubby and son, made from food purchased direct from farmer/rancher satisfy my nose, heart and tummy in a way McDonalds can’t.

Pain pills, anti-depressants, and hormone therapy side effects made me decide the original symptoms were the lessor of two evils.

Extra Vitamin C, various Chinese herbal blends and aromatherapy make me feel better when I’ve overindulged in thoughts or substances I should have left alone.

Day after day, I practice medicine on myself…

Some things are just better left out of the hands of ‘experts’.

Grief or Guilt?

By now, if you join me regularly, you’ll have figured out that my blog is less a sales pitch or useful social/intelligent commentary and more a daily journal…

I’ve known for a long time that I fall far on the right side of the Internal vs. External Processing pendulum.

I ponder, I analyze, I think for days on end.   But in the final analysis, to really keep sane, I have to work through things ‘out there’…

Meaning, I talk and write.

Since allegations of “Chatty-Kathy” have followed me for years, I’ve turned more to writing.   For one thing, my jaw finally got tired.   For another, I’m very sensitive to criticism (constructive or not) right now.   It’s hard to tune me out when I’m talking.   But hey, you chose to come here and read.  And you can criticize all you want in the privacy of your own home, where I can’t hear you…

Writing in my personal journal does not do the trick.   I can only see all the different perspectives of something if there is a believed-to-exist external audience.  (Hence, talking to folks with eyes glued to the TV does not result in completion for me either…)

So this morning’s topic is in regards to the various diagnosis regarding the persisting physical pain since my bout with pneumonia last year.

Western medicine dismisses current pain and past illness being related at all.   Narcotics and suggestions of therapy for depression are the recommended treatment.

Holistic medicine has danced around, “inflammation, stored toxins, stress, depression and guilt.”

Laymen diagnosis is, “Don’t care what it is, get it fixed and fast – can’t stand seeing much more of this.”

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My recent sojourn to a new practitioner who doesn’t know the story of my life for the past few years, resulted in a re-telling of the death of my oldest son from bacterial meningitis.

New doc asks, “Do you feel guilty?”

Are you kidding?   Of course I do.   I’m a Mom.  My job is to protect and nurture those given to my care.   One is dead.   Obviously, I failed in my mission.   How can you even ask such a stupid question?

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There has been a lot of similar advice tossed my way for quite a few months now.   Quite frankly, if I hear the words “co-dependent”, “guilt” or “depression” one more time, I’m going to make those who go postal look like amateurs.

For the record – I finally looked up the definition of ‘co-dependent’.  The allegations that I am are not true.

I really would like folks around me to quit having traumas, illnesses and such, so I could selfishly think about me and my healing, without feeling selfish.   But I’m still an empathetic person – If someone is struggling and I think I can be of help, I feel guilty if I don’t offer…

On the other hand, I’m famous for wrecking my own health in order to care for or provide for others.   It’s not on purpose.   I figure staying up all night in a hospital or working 120 hours a week is only a short term endeavor – I don’t ever plan for that to become my life….

(yes, I’m aware there are careers where I can work a 12-hour graveyard shift at a hospital and get paid for my time… I have a unique talent – people feel safe dying around me.   Since I tend to get attached and don’t want to inadvertently place my talent around those not sure about taking the journey just yet, those careers don’t really seem viable options…)

Guilt – This is sort of a no-brainer – I’m very much a product of my own environment.  Please combine the following belief systems and see what you come up with:

• God helps those who help themselves
• Love your neighbor as you love yourself (in other words, what would I give myself if I was in their shoes?)
• You create your reality

My result when faithfully following the above recipe is: “How could I abandon one who is hurting right now?” “How could I possibly have done this to myself?  And why would I?”   and finally, “I have no one to blame but myself”.

My definition of guilt is as follows:

The emotional response to behavior that is either internally recognized or externally labeled as detrimental to others.

Depression – I’m not depressed.  There are plenty of things I’m interested in.  They just aren’t the same things as Before I Lost Two Whom I Loved Best.

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Still, part of the Rx script sent home with me was to, “Cut yourself some slack.  Get rid of the guilt and shame.  Quit arguing with who you are and just be.”

The last one cracked me up.  I AM being who I am.  Right now, that means I’m still ‘what iffing’ myself to death, and in general, a crusty, grumpy, cynical ole fart.   I totally accept that is who I am right now.   Why else do you think I shared it with you?

On the other hand, I apparently am ready to BE something else, hence I’m here….some help please? (Ya know, I really am very lucky anyone even ventures to take me on as a patient… Count your blessings, they say.)

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I’m well aware of the school of thought that says, “Each moment you make a choice of who you are.”

I’m also well aware of my life long story of, “I don’t want to be a person who leaves a path of destruction five miles wide behind me.”

Guilt, regret and shame are useful to keep you on the straight and narrow.   At least that’s the story planted in my brain.

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Not too long after Morgan died I had my little fit of hysteria.   I was at the local newspaper to submit and pay for the required Thank You note.

(Which also meant adjusting our annual budget, as I cannot say anything in 50 words or less (without cursing) and as a personal household, we are not allowed to run a trillion dollar deficit….)

I also picked up last week’s copy to re-read the obituary I had penned while running on no sleep and loads of coffee.   Too late to edit, but wanted to see if perhaps, after not seeing it for a week, I was still satisfied with it.  (I say I just write and don’t edit much – - I’ve been known to tell untruths occasionally…)

I discover the obituary did not run in last week’s issue.   How on earth can I submit a Thank You note if the obit hasn’t run?   Extreme panic, anger, stress – - fill in any other negative emotions you wish – - The carefully placed lid I had put on my emotions was working up to a blow similar to Pompeii…

The newspaper folks were very understanding of my incoherent ramblings.  Not to worry, could I just tell them the name of the funeral home?  They will take care of everything, don’t you worry.   Oh, no charge for your Thank You, we’re happy to be of service.   (there’s a thousand bucks out the window.  Who talks this much to say thank you?) No, no, it’s okay that you’re crying and unable to string two words together…we understand….we know how to look up phone numbers….there, there, (please, you’re scaring the other customers….)

Now, for better or worse, my chiropractor’s office is within blind stumbling distance of the newspaper office.   I weaved my way there, burst through the door and completely wrecked the quiet, healing atmosphere of the place.  (remember the ‘path of destruction’ phrase?   see now, why I have valid concerns?)

Bless their hearts.   For some reason known only to the Universe, there was not a queue of patients with appointments in the office that precise moment.  I vaguely remember being gently led back to the treatment room.

Extreme Caution Note* For those of you who have lost loved ones to the violent or reckless behavior of others, please do not read the following.   It is part of my analysis of my own healing, but will cause you pain.  Please trust me and just skip to the next section  Look for the Blue All Clear signal.

(Extra warning and space to give you time to look for blue…)

“I just want someone to be angry at and there isn’t anyone…” I hiccuup and wail through my tears.  “Other people have stupid drunks or drug dealers or murderers to vent their anger on.   I don’t have that.”

All Clear – you may continue reading….

“I want someone to blame.   I want to know why.   Barring that, I’ll even take a cat to kick.”  (not really, I can’t bear to see animals hurt… but I was reckless that day…)

Twenty minutes of soothing treatment and soft-spoken words later, I am fit for decent society again.

But somewhere along the line, I had identified a safe target for my anger.

Me.

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Now any fool can tell you that anger turned inward is one of the most destructive things possible.  Simply because, there is only so much space  ‘inward’ and sooner or later, it will overflow into ‘outward’.

And as intolerant as I am of fools, I plowed right ahead anyways.   10 months later, I confide in another that they can just forget trying to talk me out of my own guilt -  I will never, you hear me? Never!  forgive myself for failing in my duty.

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Now, anyone with any experience of seeing the light at the end of the tunnel that was not a train will tell you, Forgiveness is not for the one forgiven – it’s for the peace and well-being of the person who forgives.

On the other hand, when it’s yourself you forgive, then both parties (you and you) receive the blessing.

I had a long talk recently with a family member regarding forgiveness.   We discussed about how some view forgiveness as a “Free Pass to keep doing what you already did” and they are not willing to hand out Free Passes to those who are engaging in behavior they deem detrimental to others.

I can’t speak very knowledgeably about whether that’s true or not.   Heck, according to professionals, I have huge problems with setting boundaries.  I’ve also read  No Boundary by Ken Wilbur – it’s no wonder I argue with myself all the time.

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I also had early training in the concept, “If one person tells you something, it may be true or not.  At 2, still question.  But if everyone around you is pointing out the same thing, then it’s time to take it seriously.”

So this morning, unable to sleep, I’ve thought about guilt and forgiveness.

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On the one hand, I proclaim my belief in an Intelligent Universe, Omnipotent Higher Power and the Heroic Mission of the Soul.

Which means that to blame myself for Morgan’s death is in direct contradiction of my belief system.  (arguing with yourself is also known as “stress and dis-ease”)

On the flip side, if I just skip along, with a “Not my problem, it’s not my job to interfere with another soul’s journey” (aka I’m Not Responsible for the Choices/Actions of Others) la-de-dah Enlightened attitude, I don’t feel comfortable.  “Passing the buck and not taking responsibility” are the frequent internal commentaries made on this course of action.

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I could try the path of “don’t think about it” I’ve observed followed by some around me.

Not a good fit with Who I Am.   Believe me, I’ve tried over the years.   I often PRAY for a blank look and when asked, “What are you thinking” answering “Nothing” in all truthfulness.

Haven’t accomplished it yet and probably never will….

On the bright side, I don’t get asked what I’m thinking very often – the wise know they better be ready for a 30 minute discourse if they ask – therefore, no one cares what I’m thinking.  Makes isolating yourself from the world much easier.

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If you ever want to be held accountable for your beliefs and reminded whenever your actions fail to conform to what you say is true, just share your beliefs with your children.   Best accountability program in existence.

Morgan and I had several round-table discussions regarding the fine line between allowing others to take responsibility for their own reactions to you and behavior I considered blatant mistreatment of others.

“Do what you will, Harm None.” – But there are those walking around just waiting for the opportunity to be offended or hurt.   Yes.  I know.   I have now passed my insanity on.

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Not really.   He wasn’t insane.  He navigated the multiple worlds and belief systems he was exposed to very well, actually.   Better than I have.   Apparently, the sins of the mother are not always passed to the next generation.

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Although I spent a good deal of energy after his departure doing my best to make sure really great silver linings were noticed, appreciated or created out of this whole big, dark cloud (a memorial scholarship, repair of needed relationships and relinquishment of others, really good bonding with and daily appreciation of the son I have left, etc.) in the background, I have been quietly contemplating my own guilt in the whole affair, the unfairness of it all and how there is no possible way any plane of existence could need his presence more than than the one I currently occupy.

I’ve gotten very good at arguing with Morgan, the Universe, myself.  My thoughts and actions are not in tandem.   This is also referred to as ‘incongruity’ or ‘disconnectedness’ by the holistic world.

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Want to hear a good one?   Earlier this year, I embarked in a partnership with another to make a video series about how the stories you tell become the life you live.   My gift to the world.   One of the beautiful creations that came about solely because of the depth and growth of my soul through experiencing pain and loss.  Or so it was touted.

In a very early session, there I was, hair fixed, make-up applied, talking to camera, saying, “Anytime you are arguing with yourself, you’re going to have problems.”

Needless to say, that project got cut short.  How on earth can I tell others ‘how-to’ when I haven’t even figured it out myself?  Oh, I know there are those who make a very good living doing just that, but the secret  is they are oblivious to the fact they haven’t really figured out the end-all “How-To” – ergo, no internal conflict.

I echo Doc Holiday’s (played by Val Kilmer) sentiments, “My hypocrisy only goes so far.”

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In the end, I realize that in order to heal, go forth and have a fruitful life, I’ll have to forgive and forget.

To date, of all the coping mechanisms available, the one that has worked best is, “Every morning when I wake up, I live in the NOW.  I have no past and no future.  I observe and appreciate only what is right in front of me.   I do only what is right in front of me to do.”

This path is Great for inner-peace, comfort and calm.

It really sucks for functioning in the real world, unless you never make dates with friends and only work for people who don’t care when you show up, how long you work, or when you depart.

Living in the Now experiment made my already screwed up time-awareness vanish completely.

Fortunately, the sun and moon still help to remind me whether to return that voice mail call now, or wait awhile, in consideration of others’ sleep schedules. (consideration is, I’ve learned, a symptom of being co-dependent….)

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Another helpful course of action is believing that Morgan was really a super-duper-triple-under-cover agent saving the world and this whole fiasco was part of the undercover “cover”.    Hard to keep that one up, because in order to have shared reality, someone must share it and I haven’t had any takers yet.  Plus, it gets confusing using the word cover that often…

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Door number three for coping is from Roadhouse.  You remember that one?   Sam Elliot and Patrick Swayze.   Scene where Oh Wise and Revered Elder is assisting Young and Foolish One:

“Ya gotta cut it the fuck loose”

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If you’ve survived the world of multiple perspectives and read this far, I guess you know I’m tired of the ill health that is, supposedly, a result of guilt and grief.   So this whole morning’s exercise has been in trying to resolve my disagreements with myself, via talking with myself while pretending to talk to you. (you haven’t forgotten that whole “We Are All One” concept, have you?)

If you’re grieving yourself and in the same predicament, then this morning’s exercise was my feeble attempt to let you know, you’re not alone.

And yes, I believe, somehow, some way we will make it through.

One day, one thought, one agreement or contradiction,  one tear or laugh -  at a time.

Retreat Update

I promised to let you know how the Retreat went.

It was interesting, restful and enlightening.

It also put a magnifying glass on some things I wasn’t even aware of.  Beliefs and behaviors that were not really serving me.  And some realizations that shocked and then strengthened me.

So, all in all, it was a success.

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Oh!  You mean you want details?  Well, alright.

Arrived at the Retreat House about 7 minutes late.   I’m either early or late – I don’t think I’ve ever arrived somewhere perfectly on time – too stressful trying to orchestrate that kind of life.   So far, for the most part, I’ve been forgiven.

Twenty minutes after arriving, I’m on my rump, surrounded by sharp rock landscaping and plucking out the weeds that dared to start growing in this hot, hostile environment.   They don’t look like weeds to me.   Some of them even have pretty little purple flowers, with just a burst of white and yellow on one petal out of five.   I look at all of them.  Sure enough, that same little burst is located on each of them.

How does the flower know which petal to put the colors on?

Why are my eyes green?

Five hours later, I’m walking the path to the abbey chapel, wondering what Vespers is like, if I can manage not to make any faux pas (I’m not Catholic) and surveying the beauty of the landscape around me.

And I want to cry.   I feel it welling up inside of me and just as suddenly, to my shocked amazement, I observe it getting stuffed right back down into some secret place inside of me.   My brain committee is doing it’s usual roundhouse commentary:

Miss Socially Responsible: “If you start, you may not stop and you can’t go into the chapel crying and a mess.”

Mr. Recluse: “What if some one walks by and thinks you’re hurt?   Wait until you’re in a more private place.”

Mrs. Count-Your-Blessings: “What are you crying for?   You’ve got a week of freedom here, in beautiful surroundings.  You should be ashamed of yourself, you ingrate.”

And just as suddenly as the desire came, it was gone… emptiness.   I couldn’t have cried if someone paid me a million bucks.   “That’s odd”, I think.

About five minutes later, my chest hurt so bad I wished I didn’t have to walk the 3/4 of mile back to where my pain pills were.

Eureka!   The emotion/body connection so quickly showed itself when I purposely let go of commitments and responsibilities and focused just on me.

Aha!  All I have to do is cry, until I’m done, and then my chest won’t hurt anymore.

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Day Two:   Scrubbing a floor on my hands and knees, because

A.)Haven’t found a mop yet that does the job I want done and

B.)Because what I was asked to do (remove some leftover tape residue with Goo-Be-Gone, wash with warm soapy water and rinse) has highlighted the fact that Mop-n-Glo buildup tends to turn off -white, instead of the original pure white of the tiles.  So nothing to be done but wash the whole durn floor.  I simply can’t leave the white flat stripes amid the Mop-N-Glo shine.

(I do try to clean up the messes I make.)

The Sister in charge of me during my stay finds me on my rump (again) with washcloth, scrub brush, butter knife (for stubborn spills) rinse cloth and bucket.  Her comment?

“Mother Abbess and I are concerned that you are not resting enough.  You came here to heal.” A long  pause.   “God speaks to us in a variety of ways.  Apparently, you must need to work in order to hear.”

She smiles and leaves me to my task.   Uh-oh.   Here come the tears…yes, yes…..awww…..noooo……c’mon!   Just cry!

Nope.   And another running commentary convenes:

Ms. Historian: “Remember the story your grandmother told your mom?   About what a cry baby she was and she prayed that she would never cry again?   And how one day she tried and couldn’t and she prayed to God that she could cry again?   How could you repeat that mistake?”

Ms. Logical: “There’s no one here who will be upset by your tears.   Just let them flow.”

Miss Cheerleader: “You can do It!”

Mr. Negative: “You want me to tell you some sad stories?  Would that help?”

(No, I’m not schizophrenic – I’ve just become VERY observant of my mind chatter.   And it helps me to sift through what’s real and beneficial (and what’s not) if I assign different thoughts to committee members.    Members are appointed anytime I identify chatter that isn’t me, but an echo of  past conditioning – conditioning that may or may not have been in my best interest.

On the flip side, long ago, a friend shared with me an article she read about how people ‘self-medicate’ for different things.   Apparently, smoking helps keep schizophrenic tendencies under control………..and I’m a smoker…………..so, maybe me and my committee members are part of some undiagnosed dilemma…)

I tried.  I honestly did.   And I did manage to squeeze out two or three actual tears.   But by then, it was lunch time and since part of my duties were to  help clean the dining room and wash dishes after meals, I decided it wasn’t the best time to ‘make it happen’.   Besides, I still had days and days left.   There was no rush.

I don’t try walking to the chapel for offices anymore.  A walk to the creek, a stop by the lilac bush that has a few last tender blossoms left and sitting listening to the chaplain’s goats bleat their protest at having to come in from the hills seem to lift up my spirits in a way I haven’t felt for quite awhile.  That’s enough for now.   Plus, I’m enjoying just wandering around.

Not all who wander are lost, so the saying goes.

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Day Three:  Morning – I’m getting into a routine.   Weeding in the morning while it’s cool, clean up after breakfast time, read, write, hang out by the creek until lunch.  Clean up after lunch.  Work on floor in retreat hall.   Read, write, nap.   Clean up after supper.   Listen to the birds and creek.   Smell the lilacs every time I walk by.   Watch the moon rise.   Go to bed.   Wait.   Get up and take a pain pill….   Oh, if only I could just cry.

Mid-morning: I’m sitting on the rocks, even plucking out ‘weeds’ that are nestled down below.   IF I do a really good job, then maybe the area won’t have to be weeded for awhile.  And hey, I’m already here, and nobody has complained about me being too slow at my work.   So might as well get them all while I’m at it.

Funny things, weeds.   From this perspective, they look pretty.   How have they grown here?   Short roots meander in and out through sharp rocks.   Once the sun hits this side of the yard, it’s going to be hot, hot, hot.   How do they get their nutrients if their roots aren’t in dirt?    How did the seeds get here?   How did they work past the black weed guard I find at the bottom of the rock pile?  Did they blow in and the warm rocks were just enough to get them started?  How do they dare survive?

And why, on earth, am I ripping up and killing something that has made a life against all odds?  Why must I destroy something just because it dared to grow in the wrong place?

And I finally cry.   Huge globby tears run down my face.   Nasal drainage and no nearby Kleenex are not a good mix.   I’m watering the rock garden all by myself.   Just me and the bitter reminder that young things die too.   And the realization that here, I do have a choice.   I could tell the Sisters I don’t feel morally right about what I’m doing.    They’d probably say, “Okay.”    Or maybe they would think I was crazy.

And I cry harder when I realize I’m mad at the injustice of it all.   That pretty things must be destroyed so we can look neat and prosperous.    That life  that has succeeded against the odds is still fragile and can be destroyed without thought or disregard.

I cry until my eyes are swollen and my head hurts.   But, hey, lookee here… my chest doesn’t hurt as bad.

I’m done weeding for today.  And maybe for always.    I save one pretty purple flower with the white and yellow sunburst.   I tell it I’m sorry.   I put it in my journal.

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Day Four: Morning -Apparently I have been stifling the tears quite awhile.  I’m crying about everything now.  In fact, it feels like I’ve been crying since I got here, though I know that isn’t true.  I didn’t think I had enough fluids in me to be disposing of as much as I am.   I drink more water, just in case.

Mid-day – I’m on the bench hidden away on the north side of another retreat hall.   I’m thinking about the allegations of depression.  (me, suffering from, supposedly)   It occurs to me I’m not.   I’m interested in all kinds of things.   There any number of subjects, projects, people and places that interest me…  they just aren’t the same as Before.   I have such a feeling of peace once this realization occurs.

Yes, I’ve changed.   Yes, what I want now and what I like is different.  That doesn’t mean I’m sick, or depressed or “not healing”.

It does mean that I’ve spent two years trying to ‘get back into’ the personality, life and ways of doing/being, that I no longer want.   It means that I have changed, and trying to pretend I haven’t is stressing me out and making me sick.  I vow not to keep trying to recapture the old me, but instead embrace, mold and define my new life.

Will those around me accept this?

Me: “Well, either they will or they won’t, but I can’t keep pretending I’m the same anymore.”

Wow!   I like this committee member.

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Evening – Seems Mother Abbess and Sister-in-charge-of-Tamrah have decided to save me from myself.    I’m not to scrub the Retreat Hall floor anymore.   What I’ve gotten done is enough.  It’s the wide swatch right in front of the french doors.

“It looks like it’s been done with Intent.    It’s good enough,”  proclaims she.

Really?   I can’t remember anything ever being good enough, except when I decided I was too tired or too sick to work one more moment.   Hmmm.   Who would have thought?

To be honest,  I really wasn’t enjoying it much, because some local spiders had moseyed in and it took a lot of time and effort to get them onto the butter knife and back outside, alive.    See?  I’m learning.   I didn’t just kill them (though it would have been quicker and easier).

The acrobatics involved in getting spiders back to the place where Humans say they should be, without maiming or killing them, took a lot of energy.   Plus, some of them looked sort of scary.    It’s hard to balance a moving spider on a butter knife flat edge while trying to hold it 3 feet from you.   So, all in all, I was okay with their request that I stop the floor project.

I’ve cut back on the amount of work I do.   I’ve also been informed to wait until those assigned to help me with the dishes arrive, instead of having them all or nearly all done by the time they get there.    I’m not trying to be purposefully disobedient.   But it just drives me to distraction to wait around for help to arrive.   I just start.   And truly, I’m not working hard or fast.   I’m taking my time and enjoying the process.    But, in all fairness, I’ve spent some time working in restaurants.   You get used to a routine and efficiency.   Can’t unlearn that.

It occurs to me that I’ve defined myself as a ‘hard worker’ for so long that I don’t really know how to just do what I’m told and dilly-dally around with a project.    So I purposefully quit working before I get tired and quit pushing myself to ‘hurry up and get things done.”

Ms. I Told You So chimes in: “Boy, will they be sorry when they see the monster they’ve created.   Bet they’ll wish they had left well enough alone and let you work.”

I tell her to shut up, I’m not interested in her opinion.

(She was wrong.   The more I slacked off, the more pleased my hostesses seemed.    Have I been laboring under false information all these years?   Or just under work-aholics expectations?)

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Day Five:  Morning.  Yesterday and today, other retreatants arrive.   They aren’t on silent retreat like the other five I’ve spent meal times with the past four days.   They are nice, but I’ve gotten used to not talking to anyone much.    They are also inquisitive.  Who am I, where did I come from, do I come there often.

I think about placing one of the “Silent Retreat” lanyards around my neck.   But I haven’t worn one all week.  (didn’t need to.)   If I do it now, might seem rude.   Besides, I have to go back to the world sometime.   Might as well start practicing regaining my social skills now.

(To those who know me, this is a hoot.   Like belly-laugh, slap-your-knee hoot.    Since the illnesses and deaths the past three years, yes, I can still talk to those I know well and feel safe with.  Words just flow out like a river.    Making ‘small talk’ with others, or conducting myself in a socially acceptable way around those I don’t feel safe with or don’t know well, however, requires a huge amount of energy and stresses me out a great deal.   I don’t really relate to others very well anymore.   And a lot of ‘hot topics’ seem silly to me.   And what I think is really important, doesn’t seem to even be on the radar for most folks.   So, it’s easier to just not talk.)

I try not to be blunt and rude.   I stifle the urge to tell them I’m here to heal, not help others with their problems.  (selfish, I know, but I apparently have a neon sign on my forehead that reads, “Tell Me!  I Care!” that doesn’t have an off switch.)

I finally just nod my head, quote some obscure thought or idea from a book and figure if they think I’m crazy,  they can just think that.  It’s not like I’m going to see them again.

By evening, I’m thinking I can live the rest of my life just making vague quotes that I think are relevant to the story I just heard.   I don’t have to care or be involved.  I can just float in, smile, listen until there is a question or pause, quote something and float right back out of the room.  It’s Working!    Ahhhh….the joy of not having to connect or care.    I could get used to this.

I also realize that I’m really not into spending much energy trying to ‘keep up and maintain a social call’ anymore.    Yup, there’s going to be some streamlining done when I get home.

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Day Six:  Guess some of the folks expected at the Retreat House are not coming after all.   By tonight, it will just be me.   I’ll be causing more work than I’m doing.   I’m no longer crying all the time.   The weeding on the South East side is done.   The floor is done, with Intent.   I feel pretty peaceful and quiet.   I’m ready to go.

I help clean the retreat house and rooms used this past week.   I thank Sister-in-charge-of-me for all her insights, assistance and support.   Haven’t shared all that has happened… Still, she smiles broadly and informs another that I have ‘had a revelation’.  Is it that obvious?   Guess so.

Thank you St. Benedict, Sisters and the Universe.  Thanks for the space and grace for me to cry, give up killing myself to make a point and quietly examine my committee members.

And I saved my greatest realization for the last:

In my effort to put to good use all the wonderful theories I’ve been exposed to in the past years, regarding change, loss and inner peace, I kept trying to give thanks and gratitude for all in my life – tried to always see and share with others the good that came out of my losses.  I visited then tried to overcome my feelings of bitterness, anger and resentment at lost loved ones, unfair dealings and hurtful actions of others.

I looked for and found the strength I needed to do what needed to be done and thanked the Universe for that Strength.

But I never once asked for a quiet spot to cry, until I could cry no more.

Now, I know better.

Healing Hearts with Walls

Lynne McTaggart discussed the benefits of gated/walled communities recently in her blog.  Her research indicates that Neighborhood Watch organizations are more effective at reducing crime than walled/gated communities with security.

The most interesting portion of this story was the following:

“I was speaking with a translator I had once in the Middle East, a young woman called ‘Nour’.  When she was growing up, she says, the residential areas outside the country were grouped into small villages.  The villagers tend to live in 200-year old buildings of rough concrete and blockwork, passed down from many generations, and deliberately left unpainted.

The idea is to avoid ostentation precisely so that you do not ‘break your neighbors’ hearts’, she told me, by making them feel envious or bad about themselves:  the beauty of your house is created within  — in the warmth you have inside.

Unfortunately, this custom is given way to creeping westernization, and new homes are now built with showy exteriors.”

Interestingly, this story came to me right on the heels of my wish for solitude and isolation – my desire for some kind of physical representation of walls to shield me from the daily hurts of the world.

I’m counting down the days until my retreat at the abbey begins.  Now I’m wondering if perhaps I should have formed a Neighborhood Heal Tamrah group – given the statistics.  (oh, I do love looking to history to see what works and what doesn’t…..)

But the thought of a support group or retreat where you ‘talk through, tap through or tell your story over and over until it doesn’t hurt anymore’ sounds more like an exercise equivalent to climbing Mt. Everest in nothing but a bikini… something I have no desire to do.   (hypothermia aside, I just haven’t worked up the nerve to publicly display my over 40, child bearing physique in skimpy clothing……and you just know the news crews would happen to be there………..)

So I think I’ll stick to my original plan.

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As a society, it seems we aren’t as careful with our broken hearts as we are with broken bones.   If we break a leg, we set it, slap a cast on it, protect it from additional hurts and keep our weight off it.

A broken heart isn’t supposed to interfere with getting up, making breakfast, seeing to the needs of those around you and making your cheerful way out into the world to interact with the Good, the Bad and the Ugly.

On the flip side, a broken leg is usually good for at least a day or two of isolation in your home and the attentive ‘fetch and carry’ support of your family.

For some reason I’ve never understood, broken hearts take longer to heal than broken bones.   So, not only is there not as much medical support available to heal broken hearts, there also isn’t a very reliable time line.   If my broken heart isn’t healed within 6 weeks, does it need surgery?   We can’t very well re-break it and set it right.   How do you ’set’ a broken heart anyways?   How do you provide a cast for it?   How do you know when it’s healed enough to put to regular use again?

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I consider myself a pretty logical person of reason, even though math and science are not my strong points.  But I also know both through observation of myself and the (sometimes unsolicited) feedback of others that ‘my heart tends to rule my head’.   And it’s true.   Although I may spend an enormous amount of brain energy on a project or solution, I only begin the journey because my heart yearned to improve something or make things better for another.   So if what is ‘broken’ is to be lightly used and given a vacation for awhile, how does a heart-driven person manage to heal and still live their life?  Honestly, inquiring minds want to know!

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I’ve also found plenty of time to analyze another seemingly inconsistency in the healing process for hearts – when you’re in the depths of grief and depression, it’s hard to truly hear/see/experience the support, optimism and positive folks and events around you.  One friend described it as being lost in a house of circus mirrors – you look all around you, but all you see is the distorted and ugly.

During my journey through grief there have been times when those around me put great effort into offering me their best, which for various reasons, hurt more than it helped.   Not all their fault, but I just can’t find the compassion and selflessness to keep showing up for it either!

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So soon I’ll shall seek respite and sanctuary, provide the cast to buffer further injury and partake in soul food for the majority of the day, while working in contemplative silence the rest (I know, those who know me are getting a big hoot out of me doing anything quietly, but I shall faithfully report my success or failure on this point when I return……….).

I am again reminded of the poem by Robert Browning Hamilton that I read at Morgan’s funeral, “Along the Road”:

“I walked a mile with Pleasure,

She chattered all the way,

But left me none the wiser,

For all she had to say.

I walked a mile with Sorrow,

And ne’er a word said she:

But oh, the things I learned from her,

When Sorrow walked with me.”

Ah, the trials of being a ‘life-long learner’ personality……………….

Retreat Update here.