Feed, Nourish and Protect

Late summer and early fall mean I’m really busy with food.   Fruit to dry, storerooms rearranged to accommodate new supplies and freezers prepared to store this year’s bounty of meat and poultry keep me hopping from July through November.

Cooler weather also means a return to my favorite cooking venue – The Crockpot.

Although I’ve finally found some viable chilled soup recipes for summer, winter  remains my favorite time to cook.   Nothing calms me or brings greater joy than to move about the house accompanied by the smell of simmering soup and raising bread.

(Adding artificial heat to an already hot day makes me cranky…)

And while I like to eat good and have learned how necessary good nutrition is to my health and well-being, I really don’t like spending all day, everyday, in the kitchen.

There are so many other grand adventures to partake in!

So, the Crockpot is my best friend.

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I’ve spent the last few years immersing myself in the subject of food – sources, how it’s grown, how it’s prepared, how to get the greatest nutrition out of your food choices.

I’ve also immersed myself in research of how we heal – what promotes healing and what doesn’t – what works and why.

Food is more than just a way to feed our tummy.    Done properly, food nourishes our soul, both during preparation and ingestion.   And purchased properly, our food choices contribute to our local resiliency and  protects our local economies.

Sorry, but you just can’t get that kind of bang for your buck outta 4 for $5 frozen dinners.

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At some point in my own journey through healing and food, I started wondering how much healing value comes from the actual food and how much is a return of the energy we have invested in food.    May sound nuts, but if you follow quantum physics, mind/body research or studies regarding the placebo effect, then you would be pondering this thought, too.

Though my ears have not heard this phrase for over 3 years, my mind can still conjure up my Dad’s voice, intoning:

“Thank you for this food;  bless it to the nourishment of our bodies and bless the hands that prepared it.”

He didn’t leave out anyone in the chain of what put good food in front of him.

Reminds me of various practices in hunter/gatherer cultures – the before hunting dance/prayer – the after hunting dance/prayer – the small tokens offered to the various gods recognized as being responsible for us living and eating for one more day.

Stories of  guests honored by food – first dibs and they were expected to take the choicest, largest portion.

Food was a big deal and honored.

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What if focused, peaceful intent actually changes the benefits of the energy you ingest?   What If?!?

Then a leisurely 15 minutes spent chopping veggies and slicing meat in the morning to be dumped into simmering home-made broth, when I’m well-rested and still wildly enthusiastic about the fact I woke up (again) means the soup I start for supper is so super loaded with nutrition, my family should look like the Incredibles by now.

It surely has to have more nutrition than the frozen pizza I slap in the oven after returning home late, with my mind still off in the never-never land of cranky bosses, uncompleted projects and moron drivers.   I’m convinced that’s one of the top reasons why ‘fast food’ doesn’t satisfy us as it should.  I didn’t ‘super-inject’ it with Good Intent!

According to some ancient cultural practices and modern medicine, my family’s digestion processes work better too, when I’m in a good mood at the supper table…

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Taken a step further, if I do happen to think about who made the frozen pizza, I don’t put out peaceful intent.

I understand that frozen pizza was probably compiled by either a machine or some poor minimum wage factory worker who wonders when a machine will replace him/her.    I also think about the commodity system, how farmers, ranchers and dairymen get less than the cost of production for their wares and how even with subsidies, that one pizza represents a world where small family farms can’t compete, monoculture mindset reigns and super companies have a five-year plan of patenting and owning all the food seed in the world.  I also think about how much money goes to those who process, package and transport the food and how much goes to the people who actually grew/raised it.

(It’s very skewed – if you don’t believe me, and you live in eastern Colorado, then ask any of your neighboring wheat farmers what they get per bushel of wheat from the wholesale broker, when it has, gasp, sprouted and then go to your local “Health Nut” food store and see what you pay for wheat grass or sprouted wheat flour)

On the other hand, when I make soup, and think about how it traveled to me, I put out lots of good energy:

I’m thankful for the wheat farmer, the rancher and the two 4-h girls who are willing to raise an extra pig for me.   I think about friends and neighbors who called or emailed and said, “Help!   I got a bumper crop of (insert veggie/fruit).  Come get some!”    I think of them, their life, their children and I feel such a warm glow of gratitude for all they do for me.

I think about my local Farmer’s Market and how much I enjoy wandering up and down the aisles, buying veggies that were cared for by the hands that are now giving me my change.

It’s just two completely different states of mind – solely dependent on what I choose to prepare for supper.

Even if you don’t buy into the whole ‘divine matrix and intention theory’,  ya gotta admit, having peaceful thoughts while fixing supper has its’ advantages.

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I’d like to see a Real Food revolution.   I’d like to have it be the main topic of conversation anywhere I go.   Where to find it, purchase it.   How to store, preserve, properly prepare it.   I would like to see the  mainstream media headlines splashed with bio’s about those who raise, care and produce Real Food.

Won’t happen anytime soon – I can’t even imagine, “nightclub”, “drugs” and “local farmer” ever being in the same headline.

Nobody wants to read about the rancher who gets up at 2:00 a.m. and checks her herd, because cows and heifers have this funny way of doing things – they like to go into labor whenever a good blizzard moves in…Every rancher knows this and they choose to remove themselves from comfort, just in case that first-time momma runs into some snags….

When will that be seen as hero status in our culture?

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Becoming a Real Foodie means more than just ‘eating good’.   It’s impossible to enter that world and not take the journey from your individual survival all the way up to the health of the biosphere.

During his RSA lecture, Empathic Civilisation, Jeremy Rifkin states,

“All economics depend on photosynthesis.”

He’s right, ya know.

And your Food Choices Really Are That Important!

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’.

Confessions of A Smoker

A recent visit to a new health care provider resulted in another in-depth look at my smoking habit.

Well trained in Aware and Conscious Living, I am excellent at analyzing my motivations for my various behaviors.

Sometimes, these motivations are examined when I’m confronted by Ardent Non-Smokers.

Other times, these thoughts are visited when I’m questioning the validity of my stated, “I want to be healthy” goals.

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Motivation 1 – I like to smoke and I’m not convinced that tobacco, in and of itself is the demon it’s portrayed to be.

As the daughter of a smoker and the granddaughter of a tobacco farmer from Kentucky, I was raised in an environment that was rather tobacco friendly.

Long after I had started, I was informed by grandpa, “If you are going to smoke, then buy directly from the farmer and roll your own.  Do you know what they are putting in cigarettes these days?”  (my memory can only retrieve ‘fiberglass’ as one of the listed toxins…)

My dad quit in his later years.   I sat by his side while he fought his final battle against the enemies of COPD,  lung and brain cancer.

On the flip side, I also assisted in the care of an elderly man with 1/4 of one lung left, during my CNA career days.   He never smoked.   He did drive a coal truck for 30 years….

I’m also aware, now, that Dad was exposed to the evils of Asbestos.   Current law firm commercials tell me I may be entitled to compensation if my loved one worked in the plumbing, heating or air conditioning industry AND  was diagnosed with lung cancer or mesothelioma.   As a close family member, I may have been exposed too, according to ambulance chasers.

I can guarantee you I won’t get any compensation – I brought all my woes upon myself by daring to be a smoker.

Tobacco companies that used fillers to maximize profits and additives guaranteed to keep me craving their product are off the hook.  A nationwide campaign of The Evils of Smoking means I can’t claim ignorance or blame my actions on others.

Those who made their fortunes off asbestos related products and services are also off the hook, even though the dangers of asbestos inhalation were known to First Century AD Greeks and Romans.

I’m certain I will be on my own when health issues appear.

Motivation #2 – I try to do my civic duty.

From old sources that cite actual tax revenue and projected tax revenue from tobacco products through 2002 (yes, eight years old) I find the number of…you ready?

9.053 billion…yes, not a typo, billion.

And this number is from 8 years prior to recent tax hikes.   Can’t even imagine how many zero’s are behind that figure now…

Quitting smoking now would directly contribute to our national debt woes.    If I and all my fellow tobacco enthusiasts quit tomorrow, what taxes will need to be raised in order to recover from that budget blow?   Property?  Gas?  Twinkies?  Diet Coke?

So get off our back – we have just as valid a point as those who cry, “I have to go to work.  Millions on Welfare are depending on me.”

Also, indoor smoking bans have greatly impacted my fellow friends and neighbors who earn their living in tip-supplemented endeavors.  (Casino dealers, waitresses, bartenders and slot techs.)

Colorado’s Clean Indoor Air Act negatively impacted local bar, restaurant and casino revenues, as well as contributing to un- and under-employment.  We also lost a lot of locally owned mom and pop establishments.

24-hour and raised stakes gambling legislation was not enough to recover the lost revenues.

Casino employees in the know inform me of substantive reduction in profitsharing checks, daily business, work hours and tips.

Seems those who like to drink and gamble, for the most part, like to smoke too.

From my own perspective after years of waitress duties, I’ll tell you – Smokers, on the whole, are better tippers.

Saavy casinos have built protected, heat lamp decorated, enclosed “You can take your drink with you” smoker areas.

Doesn’t help much.

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Hold on, I’m rolling a cigarette…..

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Okay, I’m back.

In all fairness, I will report on the opposition’s side.

“You should pay the taxes.   Because your health care is going to cost the country money.”

Ummm…no.  Remember the above?  I’m a smoker, and therefore, whatever I get, I deserve and there will be no cries to spend public funds to save me.

I also have a living will that states, “Hospice care workers are allowed to give me a massive overdose of morphine during their first visit to my house – should I be in such poor health I’m unable to contribute to society in any beneficial way.”

I know it will not be heeded, but hey, I did try…

I also shared with Hubby, during a recent bout of pneumonia, my observation that he had a gun and I knew where  a ‘back forty’ existed and really, right now, I’m thinking he should quit dilly-dallying around and put me out of my misery.

He didn’t take me up on my offer.   I think more because it’s illegal to do so, rather than any great love of my occasional cooking forays….

Thanks to him and his restraint, you are now reading my thoughts on the matter…

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“But you are infringing upon my health rights with your second hand smoke”

Concerned loved ones have for pointed out my blatant selfishness for years via this argument.

I’m not convinced my second hand smoke is more dangerous than them driving in rush hour traffic with their windows down, (conserving gas by not using air conditioning…)

Studies compiled and widely publicized regarding the dangers of Second Hand Smoke (SHS) contain some glaring issues -

Number one, many of the persons studied to determine the effects of second hand smokers were, previously, smokers themselves.

Also, the term “meta analysis” is used in the EPA study of ’93.  My overview (and prejudiced) definition of meta analysis is:

“We didn’t actually do any studies of our own.   We just read a crap load of other studies, took their numbers and crammed them into a statistical trending software tool and now, share those results with you.”

I have huge issues with Statistical Evidence.   Mainly because I worked as a temp on a Department of Defense contract at one time.   I’ve seen the graphs created when additional funding is requested and those produced when operation efficiency is questioned.   Totally different “pretty pictures’…from the same data set…

Highly educated statisticians will tell you that eliminating data points that are anomalies is needed to give a true picture of what’s what.

My personal experience shows that human bias will determine what is an anomaly and what’s not…

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I’m also highly suspicious of the transitive property.   You know, If A=B and B=C then A=C?

Great for 7th grade math class.

Terrible for health studies on average citizens with so many variables they can never all be identified, even by conscientious, live-and-let-live researchers.

Let’s not forget the famous No-Salt campaign that led to many sodium-deficient deaths among our elderly population a few years back…

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“But it stinks!” non-smoker’s inform me.  Yes, I know it offends your nose.

Skunks, poor exhaust systems on factories and vehicles as well as heavy cologne offends mine.   The fragrance of many personal hygiene products gives me a sore throat and a sick headache.   Can you please be a responsible citizen and quit applying ‘smell-goody’ products?

And can we please put another animal on the endangered species list…?

(I’m just kidding.   I think skunks are pretty, and if the dogs and people in my neighborhood would quit scaring our local family, we could all sleep peacefully…)

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I also have had opportunity to be exposed to a variety of viewpoints regarding what really causes illness.

Crappy attitude and defective immune system, compliments of stress and malnutrition head the list of many a holistic provider’s  Top Ten.

So when someone I regularly see with McDonald’s bags,  feels the need to walk over to the designated Smoker’s Area (located across the road, over the canyon filled with snakes and up the hill that mimics Mt. Everest) and lecture me on how I’ve somehow become more socially unacceptable than the local pedophile, well, I wonder just how much ‘dis-ease’ they are responsible for in both them and those in their vocal vicinity.

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I just have to share my all-time-favorite story about the discrimination against smokers.

Years ago, I worked for a local law enforcement agency.  I was taking advantage of my legally protected break time and adjourning to the outside smoker’s area to engage in my dirty little habit with another threat to society, also known as a smoking co-worker.

As we prepared to remove our stinky selves to the back forty, another co-worker, with physical dimensions of 5’1″ and 300+ lbs, lectured us on the evil of our ways through a mouth full of gummy bears, which had just been shoved in from a hand buried deep in a container size that can only be purchased at your local bulk-buying club.

I replied, “Well, c’mon out and we’ll have a 100 yard dash.  Whoever wins is deemed the healthiest. I suspect you’ll have a heart attack before I do.”

25 minutes later…

(and 20 minutes since I returned to my work station and working endeavors…“smokers get more break-time” is another favorite whine of those who cubicle hop and gossip most of their workday.  As a compulsive addict, I also have strong perfectionist tendencies.   That makes me a more productive worker.)

…my boss appears.

Seems he needs to talk to me about workplace harassment issues.

I’m to follow him to his office for another lecture.

I advise him I’m more than happy to attend an arbitration meeting, paneled by 3rd party members to decide who, exactly, started the harassment….

To his credit, he stared at me silently for awhile, then turned around and returned to his duties regarding local safety and security.

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Most of my complaints regarding the tobacco debate has more to do with what’s socially acceptable and what’s harassment.

It is not socially condoned for me to approach a grossly overweight fellow citizen at the local Wendy’s and say, “Hey!  Shouldn’t you re-think your triple patty, super-sized meal?  I mean, c’mon now, you’re the reason my health insurance rates are so high.”

It is perfectly all right, however, for a 3-year old I don’t know to see me and say, “Look mommy.  There’s one of the bad people.”  To which her mother replies, “Yes, honey.  Smokers are Baaadddd….” without even blinking an eye.

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I also submit if cigarettes were really as dangerous as they are made out to be, wouldn’t they have been added to the list of ‘unsafe products’  (a few on that list are LSD, Ecstasy, Meth and ephedra.)

Small amounts of ephedra to restore balance to lung function after illness has been used for thousands of years.   Recent massive overdoses in an attempt to look like a super-model by some citizens has resulted in me not getting this herb in order to recover from pneumonia.

Medical Marijuana big business has made it’s debut here locally.   New business, new jobs.   Great….

This results in a local hydroponic store who carries the organic potting soil I’m trying to grow a native-to-the-west tobacco plant in…

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The powers that be learned their lesson from Prohibition.    Instead, this go around, they profit from my consumption all the while guaranteeing Freedom of Speech to those who are, in my opinion, guilty of violating the misdemeanor harassment statute that reads:

“any verbal or physical action whose sole purpose is to incite and inflame.”

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All in all, I have many motivations for smoking, but I’ve decided my main one is

Rebellion.

I’ve worked, paid taxes, fed my family and cut down on my gas consumption.   I try to take care of myself and do my part in not raising health insurance premiums by insisting on having tests run every 4 weeks to determine if I really am healthy.

I choose to care for myself at home instead of the hospital when I get pneumonia.

I use energy efficient light-bulbs, shop as locally as I can (in transition) and hold doors for my elders.

I faithfully use my turn signal, stay home on the couch or ride in the passenger seat when I overindulge and provide my kids both modern entertainment and valued history lessons.

I drop everything to help those I love with their traumas and tragedies and lock myself in my bedroom when I’m not fit for polite society.

I’ve been encouraged  to sue regarding lost loved ones because of known dangers and modern medicine malpractice.   I’ve chosen to work and support those who work for my livelihood instead.

I am sick and tired of being placed on the lowest rung of society.  I’m tired of being an acceptable target for the release of pent-up stress and rage by those who engage in their own unhealthy habits.

So there….

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.

**********

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.

**********

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.

**********

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.

***********

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.

**********

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.

**********

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.

**********

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.

**********

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.

**********

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.”

**********

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….)

**********

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…

**********

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”

************

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.

Back to School

In recent years my interests have changed drastically – my own health issues, coupled with the trauma, illness and death of family members have led me to research a variety of subjects: nutrition, holistic health modalities, energy healing and the power of  mind and body.

Studying nutrition and Traditional Diets, I fell down the rabbit’s hole of organic farming, sustainability, local resilience, which in turn led me to politics, banking  and every form of sociopolitical and economic system that ends in ‘ism’…

Well familiar with my tendency to ‘think too much’ (to which I reply, “How on earth do you shut your mind off?!?”) I find myself, some moments or even for days, overwhelmed with all the new knowledge I’ve crammed into the file cabinets of my gray matter.

And fast on the heels of being overwhelmed, comes my natural defense mechanism, “So what?   It’s all going to end in 2012 anyhoo – might as well just float along…”

A friend whose job it is to tell people if they are neurotic, psychotic or pretty normal, informs me I am not suicidal – rather I’m caught in escapist fantasy – just as one of my friends longs for a hot tub and cute cabana boy in skimpy clothing, I sometimes think about what Yellowstone blowing will mean.

In other words, I’m trying to escape from my own cultivated knowledge base.

All that aside, my sabbatical made clear one very important fact:  I’ve changed.  Drastically.  The loss of so many staples in my daily life, in so short a time, has brought about changes that may or may not be good for me.  Nevertheless, I realized that what’s important to me and what’s not has moved about 180 degrees and trying to pretend it hasn’t causes oober amounts of stress.

To that end, I came home and set about re-organizing my life.   Trying to figure out how to generate funds to keep web hosting and email campaign accounts paid for with company funds went out the window – instead, I luxuriate in my desire to write via Word Press free blog.  (Thank you so very much!)  With that stress relieved, I found I could write to my heart’s content without worrying about if what I was doing was profitable or not.

(A friend of mine who has spent 50+ years supporting herself via her writing and editing talents informed me that before you write, you should know: what publication is purchasing your article, who their audience is, who advertises in their publication, how many words long, is the topic timely and informative, etc.   At that moment, I decided not to become a professional writer – who needs all that boring stuff to detract from an otherwise enjoyable activity?)

Next, I systematically started cutting out those activities I had pursued in order to generate spendable income.   Running any kind of business, even part-time, with small customer base, causes stress for me now.   Why that is so, I cannot say for sure, but I suspect it’s because of my lack of interest in time schedules, racing around to meet deadlines, etc.   I’m just no longer interested in the fast lane of life.

A lackadaisical approach to customer service seems to be working for many companies, (I mean, even with me boycotting them, they are still in business) but not really a comfortable way for me to function.   My ideas of what customer service should look like really does not mix with my current  dream of daily life…

I decided to keep the lackadaisical side of the equation….

So now, with my daily schedule wiped fairly clean, I peruse the choices of what to fill my days with.

I like my foray into container gardening.  Plants let me know pretty quickly when I’ve messed up.   I take steps to correct my sins and they respond.   Even with the disappointment of The Great Hail Storm of July 4th, some of my green friends have persevered and in turn, have given me hope that recovery can happen, even in the face of catastrophe.

So some kind of green-thumbing is definitely in order for my new life.  Home Decor via plants seems like a useful idea.

**********

I’ve also been intrigued by the concept of being able to correct imbalances in the body on a daily basis, solely by choosing what kind of tea to drink or what kind of foods to eat or which herbs to add to my soups.  In years past, I asked the Universe to please send a wise woman into my life to take me as student and guide me in the ways of healing via traditional methods.

The student must not be ready, for the teacher has yet to appear.

**********

During my recent trip to Cheyenne Frontier Days I stumbled upon a new endeavor completely by accident. (Unless, of course, you believe there are no accidents, in which case, I was led directly and efficiently to where I was supposed to be…)

Homeward bound,via Laramie and the beauty between there and Ft. Collins,  in search of a Chik-Fil-A  (and unaware they are closed on Sundays) I drove all along College Avenue in Ft. Collins -  not my normal route – too many traffic lights.

Driving along, searching for supper, my eye catches beautiful color on my left.   Turns out, I have been led by mistake or design to the very doorstep of the Annual Flower Trial Garden of CSU.  Whipping a perfectly legal U-turn, which is deemed acceptable by the passenger navigator (my mother, who loves flowers) we pull into a parking spot and wander through a paradise lit by setting sun and recently blessed by afternoon rain showers.

Oooohhhh!   The wonder and color.

Who ever thought impatiens came in that many shades of pink?  The diversity of Geraniums?   Or the medley of Coleus?

As I wandered through a little slice of heaven on earth, I decided learning Latin might be a good thing.

Just think, by knowing the root words and how they are put together, I can identify just from the plant name if it likes shade or sun, will grow small or large, likes to creep and crawl or shoot straight up – if it was originally aquatic and where it was first found.

Yup.  A new goal formed in my mind.   I shall learn Latin.

Rosetta Stone course is over $200.   College courses run $150-$327.

Instead, I settled on perusing my local library for a copy of Botany in a Day or Gardener’s Latin, just to start.

For a person used to doing and running herself into the ground trying to realize new efficiencies and accomplishments, so maybe tomorrow, she can rest, this change in lifestyle has not been easy.

I’m used to trying to eat the whole elephant in one gulp and if I don’t succeed, everything and I mean everything, is now labeled “Abject Failure“.

In direct contradiction of the old me, I’m starting with the beginner’s guide, for free (or if not available at the library, for $5.88 through used books online), instead of the Advanced Volume (read: 4 inches thick and designed to make me insane and question my intelligence)

**********

This spring, during an unsuccessful job hunt, I informed the panel interviewing me that, Yes, I am a life-long learner.   Apparently, they were not impressed by my self-education.

Fortunately, I’m currently in a position to pursue activities that may or may not be useful to future job searches.

But I shall be able to say, “Would you like Lactuca sativa on your burger?” (Wikipedia informs me that’s Latin for lettuce…)

Sustainable Home Decor

Last Christmas I was in Hobby Lobby, desperately trying to find something that was:

• Blue and white to match my mother’s kitchen decor
• Either a rooster or a rooster design, also to match said kitchen
• Useful (does something more than collect dust)

As usual, I wondered just how much profit is made by items which I consider to be pure wastes of money.   “Please, let it be pretty AND useful”, is my fervent prayer.  As I wandered through the store, my inner committee was once again debating:

Miss Math: “Well, it HAS to be 300% or more profit, because they always have something marked down by 40%, 50% or 60%.   They can’t do that all the time and stay in business.”

Mr. Grumpy: “Who the heck buys all this useless stuff anyways?”

**********

Granted, I’m not what you would call a good home decorator or even a passable shopper.   Put me in the farmer’s market, a nursery or second-hand bookstore and I can outshop Paris Hilton.   (She shops, right?   I have to be careful – because there are a lot of current events I’m clueless about – she looks like she spends a lot of time shopping…. and Paris, if you’re reading this, please understand I don’t personally begrudge you your lifestyle and choices – I just needed some point of reference and I thought you would be a good one…)

**********

Back to my original story.   I did find a blue and white rooster.   That just sat there.   Didn’t hold cream, sugar, salt, tea or recipe cards.   Just sat there and collected dust.   $36 for something that doesn’t do anything except cause more work.

Understand I’m on a time-crunch.   Responsible people give great gifts, on time and Christmas is only days away.   The rooster recipe box I wanted to order online is out of stock until sometime AFTER christmas and by then, what’s the point?   I can’t show up with a gift-wrapped, printed screen capture of the item and it’s “Out of Stock” label; as a good daughter,  I’m not going to make my mom wait til February to have Christmas – Trying to be good and responsible in a culture that places value on the unnecessary can create a lot of stress…

(Oh, I know what’s afoot – they just want me to spend twice what I planned on – my civic duty in keeping our economy going…buy something now and then buy what I really wanted later. Two prices paid for one goal.)

It’s not that I’m against Christmas.   I just think we need to restructure it some.   I tried to talk my family into getting together, sharing a meal and spending the day together.   And then taking the money we would have spent on each other and gift wrap and going shopping at the after-holiday, before inventory counting sales instead.    That way, everyone gets what they really want/need, at a good price, there’s no hurt feelings when someone finds out you either exchanged what you got, or heaven forbid, the ‘perfect gift’ you found Uncle Tom is produced as the white elephant gift next year…..

It would solve a lot of problems, plus, it would give me back what I love about the holidays the most – food, laughter, family stories and the chance to be together, having fun.  I have been unsuccessful so far, but I’m thinking economic troubles may add credence to my plan…

Sorry – back, again, to the story -

In my wanderings around what has become more of a home decorating emporium and less a place for crafters, I saw a beautiful large bound book covered with maps and old time ships.  Aha!   Perfect for my brother.  And it’s on the sale rack.   I pick it up and about throw it through the roof.   Quite a bit lighter than I expected.  Turns out it’s made of material just a shade heavier than poster board.  I turn it over to peek at the price tag.   I’m sure you won’t believe me (I hardly believed it) but here’s what it said:

$40.00

Made In China

If they marked it down to 99% off, I might have been tempted to purchase.   I mean it did have cool graphics.  As it was, there was no way it was worth $40, $20 (sale price) or even $5, at least not to me.  If something has been invented to clean the dust off of poster board that doesn’t stain or ruin it, I’m not aware of it.   And yet, here sits a poster board fake book, at the unbelievable sales price of $20.

I could get a real book about ships at my local bookstore for that.

In an instant,  I could see the business lunch where it all began played out before my mind’s eye:

Foreign CEO1 – “See?  It’s perfect.  Not only are they raised to expect a higher standard of living, but they are convinced that to have a ‘nice home’ you must decorate it.    Extensively.   And you should re-decorate every season or so.   And put out extra decorations for holidays.   And in their culture, it’s a sign of prosperity and abundance if you have lots of expensive useless things sitting around, waiting to be dusted.   If we make them out of posterboard or lightweight ceramics, they will deteriorate or break easily – so they’ll have to be replaced often.  We will make a fortune!”

Foreign CEO2 – “I’ve been waiting my whole life for this opportunity.  What do you think?”

US Politician (who owns controlling stock in an advertising agency and a popular magazine on Lifestyle): “Wellll, it will take some groundwork, but I’m sure we can convince people they really need these things.  If we make regulations and taxes stiff enough at home, they’ll have to be manufactured abroad.  Yes, I think we can make it happen.”

**********

Okay, I’ll admit, that’s probably not the way it really all came about.    But I couldn’t get that picture out of my mind.

I left without purchasing a single thing.

Back in the car,  I monologued to my husband my disappointment in a craft store becoming a home decor store,  the ever increasing space given to over-priced, non-locally produced junk, which just proves how many people buy this @#!$ because if no one was buying, they wouldn’t keep stocking more of it.   I ranted on about this being an example of why things in this country are going to you-know-where in a handbasket.

This was all received with eye-rolling and the ever-patient commentary, “Why do you let these things upset you?”

Bless his heart for sticking with me and my soapbox.

(Bless mine for not pounding his head with a baseball bat while yelling, “This kind of obliviousness is WHY we’re in a mess….”)

**********

But that epiphany changed me.   I really got, at a deep cellular level, how much of the idealized American way of life is steeped in the constant consumption of the non-necessities.   Of how our culture of prosperity is, at it’s roots, the accumulation of the not needed.

**********

I’ve put off doing ‘home decorating’ most of my adult life, for the simple fact that my early attempts proved it’s not one of my natural talents, as well as the fact that while I enjoy pleasant surroundings, I’ve always thought  non-utilitarian goods were way overpriced.

Once married, it got delayed even further, given I’m a native-american-cowboy-wildlife-wood fan and Hubby is a rock-n-roll-technology-black-and-chrome fan.   A visit to our house will show you the initial blending of our two households with very few changes.   AC/DC and Chris LeDoux in concert together,  if you will…  I’m not willing to dust a lot of black household items and not selfish enough to just do it all the way I want it.

But I’m ready now.   I’m going to decorate my house in plants.   The only additional furniture I need buy is perhaps some more shelving units.  Quick, easy, multi-purpose and available from local suppliers.

I can grow the colorful, the edible and the healing.    I can benefit from their air cleaning abilities and they get the benefits of turning from an annual into a perennial.

I can pretend I’m sleeping in nature without enduring the discomforts of no toilet, bear attacks or exposure.  They get to live where they needn’t overcome the trauma of hail damage.

And if it’s really successful, I’m going to start dressing with plants too.   (I think I can weave a mini-skirt out of the potato stalks dead via hail stones….)

If I’m lucky and perform my activities correctly, I shall always have new plants or seeds to replace those who live out their cycle and return to dirt.   I needn’t worry whether they are in style, have re-sale value or need to be upgraded in 6 months or so.  Dusting them is worthwhile because it’s Health Care and Maintenance, not a useless activity designed to make something look good.

I’ll be closer and more aware of  the cycle of life and maybe not so overwhelmed with shock when something dies.

Yup, I’m thinking living in a green house is just the thing to do.

If I find a plant that comes in black and functions as a wireless router, I’m sure Hubby will be on board with my plan too…

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.

**********

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.

**********

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.

“Retreat!”

These past weeks I’ve often envisioned Yosemite Sam, yelling “Retreat!”  You remember that cartoon, don’t you?

Sam charges towards Bugs Bunny’s fort – Bugs calmly swings open the door at the last minute and Sam runs smack down the barrel of a large gunnery cannon.   He stops…He looks…He realizes……”Retreat!” and runs back the way he came, managing to just barely escape the end of the cannon before being blasted into a little black, charred, beardless  Hessian.

(Hey, I still watch cartoons – and you cannot tell me that the new Batman or Captain Planet or any of these modern ones are ‘less violent’ – Bugs Bunny Forever, says I!)

For various reasons, both known and unknown to me, I have struggled more this year than last over the death of my son.   Lost to bacterial meningitis shortly after graduating from high school, he slipped away from us just 4 short days before his 18th birthday.

As I write this, I have just made it through the day that should have been his 20th birthday.    I should have been making a cake, fixing a BBQ and saying, “Nope, no beer until next year.”

(For those of you not familiar with my previous comments regarding ’shoulds’ I will tell you the above sentence is a prime example of “shoulding on myself” – if you’re confused, say it out loud and you’ll see why ’shoulds’ are not the best thing to engage in…..)

Instead, I did my best not to mope and cry uncontrollably around my youngest son, who will turn 12 in a couple of days.   (For some reason, the Universe decided I was only to be fertile sometime around September – my boys were born 8 years and 3 days apart…… the two I lost would have been born in June too.)

Because I’ve been struggling more lately and seem to have taken a detour in my healing, I’ve often fantasized about escape.

Winning Powerball, building a fence enclosed fortress somewhere in the middle of nowhere with provisions stocked for 2 or 3 years.   No phone, no email, no one to cope with except hubby and son.   No need to be witty, capable of engaging in intelligent conversation.   No call to be nice to others when I’m not feeling nice…………..ahhhhh, don’t I just wish.

But after several years of faithful purchase, I’ve decided my son was probably right – I’m more likely to be struck by lightening 5 times in one day than I am to win Powerball (which means, I do still have a chance………………)

And then it was suggested I go on retreat.   Perhaps to a monastery or abbey?   And the longer the idea-man talked, the better it sounded.

The main attraction was that I have threatened the males in my house with ‘running away to live with the nuns’ for years, anytime I felt like dirty socks were  purposely being thrown on the floor, just to watch me pick them up and take to the laundry.    So, having threatened this action for so long, I was intrigued with the possibility of actually getting to make good on my threats.

I’m also a big Brother Cadfael fan, that wonderful monk created by author Ellis Peters – an aging crusader who came to the monastery late in life and always manages to solve the murder mystery, help the young in-love couple get together and heal a few people with herbs while he’s at it, all the while both outwitting and maintaining a great friendship with the local Sheriff.   What’s not to love?

How I’ve often wished Brother Cadfael was real and that I could visit him and talk with him.  Ellis Peters once said in an interview that writing Brother Cadfael made her a better person.   I can believe it.   He’s my hero.

I also don’t do well with meditation practices.   I can, however, immerse myself in some mundane task and contemplate the mysteries of the world and my connection with the divine quite readily.  So as the idea was suggested to me, I could already see myself regaining my peace and inner tranquility while scrubbing a stone floor on my hands and knees.  (yes, I know, I’m losing it…..)

Some scenes from Sound of Music and Sister Act briefly flitted through my head, but since I can’t sing as well as Julie Andrews or dance as well as Whoopi, I quickly let go of those fantasies…………….

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The yearning with which I’ve envisioned escape has surprised me.   Until recently, I felt like I was dealing with illnesses, deaths and my own health problems pretty well.   Just how or why I got to this place of deep grief again, I could not tell you.

It is both maddening and enlightening to know that no matter how much you read, research and learn about taking care of yourself, things can still sneak up on you when you aren’t expecting it.

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It’s not that my everyday life is hard.   I currently do not work for anyone else, so my schedule is pretty well my own.   My hubby and son aren’t complete slobs and they pitch in and help around the house if I’ve decided to start more projects in the morning than I can possibly get done by nightfall.

I figure a lot of people would look at my life and wonder what the heck I had to be down about.   And they would be right.

But that realization hasn’t changed how I’m feeling right now.

And so, I have requested and been granted sanctuary at an abbey for 10 glorious days while son and hubby are away at school and camp and won’t be around to miss me being gone, anyways.

No cell phone, no email or websites to maintain.  No trying to figure out how to design a new database.

I’m taking my embroidery, some books and stuff to make sprouted wheat bread for the nuns.   My gift for them.

In return, they’ve agreed to give me a bed to sleep on, food to eat, and the opportunity to join their prayer schedule.   I will also be given work to do.   I don’t have to figure out what the most efficient way to do the work is, or prioritize or manage or be inspired and creative.  I just have to show up and do what I’m told.   What a relief.

For a time, I’m going to retreat from the responsibilities of the gifts I have received…. a loving husband and son, friends and family, customers.    I’m going to go where there is a schedule that tells me when to sleep, when to eat and when to commune with the Universe.   I’m choosing to retreat from the world of choices and decisions.

In the military world, Retreat is not often seen as a positive way of dealing the possibility of defeat.   Yes, there’s the saying, “Run away, live to fight another day” but I think the “With your shield or on it” is the more favored, popular one.

It is also interesting to me that in many literary works regarding ‘joining the convent’, a young applicant is counseled, “These walls are to be entered to embrace the life within, not to shut the world out.”

But, whatever the case may be, my wounds are sore and oozing, they ache from too many pokes and prods from my daily routine.   So carrying what shred of a shield I have left, I shall enter into the walls, not asking to leave the world, only that it be kept at bay while I heal and repair my shield.

Rest assured I shall return with it.