ALONE? — NO, NOT ALONE — — ALIVE, A LIFE –LEARNING TO LIVE

Are you or I or”they”/”us” ever really Alone, completely set apart, dis-connected?  I say,”No, no We Are NOT. We Are Connected and interconnected, Always (at ALL times) if not consciously, our consciousness, it’s levels, points of focus, concentration, intent, well within our influence, even when ‘just’ or ‘primarily’ insofar as we Choose OR Choose not To Ask Help from a good loving power greater than we ever will be so that our chances of experiencing and or more consciously expressing our connectedness and interconnectedness with all, every and any “other” human being is forever present and Real, And grows, Simply by Asking for Greater Awareness Of Our Connectedness, Our Importance In The Lives Of  Others  & They In Our Lives.

What do you say?

What are some (try for 5-7) reasons that your answer is as you might believe when sensing this question posed both to and for you. I, among others, would genuinely like to know!

Let’s Learn,  Together!

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Hello: AN INTRO TO THIS SITE

WELCOME

I have not been writing here at all for quite some time. You may see that instead I’ve “reblogged” some of Ms. Britta Reque-Dragicevic’s posts from her site, finding value in them.

However, I would caution readers of them with regard to seeking the support she offers to Veterans who are going through some rough shtuff… My experience has been that she is a lovely person who carries some unique insights into Life after war experiences. Yet, in terms of being able or willing to help me through my troubles in re to my own experiences with war and combat specific memories, I cannot say I have felt she has really been able to “be there.”

When revealing some Very deep parts of one’s own soul,  I would just hate to see others end up feeling more intensely isolated and alone after seriously reaching out from the gut/(&) soul.

It would please me immensely to say that I could promise you the things I felt were promised me on that site, here, or as she suggests, via email or Facebook Messenger. Yet, I cannot. My physical problems, certainly impacted by my emotional distress w regard to matters related to military service, and vice versa, preclude my regularly logging in here to literally “work” on my writing and reaching out via a consistent Blog.

Yet this site is still here!  I hope it will become an active venue for persons of Any backgrounds to share regarding issues of clear communication (which is, with honesty, openmindedness, & willingness, absolutely central to Intimacy in any and all respects).

I would like very much to see this site become a Safe Place to share thoughts and feelings; to explore how we might best improve our lives,  and, by proxy the lives of persons etc around us.

In the meantime,  please feel free to write me at: Rz4rogo@gmail.com.

From there, I will do my best to offer you feedback, answer questions to the best of my ability,  and, perhaps share some of our correspondence here… I will make no promises to hold your hand, or get you through anything. Instead, I will promise to do my very best to help with Non-professionally offered insights, ideas, personal experiences, and my hopes for you to discover your own resolutions with regard to any issues which you might choose to raise.

One person I wrote back and forth with spoke of her sexual identity, and how she might re-view that in relation to herself and other family members. It seemed helpful, and I was very grateful for the opportunity to have been of some assistance, as she worked through issues around intimate dialogues with parents, et al. (the focal point being the discussion and new approaches to dealing with emotions related to Any topic).

Should you choose to write to me, I will respond to the best of my ability, as soon as I am able.

As human beings (All belonging to the One, Human Race–There really are No sub-“races” amongst Any fellow Human Beings) we are emotional and social beings. We are “star-stuff” having a human experience. And, it is Not always easy!  No, not by Any stretch of imagination, possibly excepting that which leads us into denial, yet that, too, is bound to impair our innate abilities to be living well, while quite fully engaging our emotions, easy.

It is a day to day or moment by moment process. Perhaps for a fortunate (few?)/number of us, it  will at times become relatively “smooth sailing.” Then, probably at best, there will be a waaing or waxing of our sensed ease, given both our circumstances, and our internal dialogues or “mental-committees,” carried on during almost any parts of our days or nights.

For myself, I am apt to start feeling off the “balance beam” of life when I am alone, especially at night, when life outside of my self gets quieter, or, when with others, yet Feeling shut out and/or unable to bridge a gap that I perceive between myself & one or more others.

So… If you have a Q or Comment about Intimacy, Communication, thoughts, feelings, perceptions, images, sensations, ideas, memories to flashbacks,  ETC., Please freely send me a line or a letter regarding whatever pours forth from within, to my Gmail account at:       Rz4rogo@Gmail.com 

Or, leave Questions and or Comments here, allowing others to respond in this place:

Guidelines– Let’s keep our language “clean” and respectful, while supportive of others in communicating about their own sensed needs re what they each, any, all (including you and I) feel the need to discuss.

Note: I would ask that if you notice Anything here that you find at all frightening, dangerous,  inappropriate,  I would urge you to alert me at the above listed email account:.   (Rz4rogo@gmail.com), and/or to report that content to WordPress.com ASAP.

For,  it will be together that this can and will be a safe place for anyone to share. AREAS THAT DO ALERT ANY OF US TO THE COMMISSIONS OF CRIMES BY ONESELF OR OTHERS WILL KINDLY BE DEALT WITH BY SEEKING TO GET YOU OR ANOTHER THE HELP NEEDED TO GET Y(OUR) OWN LIVES ON TRAACK, headed toward health and healing! 😃👍👏🙏💖

 

 

On September 11

Life After War

A solemn day. As we remember what was taken, what was offered up and sacrificed, what was given freely, what was left on the battlefield, what was brought home. What is still…ongoing.

You were born for this day. Men and women called to the brotherhood, called to rise up and respond with violence so the rest could remain intact.

We focus on what was lost and sacrificed AND we must focus on what, in turn, was gained: souls who know that life is worth defending, a brother’s blood is worth a thousand sleepless nights, ignorance of war at home is worth the inability to forget what you have learned.

Mourn and be grateful today. Only a few who ever walk this earth are entrusted with the ability to carry what you carry. Your truths divide you inside and they make you whole.

Be wholehearted, my warriors. Fight on.

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How to Create a Meaningful Life After the Military

Life After War

Finding purpose after the military feels almost impossible, doesn’t it? It’s not that you don’t have skills to translate into civilian work. It’s the underlying sense of why you are doing it that feels so off. Once you’ve been responsible for life and death, millions of dollars worth of equipment, or leading others into and through combat — well, compared to that, most civilian jobs fall flat. They feel insignificant, meaningless, boring. You feel restless, unsettled, empty.

You can’t take someone who has been trusted with life and death, put them in a mundane job and expect them to feel satisfied, right?

Maybe. Or maybe you can.

What if there’s a way to feel purposeful in any job you work? What if there’s a way to live so that it isn’t the job, but you personal mission in life that gives you purpose and meaning?

The only way to find…

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Currently Untitled & An Unfinished Stort (TBC?)

There was little tiny girl, middle of the floor, just some planks laid over a few beams beneath, a blanket over her shoulders, nothing on her feet or legs, just a sack cloth dress covering her back and chest, sides and thighs, then across that small lap was a full sized guitar which she played upon with such love-filled strains, melodies and cords. Her voice seemed to warm all in that room of four walls and a roof with an opening through which she could see the stars, “the sky window,” she lovingly called it, in their 8’x12′ house.

A small fire crackled in the corner from a “hearth” not much larger than the old iron stewing pot just beside it. The cold from the planks we called a floor made it all but impossible to remember that there was a source of heat other than the warmth from a tiny little girl, a large guitar and the sweetest voice you’ve ever known coming from the fifth of the eight children. The others were piled together over the weakest one who was troubled by a cough, snuggling between his Momma and Daddy who had led the prayers that night until all had participated ready to settle in, until one got up as she said she had to “to comfort lil’ Dwight,” as much as to comfort all there, herself included if not centrally in her mind. The instrument called to that sweet young girl who probably would have been twice her size had she more to eat, more shelter and clothing, a girl who exuded Love, optimism too, with an uncommon strength, a Power you might say… Staying in bed for warmth simply was not an option. She was born to sing, born to play, a born story teller with each, both, or, if need be with neither song nor strings, other than the tissue of her vocal cords which soothed as if her words were sung while spoken. Here was a true phemom… A secret treasure known this way, then, and for several years and a few more, only to those within that li’l shack at The Wood’s edge.

After the eighth song after Sun-down, and some light snoring was heard, that little musician clambered into the ‘pile’ of others on the small pallet placed near enough that little fire to help bring some warmth and comfort to them all where everyone was grateful for the body heat of every other present in this room that they all called, “home.” A big brother took the blanket she brought up and covered her shivering body, knees and feet now pulled to her chest clenched in tightly, leaning into Briol’s big brother-arm, so very warm compared to she, wrapped now in that blanket not half her size, a big brother’s warm arm beneath her back and head, emanating also love that warmed what she thought a strangely lonely heart, with the warmth of the others, almost all so very still. At last, sensing Briol drifting away for the night into sleep, she too joined their slumber, trusting that Mom, Daddy, or another would add to the fire when it got too low. Someone always did. For when they rose it was warmer than it had been the night before. Though moving about with chores got their blood pumping and so their bodies warmer with activities. Chores were created for this purpose with the wisdom of parental love.

Gidea, the family cow had to be milked. Little Angel-Marie, the family musician who had Un-officially taken the place of ol’ Gran Dad, Momma’s Papa, and ownership of the instrument that had been in the family at least as long as his Papa’s Pa had been…A long, long time. She always volunteered to do the milking because Guidea was so warm. The cow was named from a feminized version of “Guideon” of the Bible by this same little girl. At the time the Family Bible and those of any itinerant preachers passing through their region of the World was known to them only as “Christian,” not realizing its inherent Jewish roots or message until Angel-Marie learned to read one year, later adding Bible stories to the night’s entertainment… Even Dad had to admit, “The Lord’s speaking through that child sure as she can sing,” he whispered to his wife Sharon-ell (short for, Sharon-Ellen). Briol was the only one in the household without a biblical name. It was something Angel-Marie wondered about, having read the entire Bible herself. She didn’t understand why her Mom and Daddy would do that to him.

“No matter,” she reasoned within, Briol’s the best big brother a girl could have.” He beat on David-Lee after he tried to hurt me,” she would later say to a reporter from the North who had come to see how folks like us got by. “Mountain folks,” he called us. And, I suppose that’s what we were. We were people who literally lived so close to the mountains we were on that those mountains were truly family members to their inhabitants. The smell of it,  the mountain, the trees, the soil, the stones, the rock with scents the stronger after a rain, the terrain, the unquestionable Godliness or holiness and purity of those Love emitting and evoking mountains were part of us helped us, and wood from their trees helped us to sleep over the ground instead of on it. The wood also kept that fire burning, along with Azariah-elle…

When I was about 14 I’d say, I remember waking up to see Azi slide out from our pile and feed the fire especially well just before we would get up. It must have been three or four in the morning, maybe eleven at night, then two, that she would get up as cold as it could be (not one of us had shoes back then), to gather wood from the forest we lived half in and half out of in that little shack. It became a ritual for nearly a week, of my spying on my sister’s act of loving kindness that may well have saved our lives. So, when she got sick at about 18, and that Summer she died, I cried even harder than when Papa died. Because she was so very young and never married or had children. Lots of others on and around the mountain called her a young old maid, pittying that she was single almost more than that she had died, probably, I thought and felt in y heart, because she had risen so very many times to keep us warm in Winter and Fall to save Our lives!

Oh, I wanted to Shout it out at those nosey, snoopy neighbors who just liked hearing themselves talk, to let them know what I knew about Azi having helped save our whole family. But, I kept quiet then… A bother, too, was the fact that though no one said it, I think all of us may have been glad that it wasn’t any of us with our bodies being lowered into the ground that Sunday. In other families there was perhaps or probably a gratefulness that it was not one of theirs, their child, brother or sister or aunt who had died that Summer time. Azi was three years older than I. It was she who had given me Gran Pops guitar one day when I was underfoot while she tried to cook an evening meal for Mom and Daddy the day they had gone to Town to sell the corn husk dolls Mommy made all year long, and the shoes of leather Daddy had made, “moccasins,” they were called. I liked the name, and I longed to wear a pair. Daddy said they were like what the Indians wore to keep their own feet warm and dry. That seemed right smart to me.

When I finally tried a pair on once, my Daddy smiled real big, then he looked scared when he heard Mom coming from the garden, and told me  as quickly as he could to “put m in the corner. Don’t let yur Momma see.” Scared then myself I did just as he told me to, though my whole body seemed to rebel, urging me to keep them on, hiding m neath a banket and atwixt others’ feet to keep Mom from finding out. “It might work,” I thought. But, fear won out. Though, that very night, before the pile started to build, once Dwight-James had been tucked in and Mom had gone out to get some air, I asked as softly as I could, “Daddy, why can’t we have moccasins like the City folk and the Indians? To answer, he asked if I’d like to hear a story. Of course I would! I loved hearing ‘m as much as telling ‘m. So, I pulled myself close to the pallet where he was already lying down next to Dwight-James to help keep him warm for the night as Daddy whispered a story about a man in the woods who made moccasins just like real Indians wore.

I was sure he was telling me about himself which added to the allure. “He had himself a big ol’ family. Why, it was three Times as big as our’n. And, whenever a family on the mountain had a cow, goat or lamb die, they’d call their neighbor Mr. Tommy.” Right then, I remembered Mom talking about her Uncle Tom, and thought that was maybe how he gave himself that name in his story that night. “Now, Mr. Tommy would help the families find out how and why there about that their animal had died, whether they could eat from what was left or burn it up before putting it in a grave…” My Daddy did do that for others, but I loved the fact that he turned his story into another! I thought he was one of the most smart men ever on our Mountain. And he was a looker, too. I thought I’d marry a man only if he looked and talked like Daddy did. I just didn’t want him to be afraid, the man I would marry one day, or my Daddy.

The folks called him Mr. Jim. It was my Mom that told me that “Jim” was another name for James.He did diagnose causes of death and was usually right about whether or not the family could use any of the animal for food, wool, tools and such. If they could eat it, he would de-bone the carcus and scrape the hide for the family. Over time it became customary for all to give or offer him the skins: Just like Mr. Tommy!

“Well, it was mighty cold up on the mountain, so Mr. Tommy asked his wife Hosannah if’n he could make moccasins for their children after he had come home with the hides of two steer. “But,” here his voice got deeper and a bit more quiet, “Mrs. Tommy wouldn’t have it. She reckoned that her family was tougher than the toughest Indians ever ever Ever! And, they didn’t need No shoes!” Dad looked sadder now, but tried to keep the story going as much to get away from his tears as to prevent me from seeing that Mr. Tommy wasn’t very brave at all when it came to his wife, my Mom. I mean, Mrs. Tommy.

“But!” Dad said again, this time with a mighty grin that lit up the room and my heart with every front tooth still in place white as could be, ahead of his time in “maple stick chews,” the first thing approximating tooth brushes I had heard of or seen on our Mountain until I went off to the big Town myself at fifteen to “find me a school and learn all a body can before comin home.” “But!” said Dad with excitement shining through his whole self, “Mr. Tommy made his moccasins just the way he was shown how by a real Indian woman who had married into the Logan clan when Mr. Tommy was still a boy. And, if he couldn’t give his children shoes, he was going to darned sure give them some store bought clothes, some cough medicine for his little girl, and coats as many as he could, even a pretty yellow tight woven fabric sold by the yard, sos he could help his Mrs. have a dress in her favorite color.” I wondered if he knew that I could remember.the year he gave Mom a brown paper package tied with string, and inside was her Christmas present from Santa which was the biggest piece of cloth I had seen up to that very night. There was a needle with lots of yellow thread and six shiny yellow buttons out of which Mom made yellow dresses for the four of us girls and yellow shirts for the boys. She had tears dripping from her eyes when she saw it. Happy tears from a woman who sure could yell enough to scare a super strong man like my Dad, my biggest brothers, and when I was much older, as an adult by city standards, I realized that even I had feared her more than death itself.

Making us all those bright colored clothes was about the nicest thing she had ever done. And, my dad did buy coats that we would take turns wearing when out, or in bed  sharing them as blankets that one or two of us would get to wear in bed! I’m very happy to say that more than twice I was one of ‘the luckiest in the pack.’ That was what Briol called us, we giggling with joy straight from heaven. That’s what it seemed like to me.

“Well,” Dad continued, “every year, Mr. Tommy would take those cured hides and make moccasins to sell to Town and City folk who were,” he said, “a confused group. I’ll tell ya that. Cause they, lot of m, they would call Indian people mean names. If they ever did see an Indian person in real life they’d like about to spit on m. Mighty cruel. They didn’t know the Bible like how you done teached us. No sir-rie! They made mean songs about Indian folk and would say the plum cruelest things you ever did hear!” Though I begged him to tell me what all they said, he said it wasn’t fitting for a lady to hear, nor any person under the Sun.” Those words pleased me enormously, for they meant that my Dad thought of me as a real lady!  And, a real person!

He did slide the storyline away from the mean Town and City folk, to how they wanted to have warm feet like the Indians who had “lived here hundreds and hundreds of years before their ancrstors came over to take their land, hurt them worse than bad, and they wanted their families to have warm feet, just like the Indians! Yes, they were a confused lot!” I loved the word “confused,” because I knew what it meant. My Dad had taught us all. It seemed not another soul on that Mountain knew that word! Words were some of the best friends I ever had!

As it turned out, “Mr. Tommy used his skill at making maccasins to sell them to the rich folk,” the mean, confused ruch folk, “sos he could help provide for his family.” Did Mrs. Tommy contribute, too, I wanted to know! “Why, she surely did. That woman worked day in And Out to make sure her family had an evening meal Ev-er-y day of their lives together. She was also an art maker, who could make dolls out of corn husks, which she also learned to do from an Indian lady. So as tough as Mrs. Tommy tried to act, like she and hers were stronger than Indian folk, deep down she knew that if’n it weren’t for them Indian folk neither she neither her man could be providing for their childr’n, that they loved So Soooo Much that…” “That what, Daddy?” “That they made sure their younge’ns got to bed with a fire going and somthin to eat in theys bodies! C’mon now, you get yo’self ready. Snuggle up with Dwighty an me afore you get to strummin and sangin pretty like how you do.”  He paused for what seemed like the longest pause ever while looking at me with something special in his eyes. I knew he loved me. Now, I knew, too, that Daddy saw me as a lady AND a person, which to me felt like about the biggest compliment in the Whole Wide World! “You,” he said, “You, young lady, are a miracle lady. Don’t you tell your Mom, but I think you are part Indian too with your healing ways and how you sing and play gui-tar. That’s not a traditional Indian instrument there Angel-Marie, but there’s lots of things that are. Yur like them. We’re all alike. You just found that gui-tar like an Indian girl finds a lute or a drum or her voice, like how you found yur’n, an goes right into making a gift of God known to man hisself!”

I snuggled in happier than I ever knew I could be that night just as Mom walked in asking, “What kind of nonsense have you been filling this child’s head with, Jim Anders?” Dad saved me from certain heart break, by responding right away: “I have done no such thing, Mrs. Anders! You know I could never lie to a  child of mine!” Mom didn’t look happy, but she didn’t look so angry or scary anymore. She pitched a cigarette nub into the fire. I knew she smoked those things but that was the first time I’d seen the evidence. She was gentler with me that night than usual, even patting me on the head and stroking my cheek like maybe she even loved me. Lots of times I thought she only loved Dwight-James, maybe cause he had part of Daddy’s Biblical name…or cuz he was sick and she was always scared he would die in the night.That was what I thought.

Once all were in bed, I squirmed out to get Gran Pa’s guitar, which by then, I was beginning to believe should be my… my Christmas present or dowry. I knew I was coming age-wise near the time I would have to leave, maybe to learn enough in schools that I could live anywhere in the world. But, to leave my guitar behind was a harsh thought indeed.

That was thirty years ago! I did leave, against Mom’s wishes and demands. What she never seemed to understand, though I’m quite sure that she knew before I did,  was that I Would Need to leave our home, including the Mountain I grew up on, well before I would marry. To have stayed would have crushed my spirit and had me marry too young, having children while a child myself, luckier than anyone in our County if I’d married a boy closer to my age and not some adult or old man who couldn’t find a grown lady who would marry him….

(Edit & TBC… Yes?)

A Snow Laced Evening

I raised the day long closed shade, lifted just once prior in the early morning, showing me a gray cloaked sky. This time, snow! It didn’t blanket the ground. There was grass peeping out, areas without snow, but enough to call me out of my would be “sick bed,” I got dressed. Today, I honestly thought I’d not get dressed into outside clothing at all. I exercised more than usual, a goal that I want to continue no matter how poorly I feel. How else can I get to “full healing” from this allegedly fatal disease?

Back to my going outside un my power wchair. It was tempting to complain about the model I was given vs the one I was promised by State  and Privately paid people who were supposed to help me find an ideal piece of equipment. But, to go  any farther down that road would be to let negativity win my mindset, which has been a threat on and off this evening.

Being dressed warmly enough with a well insulated vest and a blanket over my jeans, and two coats in top, I went out into the almost imperceptible droplets that seemed to hang invisibly in the cool-cold air. Once out of the parkinglot and onto a sidewalk, there it was, a gift greater than I percieved on first exiting the building. There was a row of trees emphasized by the snow lining their branches, rendering each boagh and twig an especially highlighted piece of nature’s/(&)God’s artworks… Some, farther away appeared sillouetted while their own white powdered branch tops showed through the darkening air backlit by the sun with someting of a “tangelo mist,” surrounded with equally muted lavendars and blues. Of course, at least at the moment I am.color blind, but this was how I saw it…

Having stopped to take it all in, I was moved to look upward. Mm. My visual fields have been severely limited for years now, since mitochondrial encephalomyopathy hit… So, I looked upward. It was unbelievably gorgeous. There was plenty of blue sky up there, and until I looked around more, all I had seen was varying shades of gray! The clouds up there looked brilliantly white, some in puffs, there was one that from my distance appeared very small, also when compared to closer formations, but it looked much like a little storm cloud in mid-rise, yet there was no more rising in it that I could see. Wow! Wow! Guess how many times I said that marveling at the sky more directly above me: Your guess is probably as good as mine. A state if wonder stole over me afresh. I wanted to point out this regal splendor to those too quickly driving through on the Ave. beside me. I wanted to ask any that may have thought my delight out of place, “You’ve never been blind at all have you???” I wanted others to appreciate what I was appreciating! Yes, I, this young “outdoors girl, then woman” who not long ago spent over a decade in a nursing home, placed there to die, but is now out(! There was no “yard time” there as there is in many prisons. It was not a safe place, so, my getting out alive involves miracles other than not dying if this kick-butt disease that I pray and aim to leave behind while I go on to live my life anew with many healthy decades to go), I wanted to shout out to someone, “THIS IS BEAUTIFUL!!!!”

On my way out I had taken off a glove and reached down for some of this snow, so light, maybe over 1 cm deep, tasting it as I might have as a chid. I did this three times along the way down the Ave. and back. At the last stop, I tasted and then made miniature snow balls, and threw them at, well, towatrd, an address post, attempting to hit it. Fun 🙂

The air was so refreshing. The vapor in it didn’t bother me at all. In fact, once backin my apt., after stopping to help a neighbor, then to chat briefly with two others, I peeled off some layers and got on the floor where I did three push-ups. My chin did not touch the ground, but I’m going to count them. I haven’t done a push up in years! The first female Army Rangers are inspirations to me, as are their predecessors who may not have been able, due to regulations, gone through such training (officially) &/or otherwise, with those yet to come.

What I’d give to live on that training base, one of them, until I, too, could complete that training, all if it. Of course, it would likely take me years rather than months, given special opportunity to stay until I moved forward, as right now I’d be out in phase one, probably well before any other, under the rules as they stand for enlisted/ offiial personnel… I’d give it all I have. To be that strong… Can I get through this without crying. Uh. No. The answer has already begun.

Fresh air, rigorous living, demanding living, it’s what we’re built for, most of us.

 

 

“A MUSEUM VISIT” draft 1

FROM MY DAY AT THE MUSEUM

The lights were dim, the air cool and pleasing. Above certain works of art and displays depicting renditions of how past lives may have appeared, human, prehuman, tools used, descriptions of the displays via the art of written interpretation, these were the main sources of light. It enhanced the magic and the miraculous in what we saw… Not once did I pause to question if others saw it, feeling the lure in what was all around us in this place. It seemed evident in the sacred quietness with which no one seemed to need any instruction to keep, speaking in hushed tones while viewing in awe aircraft, journals, skeletal structures, paintings, pottery, paintings by Manet, Monet, Amanda Fix, H. Emberson, and others, the “long famous,” and those who(se) works may yet be…

Those so entranced included Ms. Bay’s notoriously noisy group of playfully bright students between kindergarten and 1st grade from Plumbers Creek, a small town beyond the Suburbs, but well known for the Town’s astheic attractiveness, and, honestly, Ms. Bay’s classes which people from in-State and out-. They, these ‘known to be noisy’ children, whispered. They smiled with delight, as the blanket of comfort in there seemed to have been placed over their shoulders, too, on entry. For, surely, I was not the only one to hear their approach from outside. Remarkable: They strolled from exhibit to exhibit, some holding hands, most in small groups loosely tethered it seemed to Ms. Bay, perhaps in wonder of her own wonder at the array of art.

Everything I saw there, from farm tools, to sculpture, paintings, even the visciously  designed and used weapons of war and torture had a unique quality about them, drawing myself in to the minds, hearts, souls of whoever may have made these marks in history, who was affected by them, both before, and after they were “done.” Now, I put “done” in quotation marks, as these implements, these modes of expressing perceived needs conceived, designed, evoked, made, or created, were at that moment still in use!

It was… Honestly, it’s difficult for me to describe. For right there, in the Museum, I experienced such a vast garden of raw emotion. In that space I had felt pure evil, bringing forth terror from my very core. Then I would see what felt an incomprehensible amount of joy in a painting or photograph, and one working airplane in particular, said to have been made two full years before the Wright brother’s famed flight took place: Yes, the one that numerous reporters feared ridicule for sharing, as so few, they probably correctly imagined, would not initially have believed. The one airplane that stayed with me most, was one that had purportedly been designed and built by two eleven year old girls who lived about 20 miles south of the Wrights…

So, it is entirely possible that some of the Wright’s ideas were found after seeing this earlier aircraft, which one of the girls had journaled that her friend, Judith “flew in herself for near to 5 minutes! And,” the journal entry went on, “she must have caught quite a wind, as I ran for what had to have been near to 2 miles! I feared for her life. She took it to such heights! But, also, if any local farmer or passerby were to see our contraption, she would likely have been shot and killed. We might both have beene captured and killed as witches if any knew of this! But she came to the ground so smoothly that I wished to think her one of the birds or riding the back of the largest bird known ever to man! It was a sight of beauty! Oh, Dear Lord, I do thank you for this day! Thank you for keeping Judy alive! Thank you for allowing our bird machine to work! Thank you for the flight! Oh, yes, Lord, thank.you ever so much for helping us to manage getting it back to our hiding barn. And for that man who swore on oath of his life to tell no one of having seen, met, nor helped us to get the bird machine back or where we keep it!!! Oh, I do Thank You, King of Kings! You have allowed us to make something great. It will help the World! I can feel it all over and inside. I don’t know how or when but I feel and trust this. Oh, Lord, thank you too for Judith’s quickness of wit. Please forgive her for the lie told that man about how my father would surely hunt him down clear across this land if he must, should that man tell a living soul about his farm equiment. It was rather brilliante. And, truth be known Lord, I think this may have saved us. And though father would surely part us forever and destroy our bird machine if he knew, I know that You understand! And, I thank You again and again. You must release Judy from slavery Lord. She is smarter than any man in this County mayhap the Country. And it was you who made her so! I must go!”

Yes, I jotted it all down on a paper bag from the gift shop left on a nearby bench. This was… I don’t want to say, “unbelievable,” for my soul sensed truth in it, and absolute certainty of its possibility. I just didn’t know if mainstream society would allow this apparently new information as worthy (even if proven beyond all doubts to be true) to trump the longstanding story (the myth?) that the Wright Brothers invented the first working airplane known to humanity, prior to this discovery, at least that I know of. In this thought there was fear. Still, the joy and Love that I felt imagining being present with those girls was stronger. I felt everything touched on in the journal entry. The Curator’s own art at story telling helped. The pristine construction of the plane. It looked more like something made in an MIT (an alma mater) Lab, while said to be proven accurate, as “extremely plausible”  by none other than my “ex-,” from MIT!

Wow! Some looked on that display derisively, but then, any I saw stay to read or hear read from the Journal, however implausible our prejudices might have made the display appear in our own minds at first, stood and sat with a satin like awe, comforted somehow by the awe and wonder, the vision, the sensation of being with, or being one of, those girls (the males present seemed equally taken into the past through those words of excitement, fear, concern, gratitude, prayer; belief in a higher being, capable of keeping their bird machine safe, keeping them safe; questioning in mind what happened to those girls. What were their “last” names then, later? Did they have a “later”? Had they been punished, separated, moved away?What happened to Judith? Was she freed from enslavement, this clearly brilliant little girl, who managed through the friendship with a neighbor girl to create what may have been the World’s first known working airplane?… How did their friendship start? What gave them this idea to create a “bird machine,” possibly quite unaware that the Wright brothers which the Curator told us “lived rather far across the way,” using the language which she thought the children might have used?

Seeing this, this beautifully crafted bird machine, which truly did give me the words that “compared to this the Wright’s plane was but child’s play,” an interesting word choice. For, before me was what was a truly possible display of drawings that one might guess done by a fully grown and  trained engineer and artisan, with the signature of one JUDITH with a smilely face beside it. I myself had the talent to draw as well as the illustrators of a How To Draw A Dog book, on my teacher’s desk from my seat in an exceedingly boring second grade class, accused first of having brought in a drawing done by my formally trained and Art School Trained father. I was six. I drew it sitting in the front row where they made me sit! It was one of, if not the, kindest things my parents ever did in honestly teling the teachers that my father had not drawn that dog(!) Then, I was accused of tracing it. It couldn’t possibly be the exact size as it was an oversized book and I had only an approximately 8 1/2″ x 11″ piece of “child’s drawing paper.” And, mine was indeed smaller.

What really threw the most curious amongst my ney sayers was the principle who had already told my horrified and dumbstruck mother (you have No idea what a rare feat that latter said state was for her) that he believed me to be the strongest person he had ever met. He was a young man, in his late thirties I guessed. That she told me may well have been an “act of God,” as she worked as if (?) ceaselessly to break my spirit, to own even my soul. Compliments were withheld or distorted by her when in reference to myself, by her when heard from any others, often for hours upon hours, yelled, to instill in myself the belief in me that her desired truth, regarding “what” as opposed to “who” I was would be acknowledged as The Truth by me, as Her belonging, her slave, servant, thing.

It was that Principal who measured my dog drawing meticulously, eyeing me with undisguised admiration. It was, he said, “drawn exactly to scale. This is… We have someone beyond ‘gifted and talented here,’ he whispered to my accusatory teacher. The other teachers’ dismissal of my brilliance was one reason that he cited for leaving his position that year. So, personal experiences had told my gut and vice versa that the display of that absolutely and mind -boggling sight of beauty in the “bird machine,” and the drawings, the journaled account, that this Was very possibly the first (at min., an earlier version of an) airplane built and flown two full years, one month and three days earlier than the famed Wright brother’s version, a facsimile of which I had once viewded in the Smithsonian. The display, like so many others there brought up within emotion with power, strength,  and a palpable passion some as stated seeming to be opposite in composition of our Life-energies, “positive,” “negative,” “frightful”, “freeing,” “Love,” “hate,” “joy,” and “gratitude,” to the “desire for revenge,” “desire for forgiveness,” “Life,” “death,” as if these very forces were in fact in these rooms,  displays, halls… They were, more than in or from ourselves alone or as a group, telling stories deeper than any word ever could.

Having seen the exhibit of that airplane… the sense of evil that had shaken my soul just moments prior at a display of “Tools of Torture,” was no longer within to cause any quaking. No, having seen this I felt overcome with such a love and joy that all evil had been vanquished. My heart went out to a soul called Judith, and a dear friend whose name was said never to have been found. Though, with research it seemed difficult to believe that there would be no “paper trail” aside from what I saw today, letting us know much more about these young girls. That my former boyfriend, an astute enough fellow, may have justified the find spoke volumes in support of the display as no hoax! Perhaps the girls had been “punished,” possibly killed as the threats they may well have been seen as in the generally (chronologically adult) male oppressed/ruled societies within the U.S.A. in that era.

Indeed, that display could sum up my experiences at the Museum the other day: I was left with emotions of every sort. They stayed with me, some more strongly than others. It was an amazing, educational, emotionally evocative day well spent. It spoke to me of the majesty and mysteries in learning itself, utterly enhanced and fueled by emotions, including the most scientific of endeavors. This was so perfectly visible after that afternoon spent in the Museum, which I will forever recall as “the day I spent at that Museum,” for it affected the whole day, and each thereafter. It was the central point of that day, definitive of that days experience. It was life altering. My appreciation was deepened for the mysteries behind every “truth” we’ve been taught to believe, reminding me as I needed to be that no take on “the truth” is anything but a part of the Truth regarding any subject in any situation.

After seeing the Bird Machine, I was eventually able to focus on other works of art. There were paintings  equally exquisite by “unknown,” and “not well known” artists as any by Renoir, Mannet, etc. Before some I sat, pulled into other worlds, stories, emotions, millions and more told in each stroke of a paint brush, as in each painting. The sculptures were captivating as they brought me into places where I could never be held captive… Leaving that day, I felt a tear drop from my lashes. Hope, pain, fear, freedom, enslavement, creativity, freedom, feelings, the need to be and to contribute to this World stirred within joining myself and my soul with that if Every other. Gratefully, that sensation stays with me… I had lost touch with it at some point during certain self consuming life trials in adulthood. Once again, my once acclaimed “child-like delight at learning,” my tremendous joys in discovering new ways of viewing any given portions of Life were returning.  Hmmm. Wow… From my day at the Museum…

Transforming

Lonely was the night in the cold dark room as she waited and begged for the love she had craved since before she could really be seen or heard by anyone in this world, like you and me, asking the God above, within her heart and all around, in everyone and everything that was ever born, ever made, for the ways and the means to feel Love once again, maybe more deeply felt and fed by this nourishment that her body-mind-soul had been starving for but had found wanting for so long.

The walls built up high and strong enough to keep her going including all of those times when she had seen no way out or away from the hell she had faced day to day… When would that hell end? It seemed to the girl that her time would come before she were five years old, and she was alright with that for it had seemed to her that she had lived a full life, having thought about the probability of being killed by her Mommy or her Dad, at any given time since her memory consciously began. There had been so many times when she had been laid out on a bed, expected to die by her parents who plotted away and planned on the stories they would tell when the authorities who would find her body, in a probably not too creative place by her mom and dad. It was something she’d overheard on numerous occasions as she could barely move. Yet hearing what her parents said strengthened her resolve to live despite any sensed relief in feeling her soul leave her body.

Many years have come and gone since those years in that crazy household, more loosely called, a “family.” It’s another cold dark night, sleeping with her coat on as in childhood, only in this dark apartment having enough heat so she doesn’t need to zip up a medium sized dog inside her layers of winter wear, here only requiring a coat and jacket beneath, doubled up pants and 1 set of shoes rather than winter boots on her feet. Nor do icesicles form to be removed from her eyelashes and nose as they did in that uninsulated bedroom at 40 degrees below zero, Fahrenheit, sometimes colder, roughly the temperature it was outside, with ice on the walls of that room, in an already unsafe place to be, though the safest she had known back then, for the first 22 yrs of life.

Things were changing rapidly for the better, but neither her psyche nor soma were ready for safety or the chances available when living free, away from mind-control and captivity. She didn’t know how to cope. Oh, she made friends, good ones, people who loved her just as she was, no matter what, unconditionally with a power and kindness she had not before then known. Hiding who you really are to keep patrents’ secrets had been a full-time job, aside from the forced labors (much illegal) and the legal jobs that she had gotten on her own; “paying rent from the age of three, first via slave like(?) household work, and doing her mother’s jobs to bring in money. Yhen, too, there was the incest at home and the prostitution. It took a very hefty toll on her life …

The time was coming to choose her career and linked academic paths which all who knew her believed would lead to incomparable successes by all standard measures and more, with “fame, fortune and happiness. In following her dreams, she would be breaking every rule that her mother had created and enforced. It was a turning point, a time to make a crucial choice. Yet, Shocked in body, mind, and spirit, this young woman was at a “sink or swim” concourse, following her fear, which had been overpowering her reliance on Love as her Ruler, her new Commander in Chief, or so had been, generally so, especially through her last three yrs of college, and more than one after. And, as crazy as it sounds, she chose to sink, not to swim, seeking in that old futile manner another attempting to please her mom and gain her love which she had been literally brainwashed to believe was her absolute need to have permission to be who she was     when free… A tear forms and falls as the woman she had since become realized what she had done and begged the Highest Being, The Greatest Good, The Truth, The Way (however defined by some), The Light, The Love Who and that she always had Shining Brightly through her heart, hidden only by silence and lies of omission and other kinds told to please her mother as if she were her God. Yet, the sadness in her face went ignored while her mother told stories galore about this woman when a child, teen and young adult. It’s a wonder, a miracle in fact that she had made it so far without falling apart.

When she chose “sink,” her life as she knew fell away. Talents, gifts, abilities, joy, lustre, and a whirlwind of energy no one seemed to understand how she kept going with and in; somehow creating order amidst chaos, helping others to find healing, safety, security, Love when at the wits ends of their own, their families, their Therapists who would bring them to her, a Counselor herself, only, almost never believed not to have at least one PhD! Graduate Schools had been offered as had a Professorship, prematurely, with immediate admissions to several Ivy League Schools; there was an offer too from a prestigious Publishing House in NYC to write her books while counseling and teaching, getting the degrees in Schools that had written letters letting her know of their wishes that she would choose their School. One was Yale, which would impress some. But, to she who “would” have “be”en “a star anywhere,” it didn’t impress. Offered to Edit a book after becoming ill. Offered another chance with a grande publishing house; told she would “change the face of Christianity,” “…be bigger than Benny Hinn, Billy Graham, Joel Osteen and Joyce Meyer combined,” when she’d only heard two of those names at the time; that she’d be a Professor of “Preaching,” “Special Education,” “Psychology,” “Counseling,” “Medicine,” “Law,” “Astronomy,” and much more; presumed by those she met even well after her new form of sinking was taking its toll, to be an “expert” in whatever ‘their field’ might be! It was and remains Amazing…

Sink is just what she did though, as disability took over this woman fot which “Nothing is impossible! If there’s any thing that she wants, it’s hers for the thought and actions she seems effortlessly to achieve in a absolutely any field of interest that strikes her fancy at any given moment. She is a phenom, utterly incomparable, and remarkable!” With offers for work and graduate programs to be part if as student and as leaderr still pouring in, the knowledge that she could Not commit to or complete what most geniuses could never conceive of achieving because she had become so physically and cognitively, socially and emotionally drained of energy that while remaining far and away bright enough after having lost an approx 85% of her cognitive function, her stamina wouldn’t even allow her the energy to take care of her self (eating, meal prep, grooming, bathing). There were days when she could read a short paragraph, or take a very short walk (maybe 10 yards). But, having done one made the other inalterably impossible. It was eye opening to one who had believed that it would be her mind that would heal her body! The two were more deeply connected than even she knew.

The spiritual conundrum of having chosen what she knew over what she did not had left her confused, embittered, while surprisingly joyful, bright and able in limited social and academic settings. Though, simultaneously, her “sink hole” seemed a replay of her childhood behind closed doors just like those days and nights as a child and teen, she kept secret the fact that two men had begun to stalk, threaten and molest her, resoonding as if four years old rather than in her 20s and 30s. No one knew, except she, the primary abusers and those who bought tapes if the abuses taking place. The longer it went in the harder to admit that feeling that she had somehow allowed this to happen, as her worst nightmare seemed to be coming true:

You see, that’s one problem with oppressive culture feeding us words like “prostitute” and “slave,” identifying people/human beings, all of the One human race which has no sub-species, as the things, the roles ascribed to them. This woman, for example, believed at heart that she was and had been a “slave” and “prostitute.” Having added the prefix, “ex-” to those titles seemed only to mean that she was but one “ex” away from being in those soul shattering roles again.

She had kept those parts of her past secret, so no one could or would ever see what felt and seemed an internal truth about her identity. In her mind, it felt and seemed that what her mother taught and brainwashed her to believe was true: If others know, that’s where you’ll go.  That’s how you’ll end up and all you will be. It was a shame filled past of secrecy, which had seemed to have become a self-fulfilling prophecy. To stop living the double life (minimum) seemed to ‘promise’ that the “ex-” she had effectively helped show the world, by allowing others to see a far deeper much more greatly definitive self-identity while hiding what the “ex-” preceded, would in fact become her reality, surviving merely to be a thing, an object to be abused by others, not this “Mega-genius” whose I.Q. was still, “Miles away. Miles away from the bell-shaped part if the Bell Curve, said her last Psychologist while waving her hands to her own right… This, long after the 85%+ cognitive function had been lost and yet to be found; Not, “the smartest,” “sanest,” “kindest,” “most loving,” “capable” “human being” etc., that people not uncommonly would tell her they “have ever met!” None of the brilliance, book offers, etc.seemed real beside this worn and weary image she had of who she was and would as if born, as her mother said, to “be and do what I tell you, nothing more, you’ll always be less.”

Those words were lies but had been heard a minimum of tens of thousands if times mostly by her mother, starting before she had reached age 2 !  It was a harshly evil set of lies both parents through many means if abuse, made it their jobs to get her to believe. Ironically (?), this was exactly what the stalkers did. She Was getting exactly what she had feared/ expected, with repeat after repeat of more abuse; threats on her life; breaking and entering into her private property; grand thefts; cruel mistreatments, plaguing her even now that she’s reached her 50s! Only, now, when sensing the question posed, “sink or swim,” despite that message that “your mommy wants you to die a victim. Daddy, too,” there is arising in this woman/this miracle, the mindspace made to allow in room for a growth and a return not to evil but to good in it’s purest forms, in Who she really is and was ever born to be.

It is a challenge. It may always be. However the strength is welling up above the water mark where she had been standing tall on the cusp of unparalleled successes almost endless in form, and a force, a power of Love and good within are telling her to rise up again to experience things in life she had believed forever by and for herself to be denied, because of who, or rather ‘what,’ her parents said she was. Rise Up! Rise Up! Let the fear escape from your heart your mind your chains, for neither the fear nor the chains (mayhap one in the same) are not definitive of Who you are and need to be; they don’t and cannot define the heart the mind the soul, the body, spirit, environs and all that you can create and recreate until you see that you are the definer of the fear and chains Not vice versa! Be healed! Be cleansed! Be freed! Be who you were always meant to be. You will feel afraid at times. It’s a human state of mind. But, it’s not you, nor is it your future. It’s not your destiny. Greatness awaits you. Please, let it, let your self your soul your freedom and your greatness be. Throw fear to the winds to carry it back to the grave from whence it came, was, has been, even while alive in your mother’s your father’s  beyond deeplytroubled minds and souls who tried to take you to a grave if your own more times than you’ll ever know. You followed in like fashion. Yet now you are finding that there is so much more to you than the evils of your parents’ or the ravages of disease could or can ever take from you. You were not born to be afraid, but ever so much more and better. Keep listening intently for you, exactly who and as you are Are being cheered on to find and exoress the genius hidden for too long. Take the blinders off now, I’m begging of you, please! There is a Life of Love, Honor, Respect, Fun, Passion, Successes Allowed and ongoing, right inside snd around you. Do you hear me calling? It is I the Truth so long hidden by you behind the lies of derision. You belong to Me, The Power of Love, Light, Life, Joy, Safety and Reliance, Security that’s here now for you Always. You Are Allowed to have Fun, to be and to Accept Love unbounded as you now be: Realize it! Let your Soul Feel the Truth of Your Beauty, Brilliance, Grace. They’ve never left. They’ve just been lost, misplaced. Re-place them, I pray and I implore, at the center of your being, at the center if who you are. And, I’m quite certain they will all fit, as they were made for you while the reverse is also True… So be You, Love: That’s Who you are!

Combat Veterans: Handling Rage and Difficult Emotions

Life After War

There’s a perception out there that it’s not okay to express sadness, fear, uncertainty, loss, or guilt. They make you vulnerable, they leave you exposed, they give your power away, right? Anger is okay, though. Anger represents a form of power, though it often is a cover emotion for all of the ones that aren’t acceptable.

For many combat vets, rage is the only “safe” place to funnel the deep emotions of war. Blind rage — that boils over for no apparent reason or the tendency to have much stronger reactions to things that normally wouldn’t bother you — is often the soul crying out to release what it’s holding inside. The problem is rage can lead to violence and creates distances in relationships when what you need most is acceptance and love.

Lashing out when your soul is wounded is a natural reaction to a sense of being out…

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