The Death Of a Mother

When I was about fourteen, maybe fifteen, my very intelligent, often witty and joyful, yet sometimes deeply depressed and distantly aloof mother attempted to leave the life she had created for herself–a divorced mother of two adolescents who had opted to leave her and live with their career driven but kind father across town…

At that juncture in my young life, I had no idea looking into the glazed almost lifeless eyes of my overdosed suicidal– barely aborted at the last possible moment by a silently hysterical teen daughter– Momma, my friend, my first editor, my first love, that I would in fact in less than a dozen years from that date, finally have to let her go on her path to death alone, unattended in yet another exhaust filled small garage –this time filled with the fumes of a small cherry red Chevette four door compact.  This week a colleague of mine at the small high school where I work has lost her beloved mom to the infirmaries of old age.  I mourn for her.  It is not ever pleasant to loose one’s mother, no matter what the circumstances. I feel my heart lurching at the thoughts of losing a mom, my mother, a friend’s mother, even an acquaintance’s mother. My heart crunches in my chest, and tears pop to the corner of my eyes, and sting me again from a place of experience that only those who have struggled to keep someone they love here instead of letting go can know. I see the struggle in my students at times, because teens are raw, as I was once a teen and once raw, but my rawness was muted with the knowledge that it was and is all too easy to allow one’s temporary emotional pit to take over.

Mom never allowed hereself to speak about her blackest moments to me, but her eyes never lied. Her presentation to the world was one of very “put together” and “proper” Presbyterian southern lady, not much make up, proper and conservative clothes, Chanel No. 5 perfume, and Ivory soap.  She smelled like an angel, and her prematurely grey hair was covered by a soft auburn dye, which she managed at home by herself. She was independent, a mechanically sound woman able to work on her own lawn mower and car to a great extent, a linguistic genious, a grammatically perfected lady of the 1950’s and 19560’s.  No muss and no fuss, but perfect.  Always speaking and laughing in  perfectly modulated tones, unless the chemicals became unbalanced in her exceedingly quick brain, and only on those occasions could screams and shouts  be intuitied or even possibly heard by neighbors– evilly scary occasions. Rarely did the facade of calm break in public or in any place that could be considered not private.  She broke glasses, plates, and our hearts.  My brother grew up resenting her, resenting our father, and simply resenting the lack of “guidance” in life that most kids from “normal” families have and can count on daily.  I was –only two and hald years older –the one who roused him for the school bus some mornings when our mom could not.  I was the one who ended up driving him to school after we abandoned her dark, moody,  70’s custom built, lake view home to the cheery  yet mildly decripid rental slump of our father’s  tiny remodeled 50’s downtown home. I remember my little brother’s smelly socks, my inadequate laundrying  and absent coooking abilities, and the puppy that Dad had bought us to ease the pain of our mother’s rejection.  I ran away from her, and David got kicked out of Mom’s prestine presence. The new tiny cocker spaniel puppy peed all over the floor, carpet, our feet whenever we petted her.   She was a sad puppy, starved for proper attention, as we were as teens. We were starved for attention, but we had food. We had clothing. We had a car for transport.  Dad kept the house neat as possible, but frankly, the home  was trashed by two teens who had never learned the art of housekeeping, laundry, or even proper showers from their mom.

So I mourn my mom, to this day. I don’t mourn growing up and getting out of the chaos of my childhood. I don’t mourn the mistake of my first 25 year marriage to the young man whom I thought of more as a friend than a lover, and I don’t mourn the fact he cheated on me for years as an answer to the loopsided love.  I don’t mourn  the joy of rasing my own children without my mom.  I don’t mourn –now–my own divorce.  I mourn the loss of my mom’s potential. I was only 27 when she passed.  I feel like the loss of her thwarted my potential in many ways, for many years.  Moms are supposed to grow old with their daughters and sons.  Moms are supposed to become worrisome, burdensome, old, fragile, frail, and funny.  Moms are supposed to see grandchildren and great grandchildren appear. Moms are to be the angels on earth for 90 plus years if possible.  To my mom, I say, thank  you for lasting as long as you could, and I remember your Chanel No.5 and your terry cloth robes, your laughter and your strong coffee. I am your daughter, and I know you would be proud.

The Medicine Wheel and My Spirit Flag is South

I was married just a week when Melissa, a good spiritual friend of mine, called me one day and asked if I’d be interested in joining a tipi talk, medicine wheel evening with John Two-Hawks, a Grammy award winning musician and his wife, Peggy Hill at their home near my new mountaintop home in the Ozarks. Melissa said she thought I would get a lot out of it, and especially Kevin, my beloved new husband, who has a very nature based belief in God, Source, and Creator.  I immediately said, “YES! But let me confirm with Kevin, first.”  Kevin was immediately enthusiastic, and we signed up to be one of a total of nine people on June 27 in Two Hawks’ medicine circle, learning the Lakota ways, the Lakota beliefs, and how we must live with Mother Earth in a respectful way.

We arrive at Two Hawks’ tipi and are escorted to a circle around a not yet ignited camp fire for introductions and small conversations. Two Hawks appears dressed in  his Lakota Medicine Man hides and beaded chest coverings with his hair braided back. I am in immediate awe of his calmness. I am glad we are here in his and his lovely wife’s presence on their land, Creator’s land, about to have a spiritually filled night. Kevin and I learn that  the home of the Lakota is a tipi is not spelled with “e” but with  an “i” and that the medicine wheel is one of contemplation, prayer, and connection to spirit. Two Hawks teaches us the Lakota way of prayer ties, the path of red or the path of black or blue in life which we much choose, and how to construct a prayer tie properly with a pinch of tobacco and simple cotton cloth in one of the four colors–red, yellow, white, or blue.  We all make a red prayer tie to honor the nine recently killed victims in the St. Louis hate based church shooting and one more for a personal prayer. Kevin and I choose yellow for our prayer ties to represent new beginnings, new love, future.  The prayer ties each of us did for the shooting victims are in red, for blood, passion, and forgiveness. The powers we have as humans are to change, to evolve toward love and compassion. The Lakota knew this century before, and the prayer wheel represents a union of all races and all beliefs, as Two-Hawk explains each color’s significance. We adjourn from the introductions and are instructed in prayer ties, and begin our entrance after a sage smudging into the prayer circle walk.   As I walk around the stone enclosed prayer circle, stopping at each position to feel the peace, I look to see where I will tie my prayer ties to overhanging branches, In front of the next to last direction, the white prayer flag, the point of spirit, south’s sacred vibration, I feel my heart buzz and expand in my chest. There is not a doubt in my mind that this IS my place in the world.  I am happy and circle once more to the overhanging oak branches at the entrance, which is East, to place my prayer tie for those who died in the shooting, and then again I circle to the pines near the West  and the South prayer flags, representing the storms of life we must overcome, to place my yellow prayer for a good future, half way between the South and the West, as I see my marriage, so many storms passed, and so much “new life”  —spiritual life after the death of  my former dreams. It is all good, and Creator blesses us with a conversation and very touching historical talk from Two Hawks, a campfire song in Lakota, and his flute music filling our ears and hearts with love.

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Lakota Medicine Wheel

Medicine Wheel

The medicine wheel is a sacred symbol used by Plains tribes and others to represent all knowledge of the universe.

The medicine wheel consists of a circle with horizontal and vertical lines drawn through the circle’s center. Sometimes, an eagle feather is attached in the wheel’s center.

Design Meaning
Circle – The circle represents the sacred outer boundary of the Earth often referred to as the Sun Dance Circle or the Sacred Hoop. It represents the continuous pattern of on-going life and death.

Lines – The horizontal and vertical lines represent the sun and man’s sacred paths, respectively; the crossing of the two lines indicates the center of the Earth where one stands when praying.

Feather – The eagle feather is a sign of Wakan Tanka’s – the Great Spirit’s – power over everything.

Color Explanation
The directions, as they are called upon in the medicine wheel, are often associated with a sacred color. Each direction has a messenger.

Color placement on the wheel varies based on individual band customs.

East:

  • Color – Yellow
  • Messenger – Brown Eagle
  • Associated with the sun, brings light to all creation.
  • Because the sun travels east to west – in a clockwise manner – all good things conform to the same pattern.
  • The Morning Star – the star of wisdom and new beginnings – comes from the east.
  • Elk people call the east home.

North:

  • Color – Red
  • Messenger – Crane
  • North is home to winter and is believed to promote good health and growth.
  • Those who misbehave look to the north for the wisdom needed to walk a straight path again.
  • Home to the Calf Pipe Woman and the buffalo people.

West:

  • Color – Black
  • Messenger – Black Eagle
  • Connected with the power of rain and the purity of water; joy and growth follow the rain, releasing ignorance.
  • West is home to the Thunder-being. His wings produce thunder and lightening flashes from his eyes. The bird-like being stands again evil and ensures the respect of others.

South:

  • Color – White
  • Messenger – Bald Eagle
  • Associated with warmth, happiness and generosity.
  • Connected with life after death, directs men as they walk toward the next phase
  • Life begins in the south.
  • Nourishment of every kind comes from this direction.
  • Home to the animal people.

– See more at: http://aktalakota.stjo.org/site/News2?page=NewsArticle&id=8592#sthash.52c8wIi8.dpuf

Counting Stones and Seeking Loving Miracles: June 2015 Rough DraftHum

Counting Stones
To my parents, Anna Mae Snow Means and Hugh Darrell Means, and to my Uncle Larry Burger who told me so many stories and shared so much more wisdom, more than a bushel and a peck: “Always tell the truth, and that truth will set you free as a lark.” Larry Burger 1969
This I know: we don’t get a Rehearsal. This life is IT. Bring it, Life, because I can enjoy every single confusing, joyous, blessed and painful moment given in Grace… I love everyone I meet, even the people who “hurt me” are deserving of honor for teaching me. So, come on Life, I can deal well with you and your trying to kick my ever loving butt.
Take a note from my dad, “—-choose to be happy.”
Take a note from my mom, “Stand up straight, and face that cold wind.”
Chapter 1 The Realization:

Miracles Crystalize
I looked at him—my current best friend from whom I was separated as a child— with disbelief in my eyes, sitting in a position of uncalculated discomfort, mental entrapment in the moment, simply a self-imposed prison, my body cramped in the corner of a huge cab of a Ford King Ranch pick up with leather seats, my soul shuddering inside, melting into a puddle of cold realization, a crystallization of reality that was clear and sharp and oddly familiar. I was there in that moment looking at my own potential death. Not a physical death, but death as a person who thought for many, many years that I had been in charge, that I had chosen my life, my children’s births, my path as a teacher, my path as a mother. I had practiced a protestant faith. An accepted Presbyterian Pre-Destination belief that assuaged any need for more than simple acceptance that my knowledge as was taught to me was the God, and Christ simply came to absolve my guilt, and I knew in that moment, all the new age beliefs I had attempted to adapt in the past five years away from that Presbyterian upbringing were to take a radical new turn. Sudden. Radical. A sharp metamorphosis. I knew now sitting in the corner of that truck armed with the earth shattering revelation that I was undoubtedly a miracle, and that even more astounding, the birth of my children, both girls, was a miracle beyond comprehension. Don’t get me wrong, I know that the healthy birth of a baby who is able to survive and thrive, in, and of, itself, is miraculous, but some births, given the circumstances of the terrain of the human body, the background, are even more miraculous.
It seems in that moment I had to acknowledge a power much greater than I had ever imagined, or thought I understood. Source is not a simple thing to witness, nor is Source, what some call our God, the Holy Creator, to some a simple concept, a painting on a chapel ceiling or a statue in an ashram or a temple. Creator, Source is beyond that. The connection is beyond the infinite and the arrival here on this planet, in all cases, miraculous. It is not just chaos, or some weird series of fortunate and not so fortunate events. Life, itself, is the miracle. Life itself is the joy. I had been twice blessed more so than I had thought, and these blessings are here now with me to continue to teach me as I am to teach them. The journey I began in life was tenuous, to put it in its best light. My mother had lost a baby boy four years before my birth, at nearly term, due to his lack of sufficient lung development. If he had been born even fifteen years later, he would have survived. He was born in 1956. He was blond haired and blue eyed, and looked like a perfect baby boy. The lungs had not finished growing when he arrived six weeks too soon, and according to my mother, the doctor was annoyed with her intense evening labor pains and early delivery, seemingly more interested in his martini and smoking cigarette in his hands than in my mother’s preterm labor. She later told me that she hadn’t even been given any anesthesia or twilight sleep, which was common in those days. She was angry and in pain, and fearful of something not being right. The fact that the doctor did not see, nor did he care, was that my mother had depression issues, severe depression issues, and was most likely bi-polar, or manic depressive seems unreal to me, but knowing what I have seen in my own birthing rooms, sexism and callousness runs deep in some physicians. There was only one outcome that could permanently unhinge my mother that November evening, and it was the loss of her baby son. Three hours after the new tiny blond Hugh Allen, the Angel, as I like to call him —my big brother in spirit, was born. He just as quickly died. “A blue baby,” that was the appellation for his medical cause of death. His lungs were too underdeveloped to function.
Years later I would stand in front of a tiny stone marker in a huge, rolling cemetery in Ft. Smith, Arkansas, and study the green moss and white and gray lichens on the stone, noting his name, Hugh Allen , and the tiny lamb statue atop the crumbling stone. I would feel nothing but an overwhelming sense of emptiness, and in my mind see my mother, being dragged away from the small, insignificant, yet in some way, not sure how in my mind, a hugely gaping hole consuming her soul, her screaming and crying, embraced tenderly but strongly by the arms of her brothers and my dad—slowly dragging her away to the car, the 1953 Ford coupe, as they put the tiny coffin in the ground. My father said my mother had always been different, even in high school. She was pretty, smart, funny, and yet somehow, aloof, above the fray, with a chortling laughter and far away eyes. Her best friend, Peggy—a brilliant and beautiful woman who would become my teenage mentor and my father’s assistant later in our lives, had said that Anne, my mother, was one of the brightest students, and yet different. Anne was the one who could understand it all with little effort in class, and she tutored my father through high school until his senior year, her junior year, when he quit after a successful football session in a teenage retaliation of a football coach who would not allow my dad’s winning team to go to the state playoffs. My mother was two years younger than my dad, but only a year behind in school, she had skipped a grade up because of her intelligence and was already a tutor as a freshman in high school and continued in that capacity until she graduated, and, my dad, had most likely failed or been held back at least a semester. He often told me of the first day of school when his older sister was instructed to give his first grade teacher a bundle of switches to use on my dad if the need arose. Dad’s sojourn in school was a less than positive experience until he had found a way to get through with athletics and some tutoring to keep his grades passing for the football coach. When the coach abandoned the team’s aspirations to go to play for the championship, Dad was done. He was angry, and full of himself, and so he quit school that senior year, to join the United States Air Force, and was stationed in North Africa, in what was then called French Morocco. He left my mom with a promise, and a ring, and alone for four years. Four years in a tiny town with no college, a conservative southern town with barely a library, my mother waited. Perhaps not completely with patience, because she was reportedly wooed by a man from New York who sent her a silk scarf at one point, and at one juncture, my mother unceremoniously sent the engagement ring back to my father in North Africa. My mother’s aunt , who lived in the east and traveled in New York, had asked my grandmother if my mom could attend college in Syracuse, New York. The tuition was to be completely paid by the aunt, yet my grandmother, raised in that post Victorian mind set, wouldn’t allow Anne to attempt the trip to go to school in Syracuse. She simply refused Anne, and my mother went to her grave resenting that maternal power and that decision that simply altered forever her future. I often wonder if my grandmother saw other issues, issues which concerned her greatly even then about my mother’s probable lack of mental stability in spite of the brilliance, in spite of the intellect roaring to dominate each endeavor. I often wonder if that maternal power my grandmother had over Anne caused some of the struggles that I later would experience with my mother as a teenager.
That moment in the truck, slammed into the corner of the leather seat, after a mile or two hike around a local fishery in Missouri, I realized my mother had been desperate, beyond desperate, to have me. I was a baby born of chemicals and calculation, for the 1960’s, a “manipulated birth” on the scale that was possible then. The medical community, however, didn’t have all the facts and tests run for the unforeseen risks of my chemically insured nine month gestation. I am a DES baby, a DES Daughter in the jargon of the medical community. Not a blue baby, for sure, because obviously I lived, and thrived, and miraculously beat the odds of any early issues, and I beat the odds of having a completely deformed uterus unable to carry to term babies, the odds of having a malformed cervix that would also abort any pregnancy preterm. I had two live births, only one early term miscarriage, and have had only a few glancing issues with pre-cancerous lesions and small growths in my vagina. My beating the astounding statistics that suggest a 50.3% probability of second term miscarriages in all pregnancies (http://www.nejm.org/doi/full/10.1056/NEJMoa1013961), as well as high rate of cancer in childhood is miraculous. This life I have lived so far is a miracle, according to medical statistics, that I am even here to write this story unscathed with the potential harm of a drug so untested and unstudied. I am a mom, and I beat the odds of my mother’s desperate need to carry me to full term with the aid of a very controversial and apparently very dangerous Diethylstilbestrol (DES). My mother, regardless of her depression, manic states, and brilliant moments, always attempted what I now see almost the impossible task of putting my life before hers, my needs before hers.
I look now back at the mother I was and see the pattern. As Robert Frost says in his poem, a divine pattern. I see in me that strong almost obsessive need to mother, to stay with and nurture my girls, the need to have my girls, and the need to be the best mother I could have been at the time. I see the pattern set from my mother’s mothering, and her need to love me, and that need to love reflected in my daughters. So where do I go from here? As I look back on that moment of realization in the Ford truck with my cousin, my friend/brother by another mother, I understand now all the “thoughtful” control I assumed I had over my choices to be pregnant and have children were from the beginning guided and instrumented by Creator.
Design— by Robert Frost
I found a dimpled spider, fat and white,
On a white heal-all, holding up a moth
Like a white piece of rigid satin cloth —
Assorted characters of death and blight
Mixed ready to begin the morning right,
Like the ingredients of a witches’ broth —
A snow-drop spider, a flower like a froth,
And dead wings carried like a paper kite.

What had that flower to do with being white,
The wayside blue and innocent heal-all?
What brought the kindred spider to that height,
Then steered the white moth thither in the night?
What but design of darkness to appall?–
If design govern in a thing so small.
Chapter 2 The Switch
I was a tiny tot when I started staying with grandparents, aunties and uncles for weekends, sometimes weeks, because at points in time when moving or when pregnant with my baby brother, my mom couldn’t cope with my tot energy levels at times, or when she was sinking too deep into the depressive phase of her illness. I believe that when Creator gives a great gift, there is also a counter balance that must be present. My mother’s intellect, because it was mostly forced into a type of dormancy when she did not attend college, caused a shift in her toward more depressive states. I feel, strongly, that when a person can use her gifts from Creator fully, her life flows more freely, there is less illness and possible depression. My dad’s oldest sister told me when I was an infant, my father would leave his job at noon to come home to feed and diaper me. My Auntie A. seemed aghast that my father was checking on me, and was trying to point out that my mother was at points incapacitated and unable to take care of me. I don’t feel that way now, as I look back on it. I feel my mother did her very best, and that my father was a compassionate and wise man who knew that my mother needed help.
Now that I have had children, those sleepless nights, diaper disasters, crying hours, spilled milk, and common experiences, I admire my parents even more for their wisdom in the 1960’s when women -–due to society’s expectations and prejudices— had to be solely responsible for the children; my father was aware and awakened enough to know when help was necessary and required. How many women have experienced that kind of man? It is a rare blessing to have that kind of powerfully joined couple, and in the 1950’s and 1960’s my parents were that kind of loving couple. I know that this type of father is truly a blessing, and should be the model when a new mother needs help. My mother didn’t feel close enough to her own mother to ask for help, and I understand why as I look back at her now. I think the judgment that Mom felt from my maternal grandmother was overpowering at times. Anne needed to feel she could be on her own, and through my father’s awareness and compassion, she was able to be functional and independent for most of my childhood as a stay at home mom. I think in many ways I was protected by love from the outset. At times in my infancy and childhood, I was kept by my Aunt Leta who was an R.N., my other aunt, Aunt Mae, who was the secretary to the Fire Chief of Ft. Smith, and my grandmothers, both stay at home mothers, but as opposite in personalities as the sun and the moon. My grandmother Georgia the ex river boat dancer and cook, and my grandmother Lydia Jane who was the accountant, book keeper, grocery store co-owner. Both women were strong. Both women functioned as opposite ends of the same rainbow of love. The joy I felt in later years when I was with my grandmothers and aunts kept me stable and gave me confidence when I needed it. I credit these women for making me more whole, more able to cope with the challenges life offered up. It does indeed take a village to raise children. What kind of village does society have now? Can society begin to see the need for compassion in all areas, but especially the area of raising children?
My memories of my early childhood are fragmented, as all memories of distant times are when there is no record except a few snapshots, or perhaps a random splattering of conversations to trigger that synapse in the brain long inactive. I do remember loving the outdoors, and my mother told me once of an adventure I decided to take when she was in the last term of her pregnancy with my younger brother. Apparently, I had seen or heard or perceived something in the distance as a toddler of two and a half years, and I squeezed through a gap in the chicken wire fence that surrounded my back yard. I took off. My mother, large with child, called and called my name, but it was as if I were deaf, or totally ignoring her fervent pleas to come back to her. She was afraid to lose sight of me, and unable to get through the fence, as quite blissfully, I wandered forth to the meadow and empty lots behind the tiny rental bungalow in Bentonville. My mother panicked, rightfully so, and rushed back into the house, called my father to come home immediately to gather his willful small toddler from her wanderings. By the time my harried father arrived to rescue me and calm my mother, I had returned and was unaware I had caused such a stir. I don’t remember a scolding that day, but I am sure I received one. My mother told me that story several times, as if it were a watermark of my personality. Ignoring my parents’ calls, yes, a watermark event I would most definitely agree. As I look back on this past decade’s journey of my life, I believe I was as a toddler captivated by and perhaps listening to the angels, and yes, it was a defining moment for me. I have a hard time listening, even now, to those who love me, who would protect me in my wanderings. So, I rely on my angels and Creator to protect me. This reliance on Spiritual protection I am sure has saved me more than once in my stubbornness, my curious nature, and my wanderings.
When I was a child of the 1960’s, corporal punishment was still considered a fair and just treatment and method of discipline for a child. There were very few children in my circle and none in my family that had not been at least threatened with a switch or whipping with a belt. Both my brother and I had been the recipients of physical punishment with a leather belt, switches, fly swatters and slippers from our parents as well as time outs. I feel that physical punishment with children is never the best path, or even the preferred path. My father confessed to me when I was a teenager that he had beaten me with a belt when I was a toddler, leaving bruises on my legs and bottom. He cried as he told me, and asked my forgiveness. I told him, reassured him I had no memory of the beating, but he still had deep regrets. This speaks to the issue of corporal punishment, the guilt and the needless use of it with children. Other than two exceptions for which I feel deep remorse, my daughters were raised without corporal punishment, but rather with simple time outs. To control a child, time outs are enough. I have had deep conversations with both of my daughters, and told them that if I could change one thing about my raising of them, it is the use of corporal punishment for any reason. I am just relieved that I did not go to the abusive level of my father and mother as I grew up—and let me state here that both of my parents were mild in comparison to the abuse that some of my friends and family suffered as children. A spanking, with a slipper, or a pop of a hand at the most was common in the home of all my friends. Many argue that corporal punishment is necessary for discipline. I disagree. Creator made children small, for a reason. Adults can easily pick up a child and move the child quickly to a safe time out. The television show “Super Nanny” shows proof that time outs and consistency are even more effective than physical punishment when disciplining small children. Why would an adult ever use brute force on an innocent child when another road is possible to teach self-control? How can a lack of control —emotionally or physically—ever teach that principle?

Now for the hard part. Now for the hard part. First we need a break. First I need a break.
First, go outside. Look up. See that? That is the sky. Look down. That is the ground. Kinda crunchy white today. Snowy? Hello? You feel that? that is the wind, the air, the freezing temperature or the sting of snowflakes. Now, go back inside. Feel the warmth of the fire in the fireplace, smell the coffee brewing. FORGET that person who hurt your heart. FORGET him/ her. NOW, look at the wonderful person staring back at you from the mirror. There you are! Beautiful! Handsome! Intelligent! Funny! Worthwhile, and NOT the person you like to bash.. YOU are FABULOUS! You are GOD’s CHILD, Stardust. Period.
I am seven years old. I don’t have any memory of the previous two years, and think it is strange that now I can’t sleep alone at my grandmother’s home. I have to sleep in her bed. My aunts and uncles in general start showing extreme favoritism to me, and one aunt screams at me that I am a liar. I remember that.
Now at age 53, I finally stop having the nightmares, the waking up in the middle of the night remembering not being able to breath, feeling pressure and weight on my chest. I am able to now sleep on my back for the first time in my life. I don’t have to be curled around a pillow in a defensive position. I don’t dream of filthy toilets, or being lost. I don’t fear the dark any more. The one thing I know at this juncture in my life, children need to be respected as individuals, separate personalities from birth. Children need to have the same protection and respect of an adult. Psychological damage in a child can and does cause life-long issues that can and do often remain undiagnosed and untreated. The trauma a child suffers at the hands of an adult, whether a well- intended parent whipping a child with a belt or a sick and twisted pedophile amounts to the same traumatic results in the brain. The child is forever changed. When I was around 5 years old until the age of 7, I was routinely molested by an adult in my extended family whenever I visited my paternal grandmother. When I finally got the awareness and the courage to confront the molestations, and to inform others about him, and to confront others who knew what he was and his patterns, I was called a liar. I was later shamed by his wife, my aunt, in front of my first cousins who were also being abused by the man’s wife mentally and physically in addition to their father molesting them. To be fair, she was a woman with limited experiences and capacity to understand what was occurring right under her roof and the roof of her mother-in-law next door, my grandmother. He did unspeakable things to his daughters, to me, to male cousins, perhaps even to my brother. God was kind and wiped my brother’s memory, and most of my memory. That is why I know God exists in some form. I don’t remember much.
I remember his holding me down. I remember his smell. Sweat. Oil. Gasoline. Dirt under his fingernails. Tobacco…. I remember his mocking tone with me when I happened in his presence during the daylight hours. He called me dirty pet names. He told me how “sweet I tasted” and I was confused. He only molested me, raped me, at night when the household was asleep and I was alone and vulnerable in a secluded bedroom. I was five. It lasted until I was seven years old, when I informed others in the family about him when I was down for my summer visit to my grandmother’s home. I was ostracized immediately.
She looked up at her aunt, tears streaming down her face, snot pouring from her 7 year old nose. What had she done to deserve this disrespect? What had she done to be punished by those she had trusted and loved? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. There I am. A kid, a baby girl betrayed by the people I loved the most in my life. It is simply a statement of fact. I was told over and over by my grandmother, that no matter what, the man who molested me, who helped change my brain permanently with trauma and fear, was her son and she “had to love” him, no matter what. I now see that was her way of justifying her protecting him from prosecution, protecting the family from shameful exposure. I don’t understand from that little girl’s point of view, but I understand, in a way, from a mother’s point of view some 49 years later.
Called a liar by that man’s wife, I sank into shame and guilt that I wasn’t “good enough” as I had been previously told. My dad and mom and grandmother —I am not sure who—knew. Looking back now I know I will only have the fragments of the incident. I won’t ever remember or even be able to piece together all of it. A blessing? No. I wanted and still want to know it all. Who knows? Who knew at the time? I was given confirmation almost forty five years later from a first cousin who was four years older than me. I tried to question another cousin, who claimed he didn’t know, and I know that was a lie crafted to protect his culpability. Can I hate them? All of them? Some of them, perhaps only a few? My dad, I suspect was intentionally kept in the dark. I think he would have killed my uncle. My brother told me of the night something happened to me, and I was the center of adults screaming in my grandmother’s home. I was taken from the bedroom at the front of the house that I usually slept in alone, and put to bed in my grandmother’s bed, and never slept alone after that night. My brother remembers my grandmother chasing my uncle from the home the next morning with an iron skillet, screaming at him. She was a tiny 4’11” woman, and my uncle was a rawboned muscular working man who could have lifted her over his head, but apparently he ran from the house in fear. The fact of the matter is that most of the adults in the family knew this man was twisted, sick, limited in many ways, and yet it was the shameful secret. Who abused him? That was the question my therapist decades later asked. I say now, who cares? HE chose the behavior, and his victims didn’t have a choice. When I told, I was shut up, shut down, accused of lying, made to sleep with my grandmother or go to my safe uncle and auntie’s house in the next town away from my grandmother’s home. Away from the sick and twisted uncle who lived next door to her. Her only explanation was that “men are like that” —“men can’t be trusted in that way” and that I had to forgive that monster for screwing up my already stressed psychological stability. My mother’s depression, her absence from me physically, and often mentally, coupled with the molestation caused a switch to snap to the “off” position in my mind for many years. I found myself stuck in a modality of losing time, losing memories, losing pieces of myself as I grew older. As I grew into a young woman, my relationships with boys, young men, was all over the map. I was giving mixed messages at times. These mixed messages first appeared when I was just beginning the journey into womanhood. I think I still have that “switch” in my brain at times, and I don’t know if I will ever be rid of the damage, the lack of ability to guide myself in certain situations. I long for a man to feel safe with, and yet, I don’t know that is possible.
The time I remember most vividly as a twelve year old was my first crush on an older boy, who, unfortunately, was a typical older boy. My parents were too distracted, my dad with work, my mom with her depression or manic phase, and their soon to be self-destructing marriage, to realize that I was “at risk” with the 15 year old boy down the street. It started pretty innocently enough. His name was Rick. I rode a school bus to and from school, and in the 1970’s all ages were mixed on the buses, from first grade to senior high school students. Rick started to sit with me on the bus, and drape his arm over me. I was 5’ 3” tall and about 98 pounds, maybe. Rick was not a huge kid, but he was much bigger than me, lanky, tall, a seventies’ version of a curly haired red head. The bus route which my brother and I took each day to school caused me to be one of the first students on in the mornings, along with my brother, and one of the last ones off in the afternoons, around 4 in the afternoon. Rick lived three doors down from us, and rode the bus only in the afternoons. The bus route lasted an hour one way. The sitting together on the bus slowly evolved into my spending time with Rick after school in the neighborhood. I never went to his house that I could remember, but we played in the open fields around the houses, the hill in front of my home, and there is where Rick attempted to “court me” in a very 15 year old stupid way. One afternoon, as he and I were lying in the luscious tall spring green grass of a hillside near our homes, with my brother and other neighborhood kids playing only a few yards away, Rick made the first move of the typical horny fifteen year old male. He asked me, “Hey, what is the difference between a boy and a girl?” I somehow sensed this wasn’t leading to an intellectual discussion of brain patterns or psychology, actually. So, I hedged and told him I didn’t know what he meant, to be more specific. He then took my hand and drew an imaginary line at my neck across, and then another line below my crotch, across my two thighs, and asked again, “What is the difference between a boy and a girl, here to here?” I feigned ignorance and innocence and said I didn’t know. Right.
I have never ever been a convincing liar. I had a brother who could read my mind, and that was a clue I was out on a limb of prevaricating of the most obvious kind. I wonder now if there was some lingering behavior in me, some unconscious action that caused a 15 year old to pick me as his “first sexual target.” A few days later after my avoiding any specific description of the difference between boys and girls, but an admitting of knowing there was a difference, Rick volunteered to bring his army surplus pup tent down to my backyard to use as a “club house” with me and my brother. My mother, not suspecting any unusual activity, or simply not operating with a full capacity at the time, allowed Rick to erect the tent in our backyard, under the dogwood tree, my mother’s favorite tree.
He then left the tent (a canvas Army surplus pup tent) standing a few days and didn’t see me either in the bus or on the street. I think I was wondering when he’d come over, so when I saw him one afternoon I invited Rick to visit the tent and me. I was overjoyed at the prospect of a tent in our backyard to play in, to have as a club house. I was twelve, and this was the era of innocence for me. I had not any idea that I had a figure or shape of a woman in my innocence, even though my body was developing ahead of many of my classmates’ schedules. One afternoon, around five or so, the spring sun was already on the daylight savings’ time schedule, Rick finally came down to see me. I excitedly asked him to come into the tent with me. He stretched out, and rested his head on his hand and looked at me excitedly telling him about my day. I was in my mode of telling the story of the day, my happy place. Suddenly, Rick asked me to touch him. I looked at him and asked why and where? He smiled and said to touch the zipper on his jeans. Under the zipper, under the denim was an erect penis. I touched him lightly—red alarms going off in my head—bells—screams—yelling— cursing—-hiding—tears—-searching for that trace of something vague and scary and familiar blowing up in my head like an small explosive detonated by a half memory— and then I suddenly took my hand away from his crotch, and calmly I said, “Hey, I am thirsty! I want to get a drink. Do you want a drink, maybe a 7-Up?” I repeated myself until he agreed, and he looked at me curiously. Unknowingly, I was in a panic attack, my first full blown anxiety attack that was protecting a damaged section or an ignored or buried part of my brain, My mind had no cognitive conscious memory, My brain had automatically just created some idiotic excuse to leave his presence. I went into the house and told my mom. I didn’t go back out. My mother somehow came out of her valium induced passivity and called my dad. Then she walked out into the back yard and requested firmly that Rick go home. He did. That is the last memory I have of seeing Rick. As far as I know, after my dad and mom called Rick’s parents, he never rode the bus again. At least I have no memory of it. I had no memory of anything having to do with Rick nor his friendship, after that day in the tent, the ride on the bus with his arm draped over my shoulder, nothing much at all before that day in the tall grass and then in the tent, nothing at all other than the bus driver teasing me about Rick being my boyfriend. After that, I think the bus driver asked me once about it, and I didn’t reply. It was done. I stuffed any emotions, memories, or thoughts of Rick away, far away in the recesses of my mind. I had to deal with the pain of being the smart kid, artistic and quiet and obedient kid in school. The nerd. The albino. I had my often severely depressed or slightly manic mom to deal with each day. I was in a mode of letting stuff go away. I see that pattern following me throughout my life.
Years later, when dating as a teenager, I had a hard time controlling my sexuality, my blossoming libido, and I was either unable to say, “hey, stop” or was passive in the extreme if the boy was too aggressive. All things considered, I was in a place of apparently divine protection since nothing seriously damaging ever happened other than some verbal abuse and inadequate groping of inexperienced Bible Belt little boys who thought that they were men. The ones I wished had made more advances, never did with me. The boys I dated, with the exception of one or two jerks who were verbally or mentally abusive, were all very conservative good boys, who did not take advantage of me. I consider it a miracle I wasn’t date raped then, although after my divorvce that did happen finally. I was a very blessed young teen, overall. I consider it a divine act of spiritual protection.
What no longer serves me is that feeling of powerlessness, that feeling that I can’t be loved. When I loved, in the past, it was almost like I was desperate for some kind of attention, like a child, who was scared to be alone. What I learned as a young mother of two toddler girls was that Christ mind is in of itself a choice for love, that miracles are based in love. I had the love of my parents, my children, and in the best way he could, for as long as he could, my husband, who cheated on me repeatedly later on in our marriage. I now see this as not some betrayal of myself, but of my marriage as it was designed. I was the best wife I knew how to be, but I won’t deny that my childhood damage caused gaps in my ability to relate the way my husband at the time he most needed me to relate to him–I had no tools to do so, to open up, to trust him not to hurt me, so he sought solace other places with other women. I was happiest as a mom, as a volunteer, as somehow an “arrested woman” who saw sex as a duty, with little pleasure in it for me. When I finally left Tom, in the months following the separation and the divorce, I found myself alone and in a place of maturing that I has skipped over as a teen and young adult.
Psychologists state that if one misses a developmental phase in one’s youth, one will be required to access that phase and complete it even as an adult. The fact of the matter is this, whether or not one believes in psychology or religion, humans must process the trauma experienced, or I feel from personal experience, humans are doomed to repeat the trauma and make the same experiences repeat again and again until the mind, spirit, psychology of the individual deals with it, has some sort of resolution. There is no “free ride” in life, at all, ever. Whatever I don’t recognize now, in the present or in the past that was traumatic, and don’t find a way to resolve and forgive in some fashion, will continue to plague or haunt me. This can be proven simply looking at the history of mankind. How mankind chooses to deal with life, in fear or in love, bears out the necessary choice for which reality plays out in life. My life is often reflected in great literature, as all great literature can do for humanity, and some of my favorite examples are found in Joseph Conrad’s novel, Heart of Darkness,
“The conquest of the earth, which mostly means the taking it away from those who have a different complexion or slightly flatter noses than ourselves, is not a pretty thing when you look into it too much.” Part 1, pg. 4
“Do you see him? Do you see the story? Do you see anything? It seems I am trying to tell you a dream–making a vain attempt, because no relation of a dream can convey the dream-sensation, that commingling of absurdity, surprise, and bewilderment in a tremor of struggling revolt, that notion of being captured by the incredible which is the very essence of dreams…no, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one’s existence–that which makes its truth, its meaning–its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live, as we dream–alone…” Part 1, pg. 23

The Congo was raped. The Congolese were abused, beaten, tortured, ravaged, raped, left for dead if they didn’t produce ivory, rubber, or gold.
So how does this apply? I was the supposed golden child of my father’s family. And in many ways, I understand why. Daddy was a favorite, and a smart child. He also was a quiet man who was intensely in charge without the bullying aspect. I was the one that was sought since I looked like his blond aspect and my personality was forged to please adults, perform for them. For good or for bad, my body, my fair skin, was my fate, all my being was to be desired. That is what happened to me. I was molested repeatedly from age 5 to age 7. I was the Congo or I was the Healer if a positive spin seems more appropriate, a resource of sorts. I was the person with the “different look” from others in my gang of first cousins. I was the “favored” one and yet I was the persecuted one. I never had resolution of the lies and the trauma as an innocent child. I was physically abused on occasion—whipped with a leather belt, left alone, and psychologically and emotionally abandoned a bit too often on occasion as a child. It was how my parents knew to parent, often times. It was not that they sought to hurt me. The molestation, the rape of my innocence was most certainly not intended by my parents, who were ignorant of any risk to me, which I have to, no choice, but to believe. These circumstances —human suffering in a small child—set up in me a repeating pattern of my feeling isolated, alone, abandoned, and unloved as a young adult. These circumstances translated into my picking lessons, circumstances, repetition of anxious feelings that I had as a small child. I was attracted to boys who were at the least emotional bullies, or unavailable to me, so I looked outside to repeat the abandonment, the feeling of isolation, the feelings that somehow I was always responsible for other’s pain. Then somehow I made it to now. And now, I know it is not about me, in this way.
She carried his small two year old body up the seven steps to the bedrooms, leaving me alone in the dining-living area, wondering if I’d ever be her favorite again. My brother was now reigning. I knew things, but then, again, I was only five. I had started leaving my twin four poster maple bed in the wee hours of the morning, wandering back down the waxed hard wood stairs to sit on the brown tweed covered high backed couch to bounce my body against its spring filled upholstered back, bouncing over and over back and forth, waiting for the “honey bees” to show up… the golden lights in my eyelids. She mistakenly thought if I were allowed to stay up late, somehow that would force me to sleep through the night. I was already rebelling at the local private kindergarten during nap times. I refused to lie down without my “blankie.” There had been an uproar with the pre-school teacher and teenage assistants. I was labeled as “difficult.” I remain so to this day.
So when I now look at teens, I see them. I see the pain, the hope, the longing in many of their eyes. Many think I am just another one of “them”—the adults who cause pain, who shut them up, or shut them out, or abuse power. At times, as a classroom teacher, I have done that. I still admit my growth is imperfect, but I understand. I know things. I see things. I understand the honey bees swarming in front of their pained eyes in the wee hours of the morning. It is as though I am linked to the pain, and also to the love that is their potential. I believe we are all linked to the same pain and the same joy and love. I believe with all my heart that we have choices to make each moment, and if we ignore our pain, our emotions positive or negative, the choices we make may lead us places we don’t wish to go. There are a myriad of choices in each day, and those choices can cause us to loose ourselves if we aren’t connected to our centers, our soul’s purposes…

According to some recent re-run, on OWN, a woman I have come to admire said to Oprah one day a few years back, “You are only as sick as your secrets…” and this I believe with all my heart. Once we let go of the need to have secrets, or be anything but authentic, we become the powerful purpose driven souls we are meant to be. I don’t know what secrets my mother kept in her heart, but I am sure beyond a doubt those secrets caused her much pain, and much anger, and resulted in a form of depression and repression that caused her subsequent death. We are always in a place to change course, to adjust our sails, to flow with life and the river of Creation, but if we ignore those signature and singular moments in our lives, we will flounder, and we will suffer at times needlessly.

From the draft of COUNTING STONES, A Memoir of Spiritual Development

Chapter 3

Mothers of  a Different Flock —from a Stairwell to a Stairway

The pain and abandonment and the incredible need and drive to feel love comes from a place that must be healed. The healing really started to take place in me as I grew into my adulthood assisted by a very wonderful woman, my father’s hand selected psychology,  and a counselor who was older than my bilological mother, her first name was Sabra.  I adored her. She was for me, the mother figure, the father figure, that sought to help me heal my wounded child while I was still a teenager. Without her assistance, I know I would have been more wounded and possibly not made to my adulthood intact. She suspected the molestation even though I had no memory of it as a teenager. Ah, the gentleness of her therapy was amazing. Her strict boundaries she set for me just as amazing. I think in many, many ways I emulate her to this day in my teaching persona, and in many ways my mothering abilities. I remember one day showing up too early, as usual, for my appointment, and she sat in her office, door open, and had me wait on her as she sewed a patch, a badge, on her daughter’s Girl Scout slash. It was  elegant and a very simple boundary setting exercise, an example. Sabra was always gentle, tough as nails, when needed, but very gentle.  I didn’t show up quiet as early the next few sessions.

Sabra Stair —like a stair way to adult thinking for me, she was. She was, and is, to this day, a woman I see as a spiritual mother—full of honesty, passion, the ability to ask questions, and the ability to be compassionate with a half crazy adolescent girl.  I was so envious of her daughter at that moment, but also so very proud I was witnessing a working mom, who combined her love of her family and her career seemingly so effortlessly. I knew then when I had a family, I would somehow continue my service to others, somehow be more than just the mom stuck in the traffic of daily caregiving, smothering myself as I had seen my mother do.  However, what I did not fully see was that my wounding as a child had doomed me to a type of repetition of my mother’s smothered life for many years. We all have guideposts in our lives, and if we are lucky, they are living guideposts, not just words on a page, not just ancient wisdom passed down through the generations, but true people who live honest lives. We all need to see the wisdom exemplified, given credence by a human being walking the path, the path of pure intention and pure love. We then can see, with our eyes and our souls, the possibilities of life, the joy of life, the life well lived.

The healing humans all seek is there, but each human being must  be willing to dig deep, to let go of preconceived notions, preconceived way of living, and breathing—even existing. There are scriptures, ancient ones, and religions to guide and to soothe and possible direct wounded or confused lives. This aspect of innocent suffering is not a new aspect for human kind. This aspect of suffering with grace, with an intention of love, instead of resentment and revenge, a newer concept than some others, has been in existence a little over two thousand years.  There is healing for each trauma, for each hurt, and it begins with acceptance of the hurt.  Recognizing the pain, finding the source of the pain, then letting that pain have its day, its way with the soul for the necessary time it takes to really feel the pain, and then letting of the pain. This is the healing. This is the plan. No, it is not always a plan that is comfortable, at all. No one gets out of this life without some sort of pain, some sort of growth through pain. I know that for me, that this journey to myself, began as a child and continues to this day.  My dad told me multiple times as I grew up that if I ever stopped growing I would be dead. Well, Dad, I am here. I am growing. I am continuing the path you began for me.

As of last year, I was and in my mind still am a secondary teacher in an urban school with over 70% free and reduced lunch as my group of students. This past year I relocated to another district, rural, but still the same make up of assorted teens in need. I teach seniors, mostly, with sophomores and a few juniors scattered in the mix. I have the honor of being around some great kids, some excellent kids. I have the dubious duty of sharing my life with some great adults who are teachers and some teachers who are pretty selfish and self-promoting adults.  It is the same in all schools, and yet my school seems to promote a sense of safety and family more than most. I was nicknamed Momma Means one year by my senior girls. I accepted the appellation as an honor. Teaching someone to keep her head above water in life, whether as a teacher of writing or literally teaching someone to make it out in the real world, that is being a mom. I was a mom only for a while to my own daughters, it seems that I did a pretty good job as long as they were just this shy of teenage time. I was thinking that might have been because I was “mothered” well more by aunties and my father, and by age 12, my mom was too distant to really connect with me. My determination to stay home so long with my girls had roots in my mother’s suicide attempts when I was a child and her eventual self-inflicted death when I was just 27 years old.  My father, although completely dedicated to his job, was in many ways  an influence as a parental force for my future parenting of my two girls, and subsequent teenagers as a teacher.

When you learn to swim in any new place, work or a lake, remember this.

“Gasping for breath is to be avoided,” my father instructed.” It is the sign of a weak swimmer. “Try to take in even breaths, every three to five strokes,” he instructed. He flipped on his back and then turned gracefully over in the water like a pale pink dolphin. He glided down the length of the pool, popping his balding blond head up above the water line every so many strokes, opening his mouth just enough for a breath, and eyes closed continued to swim in a perfectly straight line. Then he stopped, ducked under the water momentarily, and rose slowly up, facing my fascinated 5 year old face. “Come on,” he said. “I will hold you under your tummy while you practice your strokes and breaths.” The water was freezing even in the oppressive Arkansas humidity of mid-summer. The sun had set behind the oaks and hickory nut trees surrounding the pool at Devil’s Den State Park. I skidded off the rough cement coping of the edge of the pool. I plopped contentedly into his waiting arms. Small, pale, happy in the water, I felt my feet leave the floor of the pool, as my dad lifted me into the appropriate position.

My mother hated swimming. She was petrified of the water. Somehow, she had learned from someone, I suspect my father, how to simply float on her back, but that was all. No real ability to swim a stroke existed in her, but she made sure that my brother and I could swim like proverbial fish. In the 1960’s kids didn’t learn to swim as infants, as my daughters both did in the 1990’s.  I had my first lessons in the arms of my father, and then a year or so later, Red Cross lessons at the public pool in my home town. After those were over, my mother was motivated to hire one of our favorite Red Cross instructors to teach David and me to swim in private lessons. My mother paid hard earned dollars per hour to the young beautiful raven haired life guard named Barbara. She loved us and we adored her.  She taught us more complex strokes, diving, and how to hold our breath for minutes at a time. We dove for pennies in the deep end of the pool, and later on we dove for pennies in the twelve foot diving pool.  It was a magical time. Blue water, chlorine in our eyes and nostrils, bleached out hair, which for me meant white hair with a light green cast since I was already so blond.

If I got my mouth full of water, or my nose, or swallowed half the pool, as my dad used to say, it never helps to struggle. Just get up to the top, rest, hold on, regain strength. Struggle is part of learning, but so is rest, so is regaining strength, so is being a stairway for someone to climb up to his or her next level. The deep end of the pool is always deep, but humans can float, can swim, and can learn how to manage the struggle. That is the point, I guess, I want to make, be the stairway not the stairwell.10349878_705970222825497_4641290809203357945_n

Snowbound.

It is winter in Northwest Arkansas, and for the past four days I have been snow and ice bound inside my home in Fayetteville. It is a nice place to be when it snows, and when the power stays on, and the coffee is hot.  I haven’t been this inactive since the winter my  East Fayetteville home, in the posh neighborhood of divorced doctors and real estate agents had 17 inches of snow and an ice storm, and at that time I lived in a mentally and spiritually different neighborhood. I was not just on the opposite side of Fayetteville, I still was bound to a way of thinking just coming out of its frozen state.  I was and am still on the journey to self. That last huge ice and snow storm winter was a time of recovery –just recovering surgery,  from three moves in two years and a botched divorce,  —my fault, not my beloved lawyer’s fault. Shakespeare said “kill the lawyers…”  I say “kill the institution of marriage” from the standpoint it rests today. So many men and women—angry or confused or sad— stay past the due date has expired. It has been a transition of not only place in physcial space this snowstorm, but a transition of mental and spiritual space as well in this last six and a half years of my life. And,  being snowbound is one way to assess the temperature and state of my journey within. I am no longer frozen, a bit stiff, but certainly in the later stages of a glacier’s thaw.

This journey of my  seeking my temporate and warm Spirit started with a planned family vacatioin in June and July the year my oldest turned 17. The family trip was aborted due to too many “conflicts” with my then husband’s work and my children’s varied summer commitments. I felt that this  aborted family  trip was the sign for me to strike out on a journey alone, as many other things had been in the past–this trip was not to be denied–I was to go, regardless of my family’s wishes,  a sign of personal choice, a sign of impending growth and mistakes and joys and recovery.  This would be the true beginning, the true watermark of my journey that had began when my daugthers were merely toddlers as  I read for the first time A Course In Miracles and the series, A Conversation with God. Their innocence and my beginning in that moment, would change my life and theirs forever. From the realizations of selfhood as I saw it in 1995 to the realizations of selfhood in 2006, on that trip to Montana, I would take strides that summer that would change that present time’s stagnant status,  and that journey would be a miracle of sorts as seen in the future.  I hit the road to Montana alone that summer.

Faith gets us a lot of places in life, and during that mild June, in the  summer of  2006, I was in a place of not having a “google maps” or a Siri to guide me in a “soothing mechancial voice”  in my truck; what I did have was just an old fashioned Atlas, my mind, and faith that I could drive the 1698 miles to East Glacier Park Village, Montana alone and be okay. I had God. I had my map, I had my tears. I took off. Never did I even look back once that first trip. Not looking back, not turning around when I hit the main road from the narrow county lane that veered off in curves and swoops from my rock bound lake home, became the first step in a journey of 10,000 steps. I was alone, alone, alone.  I was going to experience a Blackfeet Sweatlodge, a Pow Wow, a friend who spoke brutal truth, and big sky. That was the apex of the beginning of an ending that birthed a newer way of belief and of thinking. That trip resounds in my soul, a church bell calling the community on an Easter Sunday. That journey was the toning of my heart toward the Om of my soul.  As Buddha says,

“On life’s journey faith is nourishment, virtuous deeds are shelter, wisdom is the light by day and right mindfulness is the protection by night. If a man lives a pure life, nothing can destroy him.”

My purpose here, in this post, and upcoming series of posts ,  is to begin to explore my joureny in life— a chronical  of experiences… not a pure and unstained journey, but a journey of love, compassion, and acceptance. A journey that leads the self from destruction into a place of contentment.

Namaste.

Shannon