Once, during a visit predominated by discussions of illness, injury, and aging, a Mormon aunt of mine said, "Won't it be nice after the Resurrection, when our bodies are perfect?" A strained silence followed. I think my aunt realized from my mom's stunned expression that she didn't believe in the Resurrection of their childhood faith. What stunned my mom--as she told me later--was that she hadn't known this before. As she said to me later, "Wasn't the fact that I left the Mormon church a clue that maybe I no longer believed in it?"
(The only time I've seen her more speechless was when she realized an adult nephew had no idea she wasn't an active and faithful Mormon. I guess his parents hadn't filled him in on Aunt Linda the Heretic, which is why googling one's realatives is a good idea, but I digress.)
Anyway, amid that strained silence, I quipped "We Sillitoes don't resurrect. We reincarnate." Everyone laughed, and someone, thankfully, changed the subject.
Reincarnation is the only afterlife that makes sense to me, though I've decided maybe it's optional and not all souls opt in. After all, it seems just as wrong for me to impose my afterlife on other people as it is for them to impose their afterlife on me.
One reason I believe in reincarnation is....well, my phobias. The two things I have always feared most are drowning and being set on fire. When I got older, I realized these were common fates for witches and heretics. Coincidence? I don't think so. (I'm also claustrophobic, but I chalk that up to my ancestors who were miners. After you've witnessed a cave-in or two, I figure, claustrophobia gets hard-wired into the DNA.)
Another phobia? Trains, specifically box cars. My mom tried to blame that on her making me watch a lot of movies about the Holocaust, but I've been afraid of box cars as long as I can remember. When I was a kid, in a car, watching a train pass, I didn't count cars. I just wondered why all my instincts were screaming "Danger, run!" I figured it out, though, the first time I watched a movie about the Holocaust. As the Nazis started herding people into box cars, filling them until there was barely room to stand, then nailed the box cars shut, and sent them off to Auschwitz, I understood not only my fear of trains, but also my wariness of showering, particularly in groups.
My mom believed me, but also thought that was a lifetime we didn't share. Until we saw "War and Rememberance." Now, you need to know that my mom believed understanding and illuminating evil
was part of her soul work, both in this life and in past lives. She had studied all kinds of horrors from serial killers to pedophiles to the Holocaust to 9/11. Consequently, she had very thick skin. Still, as "War and Rememberance" reached a scene where a character entered the gas chamber, my mom turned gray and asked me to pause it. She took a few deep breaths, then reached for some chocolate.
I said, "It was the praying amid the screaming that got you, wasn't it?"
She nodded and admitted maybe we'd shared that life, too.
Once, during what seemed to be a random conversation about various countries, I said, "I don't like Spain. It creeps me out."
"Me, too," Mom said. She thought about it, then said, "Of course, our Incan life was pretty good until the Spanish conquistadors showed up."
"Not to mention the Inquisition," I reminded her.
Mom shuddered. "Now that was a particularly bad life."
"Ok," I said. as if ticking off an imaginary list. "No vacations to Spain for us."
Friday, August 31, 2012
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Who's Afraid of Barack Obama?
Disclaimer: before I get accused of saying something I didn't, I don't believe everyone has to support Barack Obama. I also don't believe anyone who disagrees with or doesn't vote for Obama is racist. Now on with the blog...
Every once in a while, something happens that I literally can't believe and I start looking around for the hidden camera. One of those was when I learned of the whole birther bit. I knew as a presidential candidate, Barack Obama would have to deal with some misconceptions. I figured people would think he was a Muslim, but I figured after enough times of him stating that he was a Christian, people would believe him. (Personally, had he been Muslim, or Catholic, or Buddhist, or--gasp--a non-believer, I would have been just as strong of a supporter. From the moment, I saw him take the stage in 2004, I realized that he had the potential to be an incredibly powerful leader.)
I knew there would be other criticism. The Socialist claim, for instance, hits a lot of liberals who want to provide services to all Americans. (Anyone else love the part of the London Olympics Opening Ceremonies that was a tribute to national health care?) "Tax and spend" accusations always go with that. Being anti-war is always argued as soft on defense. (Tell that to Osama Bin Laden.)
Most of all, I've never believed this idea that Americans--then or now--are color-blind. I knew that the fact that he was African-American would be a factor. (Really, I think of him as biracial because I like to claim him. I mean, I have family from Nebraska, he has family from Kansas, we could be cousins. But he identifies himself as African-American and I respect that.) But I also believed that as America got to know him, they would become comfortable with him, whether they voted for him or not.
I believed they would see that he was a good person; someone raised by a single mother and his grandparents, who went to great schools on scholarships and student loans, and spent years and traveled thousands of miles to understand his absent father. This was an eloquent, introspective man who loved both sides of his complicated and global family. He married an amazing woman and treated her well. He went out of his way to be a devoted father to his daughters--the kind of father he hadn't had. This was someone who took a thankless and poorly-funded job to help build his community, then went on to teach Constitutional law--as in the founding law of this country.
I knew he would have to prove he could carry white rural American votes, and, man, did he prove that by winning the Iowa caucuses. I mean, John Edwards had practically lived in Iowa for years, and Obama still won it. Throughout the campaign--which was not all victories--I watched Barack Obama surmount one obstacle after another. I watched him win and I laughed and wept with joy. Seriously, joy.
Of all the challenges, I thought he'd face, I never thought anyone would question the legitimacy of his birth certificate. Or keep their kids home from school to prevent them from hearing his message. Or accuse him of being a pawn in some elaborate conspiracy to bring Islamic law to America.
Today, I had two of those hidden camera moments, one when I learned the idea that he'd turn the country over to the United Nations, and even more when I saw a commercial for a movie based on a book about Barack Obama's rage and I almost fell out of my chair. Barack Obama's rage? Um, there are a lot of Americans full of rage. Sometimes I'm even one of them. But rage is not an emotion I have ever seen close to being in Barack Obama's writing, speeches, or being. Even when he has led the nation in mourning, including a massacre intended to assassinate a member of Congress, I didn't see rage in him.
Maybe it's me, but when I hear "Barack Obama's rage" that means one thing: watch out for the angry black man. There might as well be a picture of him in a Black Panther get-up carrying an Uzi. And that makes me both angry and deeply disappointed.
Tonight I will say the same prayer I've said every night since I heard he was considering a run in 2004: "God bless Barack Obama and his family. Keep them safe. Give them strength. And let him win."
Every once in a while, something happens that I literally can't believe and I start looking around for the hidden camera. One of those was when I learned of the whole birther bit. I knew as a presidential candidate, Barack Obama would have to deal with some misconceptions. I figured people would think he was a Muslim, but I figured after enough times of him stating that he was a Christian, people would believe him. (Personally, had he been Muslim, or Catholic, or Buddhist, or--gasp--a non-believer, I would have been just as strong of a supporter. From the moment, I saw him take the stage in 2004, I realized that he had the potential to be an incredibly powerful leader.)
I knew there would be other criticism. The Socialist claim, for instance, hits a lot of liberals who want to provide services to all Americans. (Anyone else love the part of the London Olympics Opening Ceremonies that was a tribute to national health care?) "Tax and spend" accusations always go with that. Being anti-war is always argued as soft on defense. (Tell that to Osama Bin Laden.)
Most of all, I've never believed this idea that Americans--then or now--are color-blind. I knew that the fact that he was African-American would be a factor. (Really, I think of him as biracial because I like to claim him. I mean, I have family from Nebraska, he has family from Kansas, we could be cousins. But he identifies himself as African-American and I respect that.) But I also believed that as America got to know him, they would become comfortable with him, whether they voted for him or not.
I believed they would see that he was a good person; someone raised by a single mother and his grandparents, who went to great schools on scholarships and student loans, and spent years and traveled thousands of miles to understand his absent father. This was an eloquent, introspective man who loved both sides of his complicated and global family. He married an amazing woman and treated her well. He went out of his way to be a devoted father to his daughters--the kind of father he hadn't had. This was someone who took a thankless and poorly-funded job to help build his community, then went on to teach Constitutional law--as in the founding law of this country.
I knew he would have to prove he could carry white rural American votes, and, man, did he prove that by winning the Iowa caucuses. I mean, John Edwards had practically lived in Iowa for years, and Obama still won it. Throughout the campaign--which was not all victories--I watched Barack Obama surmount one obstacle after another. I watched him win and I laughed and wept with joy. Seriously, joy.
Of all the challenges, I thought he'd face, I never thought anyone would question the legitimacy of his birth certificate. Or keep their kids home from school to prevent them from hearing his message. Or accuse him of being a pawn in some elaborate conspiracy to bring Islamic law to America.
Today, I had two of those hidden camera moments, one when I learned the idea that he'd turn the country over to the United Nations, and even more when I saw a commercial for a movie based on a book about Barack Obama's rage and I almost fell out of my chair. Barack Obama's rage? Um, there are a lot of Americans full of rage. Sometimes I'm even one of them. But rage is not an emotion I have ever seen close to being in Barack Obama's writing, speeches, or being. Even when he has led the nation in mourning, including a massacre intended to assassinate a member of Congress, I didn't see rage in him.
Maybe it's me, but when I hear "Barack Obama's rage" that means one thing: watch out for the angry black man. There might as well be a picture of him in a Black Panther get-up carrying an Uzi. And that makes me both angry and deeply disappointed.
Tonight I will say the same prayer I've said every night since I heard he was considering a run in 2004: "God bless Barack Obama and his family. Keep them safe. Give them strength. And let him win."
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Allison, Joan and Grace
Not surprisingly, I love t.v. shows where a character sees beings other people don't. (But only if they really do. Shows, movies, or books about fake psychics who con people absolutely infuriate me.)
I was a Medium fan from the first episode. As portrayed by Patricia Arquette, Allison DuBois is very normal. She's married, works for the D.A. in Phoenix, and has three daughters to get fed, to school, back from school, fed again, and to bed. Plus, she has dead people who show up with messages. Most are victims of crimes who want help, though Allison's dead father-in-law feels free to pop in from time to time, even if Allison is in the shower. Her daughters have their own intuitive gifts, which allow them to pick up the crayon they want without looking (actually a deleted scene from the pilot, but included on the DVD set) to knowing exactly how many marbles are in a jar in a class project to occasionally predicting the stock market. Through it all, husband/father Joe Dubois, an aerospace engineer, tries to find reason among the unreasonable and maybe get a full night's sleep. Totally normal stuff, at least from my perspective.
Joan of Arcadia is a little more out there. In fact, I didn't watch it when it first aired because I thought it would be really Christian. Turns out, it so isn't. Joan is a perfectly normal teenager in a non-religious household. Her mother is somewhat ambivalent about her Catholic roots. Her agnostic father borders on bitterness toward it. Yet, one day God starts talking to Joan. The show's theme song is that '90s classic "What If God Was One Of Us" and God appears in many forms throughout the series. My favorite is goth teenager God, though I also love when God shows up as a little girl on a playground. Naturally, Joan tries to ignore God, thinks she's going crazy, and finally believes the way all belief happens...when there's simply no other explanation.
Not that Joan leaps into unyielding obedience. She does plenty of questioning, which God permits, but never answers. And, you know how asking a teenager to set the table is a chore? Uh, yeah. But when she relents and acts on faith, she gets a glimpse of those famous mysterious ways. (You know, like the U2 song.) Add to all this, one of the most realistic family and high school experiences on t.v. Sadly, Joan of Arcadia only ran two seasons and ended on a cliffhanger (though my money is totally on Joan in that one.)
And then there's Saving Grace. Holly Hunter is Detective Grace Hanadarko, Oklahoma City Police. When she isn't solving crimes and catching bad guys--which she does, as everything else, wholeheartedly--she's getting drunk, having sex with various men, breaking regulations, flashing her neighbor, lying to everyone, and defying authority. She adores her nephew, Clay, spoils her bulldog, Gus, and would walk through fire for her best friend, Rhetta.
One night, in a moment of crisis, she cries "God, help me," and winds up with a "last chance" angel named Earl. Tobacco-chewing and t-shirt-wearing Earl is as stubborn as Grace and they wrestle (literally) for a few episodes before Grace comes close to accepting that she's stuck with him. What she's even less thrilled about is Earl trying to lead her back to God and the work she is meant to do.
I love so many things about this show: the way Grace empathizes with victims of crime and goes to any length to get them justice; the way Grace and her partners squabble, pull pranks on each other, but always back each other up; the way Rhetta and Grace speak in the shorthand of life-long friendship; the way Grace loves Clay and Gus; the way she uses a call for a "double homicide" as a standard excuse to get out of dreaded family occasions; and the way each episode swings wildly from hilarious to tragic to miraculous, in ways that are connected and random. Kind of like life.
Most of all, I love the relationship Grace has with Earl. He shows up with orders from "the boss" but also stays for pizza, beer, and a movie. He tells her the truth, even when she doesn't want to hear it, and even loses his temper a time or two, but he always comes back. And when life is too much, and she crumbles, he's there not just to catch her, but hold her tightly. Earl's love for Grace is sometimes described as paternal, but it's more than that. It's agape--a Gandhian term for loving someone simply because of not just who they are, but that they are...that they exist as you exist, as both creations and reflections of God. And the fact that a television show can show all this dazzles me.
I was a Medium fan from the first episode. As portrayed by Patricia Arquette, Allison DuBois is very normal. She's married, works for the D.A. in Phoenix, and has three daughters to get fed, to school, back from school, fed again, and to bed. Plus, she has dead people who show up with messages. Most are victims of crimes who want help, though Allison's dead father-in-law feels free to pop in from time to time, even if Allison is in the shower. Her daughters have their own intuitive gifts, which allow them to pick up the crayon they want without looking (actually a deleted scene from the pilot, but included on the DVD set) to knowing exactly how many marbles are in a jar in a class project to occasionally predicting the stock market. Through it all, husband/father Joe Dubois, an aerospace engineer, tries to find reason among the unreasonable and maybe get a full night's sleep. Totally normal stuff, at least from my perspective.
Joan of Arcadia is a little more out there. In fact, I didn't watch it when it first aired because I thought it would be really Christian. Turns out, it so isn't. Joan is a perfectly normal teenager in a non-religious household. Her mother is somewhat ambivalent about her Catholic roots. Her agnostic father borders on bitterness toward it. Yet, one day God starts talking to Joan. The show's theme song is that '90s classic "What If God Was One Of Us" and God appears in many forms throughout the series. My favorite is goth teenager God, though I also love when God shows up as a little girl on a playground. Naturally, Joan tries to ignore God, thinks she's going crazy, and finally believes the way all belief happens...when there's simply no other explanation.
Not that Joan leaps into unyielding obedience. She does plenty of questioning, which God permits, but never answers. And, you know how asking a teenager to set the table is a chore? Uh, yeah. But when she relents and acts on faith, she gets a glimpse of those famous mysterious ways. (You know, like the U2 song.) Add to all this, one of the most realistic family and high school experiences on t.v. Sadly, Joan of Arcadia only ran two seasons and ended on a cliffhanger (though my money is totally on Joan in that one.)
And then there's Saving Grace. Holly Hunter is Detective Grace Hanadarko, Oklahoma City Police. When she isn't solving crimes and catching bad guys--which she does, as everything else, wholeheartedly--she's getting drunk, having sex with various men, breaking regulations, flashing her neighbor, lying to everyone, and defying authority. She adores her nephew, Clay, spoils her bulldog, Gus, and would walk through fire for her best friend, Rhetta.
One night, in a moment of crisis, she cries "God, help me," and winds up with a "last chance" angel named Earl. Tobacco-chewing and t-shirt-wearing Earl is as stubborn as Grace and they wrestle (literally) for a few episodes before Grace comes close to accepting that she's stuck with him. What she's even less thrilled about is Earl trying to lead her back to God and the work she is meant to do.
I love so many things about this show: the way Grace empathizes with victims of crime and goes to any length to get them justice; the way Grace and her partners squabble, pull pranks on each other, but always back each other up; the way Rhetta and Grace speak in the shorthand of life-long friendship; the way Grace loves Clay and Gus; the way she uses a call for a "double homicide" as a standard excuse to get out of dreaded family occasions; and the way each episode swings wildly from hilarious to tragic to miraculous, in ways that are connected and random. Kind of like life.
Most of all, I love the relationship Grace has with Earl. He shows up with orders from "the boss" but also stays for pizza, beer, and a movie. He tells her the truth, even when she doesn't want to hear it, and even loses his temper a time or two, but he always comes back. And when life is too much, and she crumbles, he's there not just to catch her, but hold her tightly. Earl's love for Grace is sometimes described as paternal, but it's more than that. It's agape--a Gandhian term for loving someone simply because of not just who they are, but that they are...that they exist as you exist, as both creations and reflections of God. And the fact that a television show can show all this dazzles me.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Opinions Are Like.......Annoying
(Ok, so maybe that's not the real quote, but we'll go with it.)
One of the things that first really annoyed me about Facebook (and also had me thinking I'd never blog) was that people couldn't seem to tell when I was asking for opinions and when I wasn't. It really isn't that hard as when I want opinions, I generally say in my status "What's your opinion on..." or "Anyone have any advice about...." On the occasions that my request has to do with how to get cat hair and/or chocolate out of some high-tech equipment, I tend to include a "help, help, help!" Seems pretty clear to me.
Other times, I'm just saying something, and everyone offers their opinions and it makes me want to smack them. On the other hand, I realize that I probably offer my opinion on subjects it's not wanted, and I'm trying to break that habit. The truth is most of the time what people want is validation and/or support, not opinions and/or advice. They want to say "I hate my boss the bozo" and not get posts on how to get along with the bozo or hear that they should try to empathize with the bozo or even be told that they really shouldn't post something like that on Facebook (which you shouldn't...in my opinion. And I don't even have a boss. No, wait, I do have a boss, and she's a cat with very strong opinions.)
As some may have noticed, I've even started saying, "I don't want your opinion"--especially if it has to do with anti-depressants. Or President Obama. Or reasons why someone using a computer should not eat chocolate at it and also should not let a cat sleep on it. (Um, yeah. You tell her she can't sleep on something, but first, make sure you're current on your shots. )
Of course, there are also people who say they want your opinion, but they really don't and they should work on that because--in my opinion--that's pretty passive-aggressive, not to mention annoying.
And, yes, I realize opinions and advice are two slightly different things. For instance, I don't want your opinion on the font I'm writing in because I already have my opinion and I hate it. But even when I do all the things I can think of to change it, it still looks the same, and that's also annoying.
Any advice?
Monday, August 13, 2012
You Again?
That's what I said recently when, after being on top of the world, and loving my life, it all fell apart and I thought...ok, what happened...and then I realized my anti-depressants needed to be adjusted. And I said, "Oh, you again?" To be honest, I kind of hoped I was done with this, which is silly since depression is as chronic as...well, my chronic fatigue syndrome (which is correctly called myalgic encephalytis, but I digress.)
(A word to those who don't believe in anti-depressants or think something else might help me: keep it to yourself. I've been down this path enough to know what works for me. I reserve the right to ignore and even delete comments about something else I could try.)
The medical term for it is tachyphylaxis. It's more commonly known as "the poop-out effect" or when the meds just stop working. In a way, realizing I'm there again is a relief. It means maybe I don't hate everything in my life or need to make drastic changes. (As my mother's daughter, I am inclined to make what appear to others to be sudden, impulsive changes--everything from moving all the furniture around to moving to another state where I know no one. But those kinds of changes are best made when one's chemicals are balanced and one's vision is clear.) Instead, my mantra becomes "It's the meds....it's just the meds..." and I remind myself that I have an excellent doctor who, if managing anti-depressants were an Olympic sport, would be the ten time reigning gold medalist. Also, while I won't get all the way back to being me fast, I always respond quickly, seeing enough improvement to give me hope. And I've never had side-effects to anti-depressants. So now it's about waiting it out.
And being a little unbalanced is not without its benefits.....like the chance to create crazy and slightly disturbing art. You know, there are all these artists and writers who really could have benefited from anti-depressants. Van Gogh, Edgar Allan Poe, and Sylvia Plath all come to mind. Critics debate if they had been correctly medicated, would their art have been as good? Uh, yeah. Because they too, would have had times when said meds were not working correctly, and would have given them plenty of opportunity to be dark and disturbing. They just might have gotten to live happier lives the rest of the time.
One of the consequences of my intuitive skills is that I have no fear of death. Zilch. Nada. In fact, I kind of look forward to it. (This does not mean I'm suicidal. I'm not. Stop freaking out, family.) I just like the idea that once I'm done learning the lessons of this life--and I really intend to learn them so I can take on new lessons in my next incarnation because...I'm sick of these--I get to go home and rest, reunite and contemplate, before doing something insane like coming back to this planet to learn some more.
Those who know me might be surprised to know how often I play songs that talk about religion. The key is they're bluesy spirituals by people like Jim Byrnes and Eva Cassidy, who know a little something about life and pain. Today, as I was listening to Jim Byrnes croon "Lay Me Down, Sweet Jesus"--I told you you'd be surprised--I was struck by the image of finding some nice trees--aspen or birch maybe--and lying down underneath them and just letting go...which is what I really intend to do when I'm done with this life.
When I was a kid, I remember watching "I Will Fight No Move Forever" about Chief Joseph and the Nez Perce. At one point, the Nez Perce are on a grueling hike, trying to get away from the white soldiers, and some of the elders decide to stay behind. My mom explained to me that it was an Indian thing (though really I've read about it in many cultures.) That people just decide they're done, and go off in the wilderness, and wait to die, and it's not awful because they just know how to let go. At the time, it freaked me out. Now, having fought tooth and nail to stay alive (which I frequently remind myself of when my meds are bad) I seriously believe that I could die just by making the choice. In fact, I think that's what my mom did. Physically, her aorta tore, and not for the first time. Spiritually, I think she thought "Ok, I don't want to leave, but I'm done with this life and this battle. Time to move on." And she just let go. Even as my world shattered as I witnessed this, part of me was impressed and proud that she died just the way she always said she wanted to: here one second and there the next.
As for me, I guess I'm fighting still, off to the doctor to switch from one med to another. In a couple of weeks, I don't hate my life. In a few months, maybe I'll look in the mirror and see myself, sane, and balanced, and I'll say, "Oh, good. You again." Just wanted to let you know what was up, but don't worry.....unless, of course, you see me lying down beneath some trees.
(A word to those who don't believe in anti-depressants or think something else might help me: keep it to yourself. I've been down this path enough to know what works for me. I reserve the right to ignore and even delete comments about something else I could try.)
The medical term for it is tachyphylaxis. It's more commonly known as "the poop-out effect" or when the meds just stop working. In a way, realizing I'm there again is a relief. It means maybe I don't hate everything in my life or need to make drastic changes. (As my mother's daughter, I am inclined to make what appear to others to be sudden, impulsive changes--everything from moving all the furniture around to moving to another state where I know no one. But those kinds of changes are best made when one's chemicals are balanced and one's vision is clear.) Instead, my mantra becomes "It's the meds....it's just the meds..." and I remind myself that I have an excellent doctor who, if managing anti-depressants were an Olympic sport, would be the ten time reigning gold medalist. Also, while I won't get all the way back to being me fast, I always respond quickly, seeing enough improvement to give me hope. And I've never had side-effects to anti-depressants. So now it's about waiting it out.
And being a little unbalanced is not without its benefits.....like the chance to create crazy and slightly disturbing art. You know, there are all these artists and writers who really could have benefited from anti-depressants. Van Gogh, Edgar Allan Poe, and Sylvia Plath all come to mind. Critics debate if they had been correctly medicated, would their art have been as good? Uh, yeah. Because they too, would have had times when said meds were not working correctly, and would have given them plenty of opportunity to be dark and disturbing. They just might have gotten to live happier lives the rest of the time.
One of the consequences of my intuitive skills is that I have no fear of death. Zilch. Nada. In fact, I kind of look forward to it. (This does not mean I'm suicidal. I'm not. Stop freaking out, family.) I just like the idea that once I'm done learning the lessons of this life--and I really intend to learn them so I can take on new lessons in my next incarnation because...I'm sick of these--I get to go home and rest, reunite and contemplate, before doing something insane like coming back to this planet to learn some more.
Those who know me might be surprised to know how often I play songs that talk about religion. The key is they're bluesy spirituals by people like Jim Byrnes and Eva Cassidy, who know a little something about life and pain. Today, as I was listening to Jim Byrnes croon "Lay Me Down, Sweet Jesus"--I told you you'd be surprised--I was struck by the image of finding some nice trees--aspen or birch maybe--and lying down underneath them and just letting go...which is what I really intend to do when I'm done with this life.
When I was a kid, I remember watching "I Will Fight No Move Forever" about Chief Joseph and the Nez Perce. At one point, the Nez Perce are on a grueling hike, trying to get away from the white soldiers, and some of the elders decide to stay behind. My mom explained to me that it was an Indian thing (though really I've read about it in many cultures.) That people just decide they're done, and go off in the wilderness, and wait to die, and it's not awful because they just know how to let go. At the time, it freaked me out. Now, having fought tooth and nail to stay alive (which I frequently remind myself of when my meds are bad) I seriously believe that I could die just by making the choice. In fact, I think that's what my mom did. Physically, her aorta tore, and not for the first time. Spiritually, I think she thought "Ok, I don't want to leave, but I'm done with this life and this battle. Time to move on." And she just let go. Even as my world shattered as I witnessed this, part of me was impressed and proud that she died just the way she always said she wanted to: here one second and there the next.
As for me, I guess I'm fighting still, off to the doctor to switch from one med to another. In a couple of weeks, I don't hate my life. In a few months, maybe I'll look in the mirror and see myself, sane, and balanced, and I'll say, "Oh, good. You again." Just wanted to let you know what was up, but don't worry.....unless, of course, you see me lying down beneath some trees.
Friday, August 3, 2012
The Peanut Gallery
The only scene I liked in the movie Practical Magic was when Sandra Bullock came out as a witch. (I figure that doesn't count as a spoiler since it was in the previews.) As for the rest of the movie, it was so completely opposite the book, which I loved, that I wish I hadn't seen it. But Sandra Bullock having to relent and say "I'm a witch" resonated with me.
Like what's-her-name who ran for office, I am not a witch. I'm an intuitive. (I prefer that to psychic because psychics are often portrayed as frauds and con artists. Also, too many people confuse psychic with all-knowing.) My intuition takes many forms and heavily influences my life. It is the sense I trust most. It also makes life complicated. Plenty of people don't believe in this stuff, which is fine because I may not believe in their stuff. Also, it can be intimidating because people think I can look at them and read their minds, which I can't, and even if I could, I wouldn't because it's unethical and, quite frankly, I have better things to do. Another challenge is that sometimes I make choices that make no sense even to me and I do them simply because the Peanut Gallery tells me to and I have learned to trust them.
This is how Wikipedia defines a peanut gallery: an audience that heckles the performer. The term originated in the days of vaudeville as a nickname for the cheapest (and ostensibly rowdiest) seats in the theater; the least expensive snack served at the theater would often be peanuts, which the patrons would sometimes throw at the performers on stage to show their disapproval.
My habit of referring to the energies around me as the Peanut Gallery comes from a time when I was so sick that the walls between the worlds were incredibly thin and I was getting too much feedback from the other side. (I think I was trying to choose fabric or something.) Frustrated, I snapped, "No comments from the Peanut Gallery" and the name stuck. Some are guides, some are loved ones who have passed on. Some members of the Peanut Gallery appear to be permanent, others are with me for a time, and then move on. I cherish their support, ask frequently for their help, and almost always take their advice....and when I don't, I wish I had.
Most of the time, I just sense them in my waking hours, but sometimes they send me messages in dreams. One member is an Australian aborigine. I'm still trying to get to know him. He's very reticent and I'm not allowed to tell his name. I'm quite sure, though, he was the one who sent me a recent dream. In it, I was judging a swimming race, which was strange as I don't swim and have no wish to hang around pools with a stopwatch. Nevertheless, there I was. I noticed that, along with the swimmers, there was a crocodile in the pool. I thought this was a very bad idea. In fact, I could practically see a red light flashing "danger." No one else seemed concerned. One person even said, "Yeah, we lose a swimmer now and then" in a rather matter-of-fact way. I woke up from the dream and knew it was a warning. Somewhere in my life, a circumstance would emerge, which other people would see as benign, but was really a threat. Within 48 hours, that "crocodile" surfaced, I recognized it, and knew how to handle it.
And then I thanked the Peanut Gallery.
Like what's-her-name who ran for office, I am not a witch. I'm an intuitive. (I prefer that to psychic because psychics are often portrayed as frauds and con artists. Also, too many people confuse psychic with all-knowing.) My intuition takes many forms and heavily influences my life. It is the sense I trust most. It also makes life complicated. Plenty of people don't believe in this stuff, which is fine because I may not believe in their stuff. Also, it can be intimidating because people think I can look at them and read their minds, which I can't, and even if I could, I wouldn't because it's unethical and, quite frankly, I have better things to do. Another challenge is that sometimes I make choices that make no sense even to me and I do them simply because the Peanut Gallery tells me to and I have learned to trust them.
This is how Wikipedia defines a peanut gallery: an audience that heckles the performer. The term originated in the days of vaudeville as a nickname for the cheapest (and ostensibly rowdiest) seats in the theater; the least expensive snack served at the theater would often be peanuts, which the patrons would sometimes throw at the performers on stage to show their disapproval.
My habit of referring to the energies around me as the Peanut Gallery comes from a time when I was so sick that the walls between the worlds were incredibly thin and I was getting too much feedback from the other side. (I think I was trying to choose fabric or something.) Frustrated, I snapped, "No comments from the Peanut Gallery" and the name stuck. Some are guides, some are loved ones who have passed on. Some members of the Peanut Gallery appear to be permanent, others are with me for a time, and then move on. I cherish their support, ask frequently for their help, and almost always take their advice....and when I don't, I wish I had.
Most of the time, I just sense them in my waking hours, but sometimes they send me messages in dreams. One member is an Australian aborigine. I'm still trying to get to know him. He's very reticent and I'm not allowed to tell his name. I'm quite sure, though, he was the one who sent me a recent dream. In it, I was judging a swimming race, which was strange as I don't swim and have no wish to hang around pools with a stopwatch. Nevertheless, there I was. I noticed that, along with the swimmers, there was a crocodile in the pool. I thought this was a very bad idea. In fact, I could practically see a red light flashing "danger." No one else seemed concerned. One person even said, "Yeah, we lose a swimmer now and then" in a rather matter-of-fact way. I woke up from the dream and knew it was a warning. Somewhere in my life, a circumstance would emerge, which other people would see as benign, but was really a threat. Within 48 hours, that "crocodile" surfaced, I recognized it, and knew how to handle it.
And then I thanked the Peanut Gallery.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Orientation
I've always said the last thing I needed was a blog. Sometimes, though, I feel like I'm screaming in the wilderness, rarely heard, and even more rarely understood. See, I'm an INFJ. If that doesn't mean anything to you, it's part of the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator. I learned about this way of looking at personalities when I was a teenager and I fell in love with it because it gave me a way of understanding myself and the people around me.
I could explain what an INFJ is, but this person did it better, so just read this: http://www.personalitypage.com/INFJ.html
By the way, me providing a link to an already written explanation, saving my energy for other things, well, it's very INFJ of me. Now, if you peruse the INFJ profile closely, you may have noticed I am in the 1%. (No, sadly, not that 1%.) Imagine if 99% of the population thought differently than you did. You might feel a little misunderstood, too.
Also, I refer you to the INFJ profile to prove it is not my fault that I have a messy desk. Actually, I have two, my messy computer desk, and my messy art desk, which is contained within my studio, also known as The Avalanche. No, I don't have any pictures of it. See, we INFJs don't believe in pictures. Well, I don't know that for sure, but I suspect we don't. I know I don't. Whenever someone asks me for a picture of my studio, me, my cat, etc., my response is "Use your imagination."
Imagination is a great thing. It can save you a lot of energy. For instance, sometimes I think about organizing my messy desk and I just imagine it organized. I then realize that the image of an organized desk creeps me out.....kind of the way markers/paints/crayons anything else arranged in rainbow order creeps me out. (When I buy a new set of markers/paints/crayons the first thing I do is take them out of rainbow order before I hyperventilate.) Once I've imagined it and viewed the image with horror, I have a reason not to organize and I can do something else. Yay!
We INFJs really like our silence and solitude. If we don't get enough of it, we might stab you with scissors. (I firmly believe Boo Radley of To Kill A Mockingbird was an INFJ.) I am an incredibly social person, but most of my social life is online, and I prefer it that way. A recent trip to an art gathering in Portland, though, reminded me that it's sometimes good to get out of the house. After all, even Boo Radley got out of the house and sat on the porch swing with Scout.
Other things you might have noticed in the INFJ profile, we are very stubborn. Of course, at least according to the profile, we are usually right. This is where we differ from INFPs. (My mom was an INFP so I have great insight into them. INFPs don't care that they are right. Some of them even go to the extraordinary length of believing there is no "right"--that maybe several different viewpoints can be "right." That's about as far as she and I would get into that conversation. Too much further and my brain might have exploded.) In other words, we INFJs know we are right and really care that we are right and get really pissed off when other people don't realize we're right....and that happens a lot since we're only 1% of the population.
Did you catch the part about INFJs and how their intuition borders on being psychic? Uh, yeah. More on that later. As it is, I have already revealed enough for one day and need to return to my silence and solitude.
Oh, and yes, I realize there are no nifty graphics or anything on this blog. I reserve the right to add them (or not) in the future. Until then, use your imagination.
I could explain what an INFJ is, but this person did it better, so just read this: http://www.personalitypage.com/INFJ.html
By the way, me providing a link to an already written explanation, saving my energy for other things, well, it's very INFJ of me. Now, if you peruse the INFJ profile closely, you may have noticed I am in the 1%. (No, sadly, not that 1%.) Imagine if 99% of the population thought differently than you did. You might feel a little misunderstood, too.
Also, I refer you to the INFJ profile to prove it is not my fault that I have a messy desk. Actually, I have two, my messy computer desk, and my messy art desk, which is contained within my studio, also known as The Avalanche. No, I don't have any pictures of it. See, we INFJs don't believe in pictures. Well, I don't know that for sure, but I suspect we don't. I know I don't. Whenever someone asks me for a picture of my studio, me, my cat, etc., my response is "Use your imagination."
Imagination is a great thing. It can save you a lot of energy. For instance, sometimes I think about organizing my messy desk and I just imagine it organized. I then realize that the image of an organized desk creeps me out.....kind of the way markers/paints/crayons anything else arranged in rainbow order creeps me out. (When I buy a new set of markers/paints/crayons the first thing I do is take them out of rainbow order before I hyperventilate.) Once I've imagined it and viewed the image with horror, I have a reason not to organize and I can do something else. Yay!
We INFJs really like our silence and solitude. If we don't get enough of it, we might stab you with scissors. (I firmly believe Boo Radley of To Kill A Mockingbird was an INFJ.) I am an incredibly social person, but most of my social life is online, and I prefer it that way. A recent trip to an art gathering in Portland, though, reminded me that it's sometimes good to get out of the house. After all, even Boo Radley got out of the house and sat on the porch swing with Scout.
Other things you might have noticed in the INFJ profile, we are very stubborn. Of course, at least according to the profile, we are usually right. This is where we differ from INFPs. (My mom was an INFP so I have great insight into them. INFPs don't care that they are right. Some of them even go to the extraordinary length of believing there is no "right"--that maybe several different viewpoints can be "right." That's about as far as she and I would get into that conversation. Too much further and my brain might have exploded.) In other words, we INFJs know we are right and really care that we are right and get really pissed off when other people don't realize we're right....and that happens a lot since we're only 1% of the population.
Did you catch the part about INFJs and how their intuition borders on being psychic? Uh, yeah. More on that later. As it is, I have already revealed enough for one day and need to return to my silence and solitude.
Oh, and yes, I realize there are no nifty graphics or anything on this blog. I reserve the right to add them (or not) in the future. Until then, use your imagination.
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