SoulComfort's Stories

Personal Memory of 9-11

2011-09-11T10:19:00.000-07:00

Ten years ago started out as just a typical day. I was a fifty-year old college student. When the alarm went off I hit the snooze and laid in bed with tears rolling off my cheeks into my ears and onto the pillow. School had barely started and I was already so physically weak, exhausted beyond belief, and with the now familiar constant searing pain all over my body, it was a challenge to get out of bed, let alone make it to the bus stop to get to class.

I'd adjusted the alarm to allow myself a good half hour to forty-five minutes of snooze tapping so that I could slowly stretch out some of the pain before I even attempted to get out of bed. I also needed that time to psyche myself up for meeting the challenge of another difficult day--hopefully with a smile on my face. No need to bring other people down, right?

I remember thinking in the shower and as I dressed how this year I was already physically worse than last year...and how, since I couldn't take less than a full load at Concordia (private school), that maybe I really should look into MSUM (public college) for next year so that I could have a lighter class load...then maybe I would feel much better and things would turn around for me.

Hobbling a little less, standing a little taller, I headed for the living room. Glancing out the window to assess the morning, I clicked on the TV so I could check the weather channel prediction before I packed up my books and decided on how many layers and which coat or jacket to wear. Remote in hand, I stood a few feet in front of the TV and waited for the screen to come on so I could punch in the weather channel.

What appeared on the screen was the picture of the first tower smoking against the blue sky. What?! The announcers were wondering what had happened. I watched and waited with the rest of the world. But then a plane disappeared into the other tower...erasing all doubt.

At that moment, I remember an almost physical sensation of this monstrous wave of black fear energy instantly radiating and spreading outward from the towers--even before they fell. It felt like the blast from an atomic bomb--knocking people backwards. My first thought was--No! I closed my eyes. Don't let this do that to you! I felt like I wanted to wrap my arms around everybody! Tell them--Don't be afraid. Please! Please! Hold onto the light! Choose the light!

This lifting sensation gradually came over me. My entire body buzzed and tingled. I stood, eyes closed--even the sounds from the TV faded away--and this core of calm took hold of me. A vision of waves of dark energy spreading across the earth like ripples on a pond increased in power as the initial fear and shock of the people gave birth to raw panic, anger, and hatred. I stood.

As I spread my arms I felt my heart open so wide it was my whole being. Waves of this love energy began to wash over me...or through me...or from me...I don't know. But suddenly I realized...I wasn't alone. It was as if I could see rays of bright lights all over the world...reaching out...almost as if we were holding hands...like this lace blanket of light covering the earth...

[I had to stop writing because just remembering this reduces me to tears...because it breaks my heart that so many people are still washed in that fear.]

Anyways, I stood in my living room like that for an hour (felt like a couple minutes). Never moved. Never felt my body. Only felt attached by energy to all those other people...radiating white light...the waves of love reaching outward. Never felt so connected to the light, to love, to humanity. And then it slowly subsided. I opened my eyes...was still holding the remote in my hand. They were replaying and replaying that scene...as they will probably do again today. I won't watch.

Horrible things happen all the time. It's not what has happened to us, but how we choose to live through it and what we take away from it that determines who we are.

I have never had an experience like that before or since. But 9-11 changed my life in an unexpectedly positive way. Our choices do matter. They do make a difference. We are not alone.

We have chosen.

We are already holding hands somewhere in that dark blanket or in the light blanket.

But we have the gift of free will.

And we can change our minds whenever we choose.

Flowers and Garbage-Part Two

2011-09-11T10:16:00.000-07:00

In this vision, GA and I went for a walk.

Imagine every person has their own little house. Each house has a yard with a fence around it and is part of this huge neighborhood with endless streets. We were walking down streets near my house. Some of the neighboring houses were pristine, while some were badly neglected, falling down shacks. I could tell that almost all the houses had originally been identical, but they had been painted, decorated, and cared for differently by each resident. Then there were a few people who had built their fences up so high and solid that you couldn't even see their houses at all--warning signs to trespassers on a couple of high fences.

The yards--they all seemed to have varying amounts of flowers and/or garbage, but there were a few that had nothing but barren dirt. A few were packed to overflowing with a rainbow of flowers and there were a few that had garbage piled so high you couldn't even catch a glimpse of their roof! Some people were out in their yards. Many were empty. Either the people were inside, in the back yard, or out walking.

And there were quite a few people out walking the streets. As you walked by the people who were out in their yards, most of them ignored you. There were a few who offered me flowers over the fence, and some actually tried to hit me with their trash! Attacked me and I didn't even know them! (Pissed me off and I desperately wanted to give them a piece of my mind, but GA grabbed my arm and kept me moving.)

There were actually people wandering up and down the street pulling wagonloads of garbage and tossing it in people's yards! And yet there were also a few carrying armloads of flowers that they were randomly handing out. Most were just scurrying past, trying not to be noticed.

We came across a garbage fight! Neighbors pelting each other with trash! And another fight! Shoveling over the fences into each other's yard. Screaming at each other! Hurting each other!!

Chaos! Looked crazy, chaotic, and dangerous--made no sense! I just wanted to go home.

So, GA took me to my house.

Much shabbier than I expected--kind of run down. And my yard! A few scattered flowers...but a ton of garbage. I was devastated! I had tried so hard all my life to be a good person and my house and yard looked like that?!!

GA showed me my life--like a strange flowers and garbage movie.

I did see flowers sprout and grow in my yard. I had genuinely felt love for people, animals--and I felt that was related to flowers, but I wasn't sure how. People often hurt me or let me down--garbage dumping--and I didn't trust them anymore. Flowers grew. Flowers withered and died. But--the garbage never seemed to stop multiplying.

People came to me and handed me flowers...and I usually gave them flowers back. Sometimes, even if I planted the flower and tried to care for it...it shriveled up and died, no matter what I did to save it? And yet other flowers sprouted all by themselves for no apparent reason. Some of the flowers I was given and went to plant...discovered that they had been plastic and not real at all!

Certain people stood by my fence and begged me for flowers...and I gave them flowers...real flowers...and they withered in their hands!? But they keep those hands outstretched until I had no more real flowers to give and reluctantly gave them plastic ones. They didn't seem to notice the difference, but I knew. I felt guilty, but those people drained me. I only had so many flowers to give.

More recently...I saw my second husband pelting me with trash. He scared the hell out of me and I hid in my house a lot. He came with wagonloads and dumped them over my fence while I stood there silently. Sometimes he snuck back and tried to retrieve some of it. I didn't dare throw any at him or raise my voice in my defense, but my garbage pile kept growing--even when he removed some of it?

He'd barely left the scene and then my first husband arrived...backed a dump truck of steamy, smelly trash right up to my yard! I stood there and screamed at him...threatened him...threw handfuls of garbage in his face...but he just kept on dumping...and drove away laughing. And that pile kept growing long after he drove away.

My yard was overflowing with garbage!!

I was ashamed.

I wanted a pretty yard with flowers.

A yard I could be proud of.

But I hadn't a clue how to get rid of all that garbage...and keep it out! Or how to get flowers to grow in my yard...and keep growing! I couldn't even tell a real flower from a plastic one! How do you keep people from dumping trash in your yard, even if you didn't get involved in garbage fights (the red rubber ball thing)--they still just did whatever they felt like!

Tears of abject sorrow and defeat...

(It was a roller coaster night--LOL!)

GA revealed the secret to flowers and garbage.

The only thing that matters is what you give away. Whatever you give to others, multiplies back in your own yard.

(I know to many of you this is a "duh!" moment, but I was, and still am, a slow learner.)

The garbage people give you doesn't matter at all. Not one tiny bit. Don't give one piece of it a second thought. It is what you give that matters.

There is nothing to gain in wandering the streets, neglecting your own yard, to check out other people's yards. Asking others for flowers, needing flowers to be given to you...will not help your yard...like the people who stand and beg at the fence. Only giving flowers, grows flowers in your yard. Same as the people who attack, use garbage as weapons, and try to destroy other people's yards--it will not make their yard look better. They could even scoop it up and haul it off to dump in various people's yards, but it only multiplies the trash back in their own yard.

If someone dumps a garbage pile in your yard and you send anger, fear, annoyance, frustration, or hatred in return...then that is what will grow in your own yard because that is what you are giving away. Even by your thoughts, your energy! You retain and create your own garbage in your own yard. Nobody else can.

If you react by giving flowers--even by thought alone--that pile of trash will just fade away and poof! It's gone. Like an illusionist's trick. No, it's not easy, he said, but try it and see for yourself. No matter how old the trash pile, if you forgive, love, send flowers... :)

And the more flowers you give the more flowers will root in your yard and they will multiply and there will be more and more for you to give away! The supply is absolutely endless! You will not feel drained by the outstretched hands. It doesn't matter if someone gives you plastic flowers...because that is what will grow in their own yard, not yours. Plastic flowers fade away just like the trash.

It doesn't matter if people dump garbage in your yard...because that is what will grown in their own yards, not yours. Don't give fake flowers. Don't give garbage. Because it is what you give. It is only what you give that effects your yard.

The barren dirt yards? People can hide inside and try not to participate--give nothing at all. Free will and all that. (Sounded tempting to me!) But their fear creates garbage you can't see from the street. (Dang mind-reader!)

All the houses are from the same blueprint. Some people try to hide away their trash by hauling it into the back yard, or to the cellar, or the attic--he giggled. Makes no difference. You may be able to hide some things from passers by on the street, fill your yard with plastic flowers, but in the end--you are the only one responsible for the state of your own house.

Remember, only real flowers can root and grow and multiply. Only real flowers can make garbage fade away and disappear. There is love and there is fear. There are sides. You do have a choice. You just felt the invincible strength and power of love. Why would you be afraid?

And he was gone.

****

I have been milling on this concept and practicing when I was able (not easy, but so worth it!) for almost 30 years. I am still afraid. But less and less so. I try not to hide my trash. Admittedly, I may have a little tucked away in the basement, but the vast majority is out front for the world to see. I have my own little flower garden that I give freely from! (But I really do need to work on my house.) The rare times I was feeling I was going to run out of flowers, I always recognized I had more garbage in my yard--and I knew how to go about fixing that. Some very old, very large trash piles are quite small now. I have long forgiven (well, maybe 98%) the two husbands, for example--LOL!

Flowers and Garbage is a simple idea for me to picture--like the red rubber ball thing. GA knows what will work best with me.

Flowers and Garbage-Part One

2011-09-11T10:14:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure how long I waited...every single night...mulling...ruminating...and, honestly, more than a little annoyed with God. How could we be left to flounder like this? How do we recognize and deal with evil? If I was always on guard and needed to be prepared to protect myself, how could I ever again be a loving and open person? How could I live being suspicious of every person I meet? Am I supposed to do battle? Or are we supposed to go forward like lambs to the slaughter and just take it? Are we not supposed to protect ourselves? How can we all be children of God when we are capable of such unspeakable things? And often in God's name? I ask for help, I get silence. Nothing. I'll figure this out on my own then--thank you very much!

Weeks went by and--surprise--I hadn't figured anything out. My anger had waned, my resolve to do this on my own come hell or high water had eroded, my heart withered at the prospect of toe to toe battle...I felt weak and small and defeated before I began. But...the beauty of this world could reduce me to tears! I truly believed I did love my son more than my own life! There were acts of love everywhere...both fierce and tender...that blasted light to the heavens and beyond...that could drop me to my knees! If I was a fool for love...of people, the earth, living things...so be it. I knew that swelling of the heart that words cannot express...that lifts your soul and fills you with unspeakable joy. I pick that! If it is the last thing I do on this earth, I--pick--that!!

I knew I couldn't do it alone for very long. But what choice did I have? I knew my very soul couldn't survive...refused to survive...in that empty darkness of the last year. There was no choice for me. I'd rather be dead than give up on love...goodness...joy! I tried living without it--it sucked!!! But I was soul-exhausted and beaten down. World weary to my bones. Didn't even know where or how to start...too tired to start if I did know.

Gasping...heaving...tears...

Well, I've never known how to actually put into words what happened next. The closest I can come is that it almost felt like I was being hugged...by Jesus? Angel? God? It honestly doesn't matter to me who or what it was. I suddenly felt my entire body physically enveloped, cocooned, by this peaceful, lifting calm of pure, pure, unconditional love...that was intense, strong, powerful! Unassailable truth! Lightly vibrating waves of energy kind of washed right through me.

Then it lifted away and was gone.

Me. I was speechless.

But GA sure wasn't. He (obviously not the hugger and greatly disturbing my state of bliss) couldn't stop giggling!

So--he chortled--little old you were going to take on the very devil himself all by your lonesome small self?

Having just had a personal glimpse of the true power of goodness and love that can conquer all...and knowing my own flawed self as I do...I started to laugh at the audacious silliness of it all. My body, my soul, welcomed it like a long lost friend. It made me realize that I hadn't genuinely laughed in a very long time--always a bad sign. GA can always find a way to get me to laugh at myself--not take myself so seriously. What absolute foolish arrogance!!! Oh, I had missed the joy of laughter so very much.

We laughed and laughed and laughed. I could tell GA was glad to have me back.

And when I was quietly blissed out by giggles...

GA gave me the vision of Flower and Garbage. :):)

Flowers and Garbage-Prologue Part Three

2011-09-11T10:12:00.000-07:00

Evil was everywhere! Selfishness ruled no matter where I looked--cruelty, fighting, deceit, greed, condemnation, aggrandizing, indifference, thievery, murder, abuse...even everywhere I looked in me.

I questioned my own motivation for anything supposedly good or nice I had ever said or done. Helping people had made me feel good. Did I stay up all night with the people on the bummers because, deep down, it made me feel better about myself? Because it felt good to be needed by strangers and known to be useful in situations other people ran from? Ego! It could be traced back to ego!

My dear son. Did I think I loved him so much just because of that big hole I had in my chest ever since I can remember and I was just trying to fill it up? Had I been worrying about his body and soul, going without sleep, holding vigil over him--was that actually just fulfilling some ego need of mine? To focus on someone else instead of looking into my own dark soul? Yes. That could be true! Did I really, truly love him if I couldn't teach him about this selfish, evil world so he could protect himself and claw out his own corner of it? Or did I just selfishly want to see someone else hang on to ideals and fantasies that I was having a hard time letting go of? Was love just selfish, too? I was nothing but a dark, tattered ego...out for myself...just like everybody else fighting for survival down here. God this was a horrible place! And where was God, anyways? Was there even something beyond us? Was there anything truly good and pure out there?

I remembered hearing about people who gave away their food in the concentration camps. Was that somehow selfish, too? I started reading every personal account I could find on the holocaust--devoured them--searching in true darkness to find an act of unconditional love. Something that was pure goodness. Something where I couldn't uncover a subconscious selfish motivation. Just me. Nothing scientific. Just a personal quest for my own selfish soul's benefit, my own selfish opinion.

I'd read and read. Individuals would recount how a total stranger in the camp would give them food or clothing...or advice on how to survive. They didn't know the person--sometimes never saw them again after the one act of supposed kindness. But, did the person act because others may be watching (motivation for many) who might think better of them? Not really. Most of the inmates thought anything you did to not selfishly survive was crazy foolish! And if it was a soldier trying to whisper to you on arrival--they could be killed for that. Hummm....

I could see a subconscious selfish family line survival thing with giving food to relatives and lovers...but what would be the gain with an absolute stranger, no one watching you, and you are expecting to die? If we are bottom-line truly selfish and evil--what possible gain could there be? What advantage could there possibly be for you to give up something precious to your own selfish survival for a total stranger's?

Love? A spark of unconditional love...of something beyond the horror of this life? Why did it make me cry?

The more I examined it and rolled it over and looked at it from all sides...the brighter it was in the darkness. I believed it was as close to unconditional love as a human can probably get.

And I kept reading and reading...about the people who risked their own lives to hide and save the lives of others...and, most amazing, the ones who forgave their torturers...the murderers of their loved ones. Shining lights in the darkness! I would read and cry...as I am crying now writing this...

...and no matter what is real or isn't about our nature...just knowing these things exist makes my heart swell and my soul lift...I can physically feel it! Goodness! Love! That is as real as evil.

Suddenly I could see little bits of light--like stars in a black sky--everywhere I looked! It really is true...seek and ye shall find. You will find what you are looking for.

The last year had been bleak and hopeless. Had felt dead inside. I didn't want to live like that. It was a miserable existence. My soul had been shriveling away to something hard and dry. Yes, my eyes had been opened to evil, but...I also truly believed in good and love...

So, now what? I had never been good at seeing evil intentions, telling when people were lying to me...or just being able to protect myself, in general. But--I had absolutely had it with the darkness! If you believe in God, you had to believe in the Devil. If I believed in Good and Love--and I believed in Evil and Hate--well, then--enough fence sitting. Now that I knew--down to my core--I had to pick a side.

How could I teach Dagan how to survive and pick goodness and love if I was clueless how to run the nasty maze, myself?

Okay--I picked God/Good/Love and I was ready for battle. Felt tremendously overmatched and under-skilled, but I don't do things half-assed--was fully prepared to die trying. I knew how close I had been to losing my soul. I wasn't giving it up without a fight. And I announced all this to the heavens--to GA (my guardian angel)--to God.

"I am going to do this--with or without your help! I don't know what to do--how to protect myself. I am scared to death. I'm not a really good person, but I will not give up trying to be! If you are really out there--if you even care at all that someone like me is on your side--if you want to help me out--or even just give me a sign--I will wait for you every night before I fall asleep."

And every night I laid in bed and waited...and milled over questions in my mind. How do you know who to trust? How am I supposed to react when people are mean to me? Or I find out they have been lying to me? What about the people who seem to emotionally suck you dry? Should I still be suspicious of everyone? What should I say to Dagan? How to I teach him if I don't know yet? How do I deal with my anger with the people who do bad things? Should I stay away from people as much as possible? How do I protect myself? Do I need a big wall around my heart?.........

I milled and milled...and waited and waited...

Until one night. I was answered!! :):)

Flowers and Garbage-Prologue Part Two

2011-09-11T10:08:00.001-07:00

First of all--before I forget:

The Red Rubber Ball.

I was in the kind of relationships where the "loved one" would constantly find fault with me. They'd know just which buttons to push to get me all wrapped up in defending myself against false accusations, insults, lies, and blame.

After the kids went to bed one night, one of these arguments ensued...for several hours. He finally went off to bed...feeling the victor in this endless battle. I felt drained and baffled. How could he not know who I really am? How could he say those things to me? How did I end up, in just a matter of months, in another marriage where I am defending myself all the time and I feel totally misunderstood and alone?

****

I was feeling pretty darn sorry for myself as I curled up on the pantry floor. As he snored, I cried...as silently as I could. With the first marriage, he was so seldom home and we so seldom had conversations that the insults and disgust was spread out infrequently compared to this endless barrage. This was not the man I fell in love with. This was not the man I thought I married. How could I be so foolish and, obviously, not even capable of seeing who they really were?

****

Crying in a ball on the pantry floor I got one of those "instant information" things from GA. I've had them enough times in my life that I know to pay attention. ;)

****

I watched this picture of my husband and I fighting. He threw a hard, little, red, rubber ball directly at my chest--hit me, knife sharp, right in the heart--and, when I went to defend myself, I was actually tossing the ball right back into his hands--and he would slam it into my chest again. This was the game.

****

And I wasn't supposed to defend myself anymore. I was supposed to just stand up straight--calmly--with my arms held wide open and let him hit my heart with that red rubber ball...and let it just slide off of me and roll to the floor. Don't play. No matter how much it hurts. Don't play. You know it is not true.

****

So, after that night, that is what I tried to do. I got sucked back in a few times, but the more I refused to play the less effective the game was for him and the easier it became for me to leave my arms wide open. No fun to play alone, I guess. And the clearer it became to me that, by attacking me, that kept the focus off of himself. I didn't have to attack him, in kind. He just felt me withdraw from the game--from him. And soon came the confessions.

****

So that is The Red Rubber Ball concept.

Has come in very handy many times in all sorts of relationships since then--even at work. ;)

****

Back to the Prologue...

****

It was a dark, dark year...

I still laughed, but I think I must have sounded more like one of those tough, hardened bar maids in the old west. Distant, joyless, sarcastic, defeated by life.

Once again, it was Dagan who changed my perspective. I noticed that I just couldn't teach my young boy the truth. That it was a dog eat dog world, that's it's a horrible place where you can't trust a word anybody says, that everyone is ultimately out for themselves, that we are all selfishly motivated...etc, etc. I couldn't get the words to come out of my mouth and into his ears...

Why? (I can never leave one of my whys alone--LOL!)

Did that mean I didn't really believe it? I loved my son, didn't I? I wanted to protect him. Why couldn't I teach him how to protect himself in this bleak and evil world? Teach him the way it really is out there? What was my selfish motive? It had to be selfish, right?

In the meantime, while these questions were going round in my head, a couple of people who were close to me were so very concerned about me that they finally convinced me to go in for counseling. I sat in her office and told her the facts of my life story (took many visits, as you can imagine--LOL!). But when she was up to speed, I had filled her in on what I had learned from the different experiences, and I wanted to talk about God and good and evil and how do you live down here...religion of any kind was off limits. She decided that I had such an emotionally traumatic life that I had become detached from my emotions and needed to go to a women's counseling group. I disagreed. Told her that when I cry, I cry alone. That I had felt these things and I had already cried about them, examined them, turned them inside out. She did say she'd never had a client who did the self-analyzing and probing that I did (see--not normal), but said there was nothing more she could do for me and sent me off to this woman's group for 12 weeks.

Ten to fourteen women showed up each week to sit in a big circle in our folding chairs. Every week we went around the circle and the women would each tell their stories and crumble into pieces. And if they were close and didn't crumble, the counselor prodded them until they did. Other women would pat them on the back and give them tissues. Judging from the woman in charge, the goal seemed to be to actually re-experience the traumatic event with great emotion and tears. Now, don't get me wrong. This is an excellent and necessary thing for people who have not ever dealt with those events. Some of these women had obviously never had anyone to talk to, had never thought about the whys, had never revisited the events, never pondered, never grappled with their life, you know? My heart went out to them. But I thought we should be focusing much more on the whys and the what to do about it in the future?

It took three weeks to get around the circle to me. My turn. By this time I understood why my original counselor thought I needed to go to this group--thought I wasn't in touch with my emotions. If this is what was "normal"--she was absolutely correct. I was not normal. I do not need or want pity or sympathy. Crying, for myself, is a very personal thing...and being there in this group made me realize that when I do cry (especially for myself) it is soul level crying. Much easier for me to cry for someone else. That is, why I seldom cry over my life and, if I do, it's between me and God, you know? Comes from my "safe place" and that is private. Up to me to choose who to share that with, if anybody.

Needless to say, I was a great disappointment to the tissue ladies and visibly frustrating to the prodding counselor. I have no problem telling anything about my life--and no problem not even being tempted to cry about it as I tell you. They have already settled into my core. Once I have deeply experienced, wallowed, searched, examined, shredded, wailed, evaluated, absorbed, and gleaned everything I can learn from whatever it was--then it is part of my past. Available to me at any time for even deeper knowledge and guidance, but--been there, done that. If I could have talked about what was actually bothering me right then--good and evil and god and life--I may have easily cried. That was present--unresolved--raw. But I discovered, just as in the individual counseling sessions, we were not allowed to talk about anything remotely spiritual or religious.

The group counselor called the individual counselor who called me--to tell me I could come back to her after the group sessions were over. I thought I was going to cry out of frustration!! LOL!

I lasted five weeks in group. Watched and listened as they went around the circle again...nothing new, nothing learned, just reliving the pain--over and over. Discovered during the coffee and cookie sessions afterwards that a lot of these women went from group to group to group and had been going for years!

I thanked both of the counselors. Told them that I learned that my issues were not just about what happened and how I felt. They were all about much deeper whys and were absolutely between me and God.

I decided that if I was going to teach Dagan the truth, to the best of my ability, then I needed a better idea what it was. I had to closely examine evil--hatred--selfishness...which led me on a hunt for unconditional love...

To be continued...

Flowers and Garbage-Prologue Part Two

2011-09-11T10:08:00.000-07:00

First of all--before I forget:

The Red Rubber Ball.

****

Crying in a ball on the pantry floor I got one of those "instant information" things from GA. I've had them enough times in my life that I know to pay attention. ;)

****

So that is The Red Rubber Ball concept.

Has come in very handy many times in all sorts of relationships since then--even at work. ;)

****

Back to the Prologue...

****

It was a dark, dark year...

I still laughed, but I think I must have sounded more like one of those tough, hardened bar maids in the old west. Distant, joyless, sarcastic, defeated by life.

Why? (I can never leave one of my whys alone--LOL!)

Needless to say, I was a great disappointment to the tissue ladies and visibly frustrating to the prodding counselor. I have no problem telling anything about my life--and no problem not even being tempted to cry about it as I tell you. They have already settled into my core. Once I have deeply experienced, wallowed, searched, examined, shredded, wailed, evaluated, absorbed, and gleaned everything I can learn from whatever it was--then it is part of my past. Available to me at any time for even deeper knowledge and guidance, but--been there, done that. If I could have talked about what was actually bothering meright then--good and evil and god and life--I may have easily cried. That was present--unresolved--raw. But I discovered, just as in the individual counseling sessions, we were not allowed to talk about anything remotely spiritual or religious.

The group counselor called the individual counselor who called me--to tell me I could come back to her after the group sessions were over. I thought I was going to cry out of frustration!! LOL!

To be continued...

Flowers and Garbage-Prologue Part One

2011-09-11T10:02:00.001-07:00

Okay, I need to start by telling you the backstory of how my arrogant, self-pitying, demanding, stubborn self was given this whole concept in the first place. ;)

****

I had already had my heart broken more than once, been raped, robbed, lied to, cheated on, back-stabbed, homeless, seen miracles, cheated death with Dagan, and always managed to survive and land on my feet without my spirit being broken. I still loved life, had faith in people, and had managed to retain my optimism and my belief in goodness and in love conquering all...kind of by the skin of my teeth through sheer determination, despite evidence to the contrary--ROFL! My tattered flower child soul had managed to survive.

My relationship with Dagan's father was oddly sterile, unhealthy, one-sided, and heart-breaking. We were together and apart, together and apart--before we were married, during the marriage, and after the marriage. He'd want me, tell me everything I wanted to hear, get me back, lose interest, and discard me--and later Dagan, too. (Dagan was expected to die, after all, so he didn't want to get attached to a son he was going to lose.)

It was Dagan who changed my perspective. Freezing me out and insulting me was one thing, but hurting my baby boy was another thing altogether. I left Dagan's dad whenDagan was two and didn't go back to him.

A few years go by and lots of things happen. I am more and more confused by people--and how to remain a good, open, honest person when some people seemed to take that as an open invitation to attack. But most people were nice, life went on, and I assumed I would figure it out one day if I just tried hard enough and didn't give up.

I had been in PWP (Parents Without Partners) for a couple of years when this guy I had seen around for a long time kind of zeroed in on me. He seemed too good to be true. (Red flag, people!) Was divorced and had custody of his two boys--so must have been a great guy to have custody, right? (I had no idea you could frighten an ex-wife into handing over a child.) Long story short--he told me toward the end of our brief one-year marriage that he had been watching me and listening to me for over a year at PWP functions and knew exactly what to tell me--what I wanted to hear. He cut way back on his drinking and even quit to "get me". After we were married he went back to steady drinking, secretly. Confessing all this, he honestly believed that I would forgive him and stay.

Stay with a man who (within six months of our marriage) was like Jekyll and Hyde, who beat his oldest son, who screamed in my face, smashed things when he was angry, who threatened to shoot me, who refused to get help for his confessed perpetual drinking, whose devoted 9-yr old attack dog put his muscular doberman body between us and growled at his master when he threatened me? I don't think so. It's one thing to leave me shaking and trembling while the kids slept, but nobody messes with my Dagan. This was escalating quickly. I saw the blood and bruises on his own son when he slumped back into the house after his dad "taught him a lesson". I knew eventually it would be me...it would be Dagan (he was just seven years old).

Nobody hits me. Nobody messes with my son.

I secretly borrowed the money, found an apartment, had Dagan staying elsewhere, and broke the news that I wanted a divorce and was moving out. He kicked and beat the dog out of the house, spittle sprayed on my face, furniture flew, but I didn't flinch or back down. (GA gave me the "red rubber ball" vision that helped me so much--explain later.) He threatened to shoot me...in tears, to shoot himself. I learned that when it comes to my soul...I'd rather be dead than give it away.

The divorce was volatile, to say the least. He'd go from begging me to come back, to threatening and stalking me. I was moving things in a Pacer (had just learned to drive that year at 30) and needed him to help me move the bigger furniture. He'd bring over one thing at a time to drag it out. Give me things. Ask for them back (including the used Pacer). I'd never argue--bring whatever back the next day while he was at work (including the car) and then he'd call and tell me to take whatever again. (Even yarn plant hangers!?)

Guess who started coming around telling me how much he'd changed in the past five years and wanting to be a shoulder for me to cry on? Yup! And guess who was gullible enough to believe him? Yup! Frying pan into the fire.

Several months later I was over at Dagan's dad's house washing clothes, running a bit later than usual, and the phone rang. When I answered this young girl was really upset and demanded to know who the hell I was. His ex-wife. Click. Suddenly memories of other young girls (waitresses from work) and other odd things kind of fell into place...and I decided to hell with trust and scruples...and went thru his house. I found love letters from this girl...who dotted her "i"s with hearts. Took them with me and left.

That night I left Dagan with my sister and drove to his house to confront him...threw the letters in his face! And you know what he was upset about? He absolutely could not believe that I had gone through his things--was shocked! He knew me that well. Had been so confident I would never break my own moral code that he let me come over and wash clothes by myself at his house for months. He informed me that he was bored with me, anyways. I was no challenge because I believed anything anybody told me. "You have sucker written right across your forehead." He laughed. I cried.

I broke.

My soul cracked.

I had always told myself that if people really knew they were hurting other people they probably wouldn't do or say what they did. They are just self-involved or misguided or damaged, as we all are to some degree. I'd make excuses. I'd forgive. Sometimes with gritted teeth, but I'd forgive, right? But he had known me better than anyone. Knew the hell I had just endured with my second marriage. He had hurt me deliberately. With malice and cruelty--and for sport, apparently.

I had looked evil in the smiling face. Could find no good...no excuses...no forgiveness.

I was destroyed. Stricken to the core. Devastated. I laid in bed and couldn't move for two days. Overwhelmed with the bleakness. Immobilized by fear. How do I live in this world? How do I function? How can I protect myself? How can I protect Dagan? I have just been a human target with a big neon arrow over my head...with "sucker" on my forehead...and big sign on my chest shouting "foolish flower child soul--strike here".

I saw evil everywhere I looked--in some form, on some level or another--including my own dark side I had been battling all my life.

I gave up.

I became bitter. Hard. Sarcastic. I didn't trust anybody. It was a dog eat dog world. I had just been too naive and blind to see it.

People who were close to me were very worried about me. Please! This isn't you! You're not like this!

How the hell do you know?

People had told me over the years--you have your head in the clouds--you're just weird--you think too much--you're not being realistic--normal people aren't like that--you're not like other people...

Well, maybe I wasn't!

But you get your heart ripped out and your teeth kicked in enough times and you finally wise up to how things really are in this world.

It was a dark, dark year.

To be continued......

Flowers and Garbage-Prologue Part One

2011-09-11T10:02:00.000-07:00

I woke up thinking about Flowers and Garbage so I figured I would just dedicate myself today to trying to put this into words again. Not an easy task, as it is a concept that spreads out in all directions like a drop of water on a still pond. That's why I was curious to see what I had written down almost 30 years ago because, since then, flowers and garbage has never left me and has actually grown over the years to cover light and darkness. (The above sunrise this morning seemed quite appropriate--LOL!) Don't worry. I promise I won't overdo, so this could end up being told in parts for all I know. I won't know until my timer and I really get into this. ;)
Okay, I need to start by telling you the backstory of how my arrogant, self-pitying, demanding, stubborn self was given this whole concept in the first place. ;)
****
I had already had my heart broken more than once, been raped, robbed, lied to, cheated on, back-stabbed, homeless, seen miracles, cheated death with Dagan, and always managed to survive and land on my feet without my spirit being broken. I still loved life, had faith in people, and had managed to retain my optimism and my belief in goodness and in love conquering all...kind of by the skin of my teeth through sheer determination, despite evidence to the contrary--ROFL! My tattered flower child soul had managed to survive.
My relationship with Dagan's father was oddly sterile, unhealthy, one-sided, and heart-breaking. We were together and apart, together and apart--before we were married, during the marriage, and after the marriage. He'd want me, tell me everything I wanted to hear, get me back, lose interest, and discard me--and later Dagan, too. (Dagan was expected to die, after all, so he didn't want to get attached to a son he was going to lose.)
It was Dagan who changed my perspective. Freezing me out and insulting me was one thing, but hurting my baby boy was another thing altogether. I left Dagan's dad when Dagan was two and didn't go back to him.
A few years go by and lots of things happen. I am more and more confused by people--and how to remain a good, open, honest person when some people seemed to take that as an open invitation to attack. But most people were nice, life went on, and I assumed I would figure it out one day if I just tried hard enough and didn't give up.
I had been in PWP (Parents Without Partners) for a couple of years when this guy I had seen around for a long time kind of zeroed in on me. He seemed too good to be true. (Red flag, people!) Was divorced and had custody of his two boys--so must have been a great guy to have custody, right? (I had no idea you could frighten an ex-wife into handing over a child.) Long story short--he told me toward the end of our brief one-year marriage that he had been watching me and listening to me for over a year at PWP functions and knew exactly what to tell me--what I wanted to hear. He cut way back on his drinking and even quit to "get me". After we were married he went back to steady drinking, secretly. Confessing all this, he honestly believed that I would forgive him and stay.
Stay with a man who (within six months of our marriage) was like Jekyll and Hyde, who beat his oldest son, who screamed in my face, smashed things when he was angry, who threatened to shoot me, who refused to get help for his confessed perpetual drinking, whose devoted 9-yr old attack dog put his muscular doberman body between us and growled at his master when he threatened me? I don't think so. It's one thing to leave me shaking and trembling while the kids slept, but nobody messes with my Dagan. This was escalating quickly. I saw the blood and bruises on his own son when he slumped back into the house after his dad "taught him a lesson". I knew eventually it would be me...it would be Dagan (he was just seven years old).
Nobody hits me. Nobody messes with my son.
I secretly borrowed the money, found an apartment, had Dagan staying elsewhere, and broke the news that I wanted a divorce and was moving out. He kicked and beat the dog out of the house, spittle sprayed on my face, furniture flew, but I didn't flinch or back down. (GA gave me the "red rubber ball" vision that helped me so much--explain later.) He threatened to shoot me...in tears, to shoot himself. I learned that when it comes to my soul...I'd rather be dead than give it away.
The divorce was volatile, to say the least. He'd go from begging me to come back, to threatening and stalking me. I was moving things in a Pacer (had just learned to drive that year at 30) and needed him to help me move the bigger furniture. He'd bring over one thing at a time to drag it out. Give me things. Ask for them back (including the used Pacer). I'd never argue--bring whatever back the next day while he was at work (including the car) and then he'd call and tell me to take whatever again. (Even yarn plant hangers!?)
Guess who started coming around telling me how much he'd changed in the past five years and wanting to be a shoulder for me to cry on? Yup! And guess who was gullible enough to believe him? Yup! Frying pan into the fire.
Several months later I was over at Dagan's dad's house washing clothes, running a bit later than usual, and the phone rang. When I answered this young girl was really upset and demanded to know who the hell I was. His ex-wife. Click. Suddenly memories of other young girls (waitresses from work) and other odd things kind of fell into place...and I decided to hell with trust and scruples...and went thru his house. I found love letters from this girl...who dotted her "i"s with hearts. Took them with me and left.
That night I left Dagan with my sister and drove to his house to confront him...threw the letters in his face! And you know what he was upset about? He absolutely could not believe that I had gone through his things--was shocked! He knew me that well. Had been so confident I would never break my own moral code that he let me come over and wash clothes by myself at his house for months. He informed me that he was bored with me, anyways. I was no challenge because I believed anything anybody told me. "You have sucker written right across your forehead." He laughed. I cried.
I broke.
My soul cracked.
I had always told myself that if people reallyknew they were hurting other people they probably wouldn't do or say what they did. They are just self-involved or misguided or damaged, as we all are to some degree. I'd make excuses. I'd forgive. Sometimes with gritted teeth, but I'd forgive, right? But he had known me better than anyone. Knew the hell I had just endured with my second marriage. He had hurt me deliberately. With malice and cruelty--and for sport, apparently.
I had looked evil in the smiling face. Could find no good...no excuses...no forgiveness.
I was destroyed. Stricken to the core. Devastated. I laid in bed and couldn't move for two days. Overwhelmed with the bleakness. Immobilized by fear. How do I live in this world? How do I function? How can I protect myself? How can I protect Dagan? I have just been a human target with a big neon arrow over my head...with "sucker" on my forehead...and big sign on my chest shouting "foolish flower child soul--strike here".
I saw evil everywhere I looked--in some form, on some level or another--including my own dark side I had been battling all my life.
I gave up.
I became bitter. Hard. Sarcastic. I didn't trust anybody. It was a dog eat dog world. I had just been too naive and blind to see it.
People who were close to me were very worried about me. Please! This isn't you! You're not like this!
How the hell do you know?
People had told me over the years--you have your head in the clouds--you're just weird--you think too much--you're not being realistic--normal people aren't like that--you're not like other people...
Well, maybe I wasn't!
But you get your heart ripped out and your teeth kicked in enough times and you finally wise up to how things really are in this world.
It was a dark, dark year.
To be continued......

Me, GA, and SC-Part 6: Soul Comfort

2011-01-01T13:05:00.000-08:00

Okay--it's New Year's Eve morning and this is the final installment. :)

You'd think I'd remember the date on something as monumental as this, but I don't. I'm sure I have it written down somewhere in my "Angel Books" (small spiral notebooks where I thought on paper to GA about all this stuff--which I definitely am glad I didn't destroy and think I should go back and read now). Anyways, the years I did energy work mostly were from 1993 to 1999 when I moved up here to Fargo-Moorhead--and very infrequently the last two of those years due to the hours I put in at the senior building working two jobs.

I'm guessing this was somewhere in 1995:

The hypnotherapist, Gary, and I had worked out a trade. I was hoping to get more information through hypnosis. Gary did hypnosis sessions with me and then I did some energy work with him.

I found that I could use Healing Touch methods to work my way around the person, but then when I got back to their heads I always felt compelled to stay there. Had this strong need to hold their head in my hands--and even got to where I had a specific placement of my fingers cupping the sides of their head with thumbs near their crown that just felt right. People said they could feel energy coming down their body from their head and many people dozed off--hehe! I had occasionally been feeling more of that zappy energy when I worked on people--that tingly feeling I got coming down into the top of my head and out my hands.

Gary usually scheduled me as his last client so that I could work on him after he did the hypnosis session with me and we had no time constraints. We'd pull his big comfortable hypnosis lounger chair out into the room so that I could make my way around the lounger and eventually sit in a hardback chair behind his head. We had already done this a couple of times previously, so we kind of had a routine.

I'd worked my way around his body, had settled into the chair, and was holding his head as he lay prone in the lounger. Everything was normal, but I remember I did feel more energy in my hands the whole time before I got to his head.

After a couple of minutes something started to happen to me. The tingling sensation washed strongly down over my entire body and I had this feeling more was coming. I remember I kind of sucked in my breath and was actually frightened for a moment. The unknown, you know?! Get ready--GA popped into my head--and I automatically started this rapid mouth/nose breathing thing I'd never done in my life--and felt like I was almost lifted up ram-rod straight in that chair. Open your heart. I quit resisting it at all--handed myself over--trusting GA...and this tremendous force of vibrating energy came down through the top of my head, bolted me to the spot, and quite literally took my breath away.

I couldn't move--my hands, my feet, my body--and I could feel my hands vibrating on the sides of Gary's head. The energy came in waves--down into the top of my head and out my hands. Tears streamed down my face. I don't even know how to describe the experience very well in words. Was like having this pure god-love passing through my body. Total peace, joy, love, forgiveness... Awe--no, there's not a big enough word for how that vibrating energy felt flowing through me.

After about 10 minutes the waves subsided and my hands slowly stopped vibrating. I felt crazy wonderful--like floating with joy! Gary had listened to my sudden panting and how I stopped just as suddenly and felt my hands start to vibrate. He had just kept quiet and let the energy flow through him. Listened to me tell him afterwards what happened to me. Neither of us knew exactly what had happened, but knew it was a good thing. :)

I thought this intense energy occurrence was probably a one-time thing, you know? But then later on it happened again when I was working on somebody else! And then again. I asked the ladies in the Women's Group, but none of them had heard of anything like it.

[Aside: The women asked me to see if it might happen with one of them at one of our meetings. To my surprise--it happened. Jill, the really visual one who did long-distance healing on Dagan, said she saw this huge pillar of white light come down from above me that enveloped my entire body and also the person I was working on!?]

The intense vibrating energy would happen randomly and very infrequently. Never happened with the same person twice. I had no control over who or when. If I tried to force it to happen--the energy actually dropped. Like GA indicated in the first place--I had to get out of the way. My ego cannot be involved--at all--like in a crisis. That energy passes through me--like a super straw--but it's none of my business, you know? It is not mine to control or direct. True--who am I to think I could know what a particular soul needs? Just like with the people on the bummers--and how I trusted that I would be guided. Not my doing. Faith. (Honestly--I would probably screw it up if my head consciously got involved--ROFL!)

GA gave me a kind of image one time of there being layers and layers of energy--from deep inside a person's body and spreading outward--very far, actually. A person may have physical, intellectual, or emotional issues--but all those obstacles or wounds or blockages or whatever you want to call them--they are all chosen to be carried by that soul--sometimes for many lifetimes. They can choose to learn, accept, and release them, too. Free will. And since we don't know what particular soul lesson is being learned, we don't know what obstacles that individual needs to learn to overcome. Or when divine elimination of an obstacle may be the very source of knowledge for that particular soul. (God can do anything.)

This gift of free will is a double-edged sword. We can be our own worst enemy. When we don't have to be. We can choose to cling to our particular dark spots or obstacles and carry them with us. When, in fact, each of us is a shining, pure, vibrational note of soul energy. One unique note in God's orchestral symphony.

This godforce energy felt too--well--holy for me to be calling it "bunny stuff" anymore. Good grief! That was like making light of something that felt so precious, you know? It was actually GA who gave me the term "soul comfort" to describe it. Perfect!

Well, looking back, I would probably guess that what I came to call the "full blown soul comfort" only happened maybe a dozen times altogether. The last time was a while before I moved up here in 1999.

[Aside: I bought my very first computer in 1998. When I was supposed to pick a screen name--and back then they told people not to use their own names--just to be clear on this, it was GA who wanted me to use soulcomfort. That just seemed sooo arrogant and was extremely uncomfortable to me. I couldn't decide on another name--kind of argued in my head, like we do, over this for a day or two. (I only had a couple hours a day online available to me back then-on call and only one phone line.) What GA does--he just keeps popping something into my head--over and over and over. Very annoying when you are trying to work. I finally relented. (Figured I could change it later, but get him off my case--hehe!) Turned out--over the years--I have grown comfortable with it. But now that I have told you all this story--maybe not so much anymore.]

Well, all of this long tale was actually leading somewhere. GA gave me new "information" mid-December. I am supposed to learn how to do the full blown Soul Comfort here--by myself. Just send it outward.

Say what?! (He's been really quiet for the better part of a decade! Then, out of the clear blue sky he hits me with this!?)

It's for you, too--he tells me.

That struck to the very heart of one of my major core issues. Not feeling worthy. Makes me cry to even talk about this. I've been getting from GA that, for it to work the very best way, I have to include the straw itself--allowing and absorbing that energy, too.

I have been wrestling with this for the last two weeks. Feels like a lifetime ago that I was doing energy work--over 11 years now. Truth--GA wanted me to write about all of this for all these days and be done by today--New Year's Eve. I got that loud and clear after Dagan and Leah and I had Sacred Circle on the 21st. Probably because I needed to let this sink in and I told Daganand Leah I planned to start trying to learn how to do this at my usual New Year's Eve ceremony I'd be doing by myself. (Can check other years on my blog.)

As I told you--it is shocking how well I have been physically doing despite sitting at the computer all these hours--for all these days! (Maybe I am already accepting some of that energy??) And I know one big reason why he wanted me to write about this. When I write--I kind of go back there, you know? The writing has turned out to be almost like spiritual prep time--ROFL!

I'm sure I'll have more to say along the line, but now you are all caught up. 2011 is the year for Soul Comfort. Since it took me a long time (1-2 years?) to build up to being able to handle the intensity of that energy before, I am not expecting to reach that point for quite a while--but I will tell you all about it if and when it happens. :):)

Tonight: I will gather up all my crystals and such, like I always do. Since we just had Sacred Circle and did the angel cards and burning bowl--I think I will just write in my brand new spiritual journal. And then I am going to light a candle, turn on my Music To Disappear In CD (yes, I have it on CD now--wore out a couple cassettes--hehe!), sit quietly, and hand myself over.

Wish me luck! :)

Happy, happy, happy new year!!!

Me, GA, and SC-Part 5: Energy Work

2011-01-01T13:04:00.000-08:00

Let's start out with a little giggle this morning. Truth be told--this is who I've been sleeping with for the past 17 years.

The "bunny stuff" bunny. He doesn't look too much the worse for wear for sleeping cuddled under my chin lo these many years. He had a big red ribbon around his neck when he was new but that got in the way and was removed posthaste. Oddly, he has no name. I, who name sooo many inanimate objects, have always just called him "the bunny stuff bunny". He's been fine with that. :)

****

Okay--practicing on people.

****

I really didn't know what to do. Kept "getting" to think about mother's and babies--and how mother's send energy to their babies without even knowing it. A love energy. How I knew to keep people who were upset (myself included) away from Dagan when he was an infant in the neo-natal unit--to surround him with positive energy. People send energy without knowing it--all the time--positive, negative, neutral.

****

Well, all I could think of was to sit across from somebody--either cross-legged on the floor or seated in chairs--and hold hands. (I felt like I wanted to put my hands on people's heads, but that seemed a bit forward for a Minnesotan, ya know.) We'd try to send energy and see if we could feel anything. Naturally I started with very close friends, Dagan, and the man I was still living with at the time. We'd put on Music To Disappear In and sit quietly holding hands. Some people said they could feel a little something. Sometimes I could feel a little of that tingling down my arms like I got when I was zapped. Nothing too exciting or definite, to be perfectly honest. But it was pleasant and meditative.

****

Found that if I stood up and the person was in the chair--then I felt more of that tingling sensation. Seemed more "right" for some reason. I was kind of surprised that people volunteered (I've always been a talker) from the pet shop where I worked and there were a few other people--relatives or friends of people I had done "bunny stuff" with. I started hearing about "energy work", of course. You know how when you move in a new direction, suddenly you hear what you need to hear? People would tell me that the "bunny stuff" must be energy work.

****

To be honest, trying to remember back--well, I'm not sure about the order of things with the energy work. There was so much else going on in my life at the time, too. My relationship ended, I tried to stay in a place that was too expensive for me (we had a lease), I got my fingers in that pressure roller at the factory (crushed the bones in two fingertips and tore the fleshy part of the one almost off), moved to a cheaper apartment in Osseo, the muscles shredded in my wrist from compensating for the finger accident about a year or so later (lack of grip and had to lift 100 pound+ rolls of paper), eventually they let me go from my job (after they re-injured my wrist 4 times-no union-either I did what they said or I'd be fired with no workman's comp-didn't care that the doctors said I couldn't do the work-sent me to different ones till I got one who said it was all in my head, etc), had to file bankruptcy, Dagancollapsed at the driving range (heart failure-had surgery to save his life-but invalid-wheelchair-could barely walk), I was supposed to be looking for work (Workman's comp was threatening to cut me off), but Dagan needed 24 hour care, experimental surgery at University of Minnesota, Dagan made it back to college up here in Moorhead, and I was suddenly offered a position (off the record by my comp job lady, because it had no pay) as a live-in emergency response person in an elderly complex (didn't have to lift anybody because not allowed to for insurance reasons). Makes me tired just to write all that down--hehe!

****

Anyways, during all these life happenings (a couple of years worth)...there was lots of energy stuff going on, too. I remember using visualization on my torn finger-imagining it looking like the other hand (it does and has feeling, too!). They made me wrap it and go clean and scrap machines since I couldn't run mine one-handed--and got a raging infection from it being wrapped in plastic and being around 100 or so degrees by the glue machines. Medications weren't helping-doctor was talking about having to cut it open again and drain it (awwwkk!)--so I tried to think about kind of imagining it draining (and it went down). And I used a kind of meditation to deal with the pain level.

****

When the factory folk were trying to force me to leave the job (so they wouldn't have to pay me unemployment, either)--they had re-injured me so many times that my whole arm was really bad up to my arm pit and in a sling so they finally quit trying to force me to use my bad arm. BUT--they still made me come to work and made everybody else do my work for me. *sigh* All I could do was turn my machine off and on--other rewinders had to come and do all the physical work (90% of the job) and yet they were counting my output as a worker--so this effected our shift's bonuses! I worked the night shift. We used to illegally play radios on the night shift. They knew this and ignored it. But suddenly they actually had office people pop in during the night to make sure we weren't listening to the radio--or doing any of the other things we did for the ten minutes while our rolls were finally rewinding. So-no music, no reading, and no writing letters (me, of course). So all of us were punished on the whole shift because of me. I felt just horrible about it. Luckily people liked me. They knew I wasn't faking anything and that I'd be on the street if I had no job and the company was just trying to get out of paying me anything. What a wonderful group of people!!

****

Anyways- *deep breath*-what better opportunity to learn how to meditate and be in the present moment. I had all night, every shift, for over three monthsbefore they finally relented and let me go. Thanks to them, tho, I learned a lot of things about energy and meditation, mind over matter, focus, sending positive energy (to all those wonderful people!)...lots of things.

****

Along the line over those couple of years I took levels one and two in Reiki. I was searching for some kind of actual energy work that felt right for me. Reikididn't. Becoming a "master" was a long, very expensive, secretive process. I believed that positive energy was something that should be open and shared--shouted from the rooftops, actually. :)

****

My friend, Lynnette, found out about a Healing Touch seminar. She's a nurse and this was one of the things she could attend for recertification. We went together. Healing Touch was awesome! It's an umbrella term for several modalities and they talked about how everyone can learn this and sharing the knowledge, etc. Ahhh! I attended all the classes for Level One and for Level Two at St. Catherine's college. (Finished Level Two certification while I lived at the senior complex.)

****

Oh--and I went to classes called "Talk To Your Angels" (how could I resist!) and the lady running the class invited me to a Woman's Spiritual Group that rotated meeting at the women's homes. I felt totally out of my comfort zone, but I went. And I met these wonderful ladies! Some of them were energy workers, psychics, long distance healers, etc. Some were visual, audio,kinesthetic (learned a lot of new terms and of books to read). Had no idea why I was invited, but I was thrilled to be there. They disbanded years ago and I moved away from Minneapolis, but I still miss that group of women.

****

When Dagan ended up an invalid for those months after his surgery at Children's--well, one of the things was that he'd had a blood clot land in a lung (thank God-watched him having a stroke as it passed through his brain). Couldn't dissolve it--even with a tube into his lung dripping directly onto the clot. They said he had permanent lung damage to the bottom third of his lung. Plus, when he sat upright he lost blood pressure and oxygen because he's always had a tendency in that direction and the pressure had been so high in his heart when they did the Fontan re-do after he collapsed in heart failure that they had to put a hole between the top two chambers.

****

The experimental surgery at the University of Minnesota was to go in via acatherization procedure (wire up the groin into the heart) and attempt to close the hole. They'd release a patch on one side of the hole and then a patch on the other side. (Commonly done now and called something else.) But they weren't hopeful about the pressure in his heart because it had always been on the high side to begin with and there were no guarantees that they could leave the patch in. They'd have to try it and wait and see about the pressure and remove it right away if it was too high. The new procedure was called "angel wings". Need I say more. Dagan and I both thought he should go for it. :):)

****

Meanwhile--the ladies in the Woman's Spiritual Group told me that had been doing long-distance healing on Dagan. Several of them had come over when he was still in Children's and we did a healing energy circle standing around his bed. The one lady, Jill, had been working on him a lot on her own, too, over those months and she told me he was better and that his lung was healed. Well, when Dagan went for the Angel Wings surgery they were shocked to find out the pressure in his heart was suddenly lower than it had ever been since he was born! So they were able to "install" his heart angel wings--hehe! And they thought as long as they were in there they took a camera down to look at the lung damage--"don't know what they were talking about at Children's, we couldn't find any damage in either lung." (Jill always said she could "see" into people's bodies when she was doing long distance work on them. Totally, totally believed her after that!!)

****

Just writing about all of this makes me feel like dancing! :):)

****

I was told about a Unity Church and a Lake Harriet Community Church in Minneapolis--that they both had people there who did energy work. I had to go check that out! Ended up volunteering at both churches doing Healing Touch. At Unity they worked on people while they sat in a chair. At Lake Harriet they had rooms with massage tables! I volunteered mostly at Lake Harriet. I could bring my boom box and MTDI cassette, a candle, and have a little privacy and quiet. Was wonderful! People tended to fall asleep on me--hehe!

****

That's it for today. I'm still on schedule, I think. One more part left and you should be basically all filled in. TaDa!

****

I just wanted to say that if anyone wants to talk to me privately or ask me questions or tell me their own stories...please feel free to email me. Just put something in the subject line so I know you're not spam--hehe! (soulcomfortat gmail dot com) I may be very open about myself, but I greatly respect other's privacy.

****

This is food for my soul!! :):):)

Me, GA, and SC-Part 4: the running girl and "bunny stuff"

2010-12-29T16:04:00.000-08:00

My life was filled with challenges and changes--leaps of insight and fallow years--loves and losses--great spiritual confusion and moments of crystal clarity. Even after "meeting" GA I never believed he was around all the time. I knew he flashed in when somebody else needed assistance, but I thought he begrudgingly arrived when I was so spiritually lost it was his obligation to show up and kick some spiritual butt. Like he had drawn the shortest straw with the guardians. Obviously everyone has a guardian angel or I certainly wouldn't have one, right?

I gradually learned to pay closer attention to coincidences and to this zapping thing that would happen to me ever since I can remember. A tingly feeling starting at the top of my head and working down my body--usually happened when I was wrestling with spiritual decisions, pondering what was the right thing to do--when I was struck speechless by the beauty of words or the earth or music or love--and it was always there at those spiritual light bulb moments. Hard to explain because I wasn't paying attention as to when it happened--it had just always happened on occasion and I related it to soul-positive things.

Fast forward to January, 1993. I had been married twice and my second live-in relationship was ending. My dream of finding that soulmate had slipped through my fingers--several times. There was obviously something deeply flawed in me. And I was unable to make good choices when it came to men--period. So, I totally gave up. Washed my hands of it. Handed my love life over to God/GA. Vowed that I would never get involved again unless the man was "GA Approved". And told GA that he would have to be as hit-me-over-the-head-obvious about it as he was with the quitting smoking. (Been alone since--ROFL!)

http://soulcomfort.blogspot.com/2010/12/tuesday-930am-winter-cottonwood-and.html

I thought my spiritual path had been the most important thing in my life, but I was so easily sidetracked by wanting to be loved (men), money issues, jobs, moving, and starting over so many times my head was spinning. I told GA that I wanted to put my spiritual path first from now on.

[Aside: I couldn't remember which year this all started and just went to go look it up in a box where I knew I had the "Soul Comfort" sheet I wrote out to give to people I worked on years ago. I just now realized that after I grumpily declared these things to GA in January--it was a few months later that I caught my fingers in a pressure roller at my fairly new job (I didn't want to be sidetracked by work so I got a factory job)--and then later my wrist muscles shredded because of the first accident and I was forced to leave that job....and the long downward health spiral began. ?? Maybe GA had to help kick me (forcefully!) right off my path--several times--before I ended up here in Fargo unable to do much of anything at all anymore! I am very stubborn and single minded at times. *ahem* Talk about your putting your spiritual path first, eh? Be careful what you ask for--ROFL!! Everything happens for a reason. Even if you have to wait a decade or two to be able to look back and see the bigger picture more clearly. LOL!!]

Anyways--I also don't recall exactly (but it was around Jan 1993) when I had one of those GA information things as I was waking up where he told me I was to learn how to do what I did in a crisis without the crisis.

What?! Come again?

He brought the accident with the girl who was hit by a car into my head. "Remember. Think about it."

I had forgotten all about her. Dagan was about three years old. I had split up with his dad (for the second and last time) and Dagan and I were living in Coon Rapids nearby where my dad worked. My folks encouraged me to come over and wash clothes over at their place to save money and my dad had picked us up after work with all our dirty clothes. It was cold, dusk, and it had started to snow--enough that there was a dusting of snow on the ground. Had to be late fall/early winter because there wasn't much snow accumulated on the ground at all--may have even been the first snowfall? We were driving down East River Road in Fridley--two lanes each direction and we were in the far right lane. My dad is a careful driver and the car up ahead of us, I noted, must have been, also, because we were keeping pace with him as the sun was disappearing.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a girl crossing in the middle of the road. A bus had just gone by in the other direction, so I figured she must have just gotten off the bus. I hadn't noticed her until she was about to cross the center line and come trotting across our lanes of traffic--head down--watching her feet so she didn't slip. But she never glanced up and kept going! And ran right in front of that car ahead of us!! She flew up and over the hood and landed on the side of the road!

Stop! Stop! I shouted at my dad! He pulled over. I told Dagan to stay right there in the car and wait--and I ran down the road toward the girl. I remember thinking maybe she was dying or having a seizure--because her legs were out stiff and shaking oddly. I tried to remember what I did--auto-pilot is a blurry thing. But I know I immediately got down on my knees in the snow besides her on her right side and held her hand. She was not conscious.

The driver was beside himself. I remember telling him it wasn't his fault--she never looked up to see him coming. A remember a couple strangers showed up--I asked someone to call an ambulance (this was long before cell phones and I don't know if we even had 911 yet?) and people to go look for a blanket or something. She was alive because she started to shiver. I told the driver man to go out on the road and get her shoe and I saw a book. He really needed something to do--was frozen in panic. So he did that in between cars.

She started to come to and was fighting to get up! I knew she shouldn't move. I laid my hand fully on her forehead--telling her to just lie still--and she sunk back onto the ground. Someone did come with a blanket or something to lay over her--but I remember I didn't let go of her hand to help them with the blanket. I remember explaining to her that she'd been hit by a car and that the ambulance was coming and she was going to be alright. I slowly stroked her forehead--like you are brushing hair back, you know? Told her--I'm here. I'll stay right here until they come. She never spoke. Just nodded her head that once. And she laid quietly while I talked to her-until the ambulance men came racing up. Couldn't have been more than 10 or 15 minutes from the time she was hit. I moved when they told me to.

My dad had come up. I remembered seeing him earlier. Where did the people come from? Cars that stopped? There wasn't really much around there as far as buildings go? I remember wondering where they had found to call for the ambulance? I listened to her cry and watched as they cut her jeanpant's leg up the side and saw the bone sticking out of her leg--poor thing! Gave a policeman my memory and then dad and I walked back to the car where little Dagan was sitting so quietly in the warm car--waiting with big eyes. I told him all about what happened.

[Aside: I wrote everything down when I got to my folks' place and gave a detailed statement over the phone a few days later. Years later the case was going to court and they called me to testify. I saw the girl in the hallway, but she quickly turned away from any eye contact. I was relieved that she was okay, tho--and walked fine. I was there to repeat my story that the man couldn't have possibly expected anyone to run across three lanes of traffic right in front of his car in the near darkness. Not that I blamed her, either. She was a young teenager at the time, with her mind on other things and made a grave mistake. Someone came out and said they didn't need me to physically testify after they read my statement. But I was glad I got to see her.]

Anyways, so how do you deliberately replicate whatever the heck it was that you did in a crisis? Good grief! I usually couldn't remember too much of what I said--even right afterwards. I was totally lost on how on earth to proceed.

Different mornings I'd be told--"remember-think about it"--and be reminded of these things I already mentioned--the hamster--the crow--the tornadoes--the people on bummers--Dagan--and other incidents in my life.

Well, first of all, when you are on auto-pilot you do not think about yourself at all. In fact, I was so totally focused on the other person or animal that I wasn't fully aware of my surroundings unless I had to be. But how do you put yourself in that state of mind without an emergency to act on?

I "got" to sit quietly.

Well, my brain was always going 90mph and I couldn't shut it off. I tried music, but everything I had back then had somebody singing and I'd just listen and daydream and think. I was telling my friend, Ruby, about my dilemma and Ruby said she had recently heard this music on Public Radio and had gotten the cassette. Said she'd send me a copy. Music To Disappear In by Raphael. Well, the second it started I knew--this was it! (New age music and I became the best of friends--hehe!)

I practiced and practiced--until as soon as I heard Music To Disappear Inbegin I was like Pavlov's dog and could feel myself fall into the zone pretty quickly. This was not an easy task and took me months to accomplish. (I haven't been called "motor mouth" in my lifetime for nothing--hehe!)

Okay--now what?

Send energy out through your hands.

Huh? I don't remember that part. No--I don't remember doing that at all!

Okay then--I guess I needed something to focus on--to put my hands on. I used to do this in bed before I went to sleep and a girl I used to work with named Roxy had given me this stuffed rabbit for Christmas. I was not a stuffed animal person and wondered why on earth she had given me this stuffed rabbit in the first place. Well, it would do, I guess. In most times I remembered I focused on heads and hands. This stuffed bunny had a head and tiny stumpy arms, right? It would have to do.

So, I practiced with my music and my bunny--feeling mighty foolish at times, I tell you--not having a clue whether this was working or not working--or if I was doing it properly or just wasting my time holding a stuffed bunny's head--ROFL!

I had only told my closest people about any of this "bunny stuff". Didn't know what else to call it, you know? I felt kind of ridiculous and pompous to think I could actually do any of this in the first place, so a bit of a silly label seemed fitting. I didn't think of any of this as "energy work" or "meditation" or any of those terms at that time. Just was trying to figure out with GA's guidance how to do what he "suggested" that I learn how to do.

Since his next step was to try this with actual people--well, I needed to call it something, right? It became "bunny stuff".

And here is my favorite part of Music To Disappear In. It lifts the soul. At least mine. Enjoy! :):)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hUPLxgB12hs

Me, GA, and SC-Part 3: Dagan and GA

2010-12-29T15:54:00.000-08:00

It seems like I had always had that feeling that somebody was looking over my shoulder, but I believe it really took hold when I starting writing about the age of nine. I knew the concept of a diary, but all the ones I saw only gave you one small page to write on per day.

Number one--consistency was never one of my strong points.

Number two--when I did write, I wrote pages and pages.

Number three--I tore all the pages up when I was done.

So, back then I just used sheets of school paper.

For me, writing was a thinking tool: for wondering about life, pondering why people did what they did-why I did what I did, planning and figuring out what was the right thing to do, and--let's be honest--just plain venting and spewing frustration. I felt this presence over my shoulder as I lay on my belly fervently splashing my anger on the page or chewing on my pencil wondering. You know those cartoons where there's an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other--well, I had the angel conscience over my shoulder. The devil was in me. (Still is.) LOL!

At first I usually started writing because I was upset about something. Hurt, confused, frustrated, angry, puzzled, sad--I got very riled up over injustice or cruelty to people or animals. I'd write around and around something--think it upside down and sideways--until I finally came to that place where (with the nudges from and arguments with my "conscience") I could finally see it from the "proper" more loving perspective (outside myself) and thought I had come to understand the underlying core issues and motivations. (These days, I would have been wearing a WWJD bracelet, I bet--ROFL!)

Somewhere along the way I started to kind of jokingly think of and call that conscience over my shoulder my guardian angel. GA for short. I was often very annoyed with the "advice" I was hearing and would argue my case as to why the advice was wrong--or ignore it completely. (Hey--nobody wants to hear about how you are at fault, too, when you believe you have been wronged.) Well--I either had a guardian angel or was this crazy girl who had arguments with herself, right? I preferred to think I just might have a guardian angel. Over time, I learned that when I didn't listen--I should have. And it really "felt" separate.

Okay--January 1975.

Dagan was born in November of 1974. I'd had him in to this GP a couple of times already for bad colds. I told the doctor how Dagan never slept or ate much (calmly-in detail) and it was getting worse, but the doctor just thought I was exaggerating, I guess, and basically kept telling me everything was fine. Worried new mother and all that.

I felt Dagan and I were very tuned in to each other. He may have been unable to sleep, but he wasn't crying or fussy. I knew which positions seemed more uncomfortable for him. If he could only drink an ounce or less at a time and fall asleep for a short time (classic heart symptoms, I found out later) then I just fed him over and over--day and night. But he still seemed skinny to me.

I was getting all this flack from my husband and his mother about how I was just spoiling him and was a terrible mother, etc. The husband never helped me. My anger toward him, especially, had been growing and building the more exhausted I was becoming on 2 hours of sleep a night. I just did what I "knew" was right. I followed Dagan's cues and trusted those mother instincts--the mysteriously knowing things--and to hell with them.

After another evening of being insulted and scorned and laughed at my the husband...it was something like two in the morning and Dagan had finally dozed off in his infant seat (he liked being at an angle--turned out he needed to be). I laid down on the couch--flat on my back--hoping I might get a few minutes sleep. I was so angry at Dagan's dad. I was so tired that I had turned and walked into a wall that afternoon. I didn't like Dagan being around the angry energy--and I couldn't shove mine away that night. I was furious--like a mama bear defending its cub, you know? Don't you mess with myDagan!

I was lying there staring at the white ceiling of the apartment, trying to get comfortable--when suddenly--I was gone!

My one out-of-body experience in my life and it is nearly impossible to describe because I saw nothing but light. There were no physical bodies, but I could sense entities--everywhere--in this lightness--endless entities. There was a kind of humming sound of them all communicating--but it wasn't a physical sound. If you could hear vibrations of thoughts--I think that was what it was. And right next to me was--GA!!!

Note: I still call him a he, but there were no genders there. I last knew him on earth as a he, so that's why I probably have always thought of him as male.

GA was really real!! And I wasn't the least surprised. (At the time.) Communication was telepathic. I instantly understood how I could just "know" the occasional things that he sent to me (managed to get through to my ego-controlled brain). And how difficult it must be for them to try to communicate with our human languages!

Anyways, we had no physical bodies. Were just energy. He wanted to take me someplace. It was kind of like being taken by the hand, but..no hands--hehe! We passed rapidly through layers and layers of entities/souls. And he brought me to--wait for it--my husband.

My sleeping husband's soul. And I realized that everything about a soul was right there--no place to hide. On earth we can hide away, you know? It was as if all of you was right there in what would be a face, to me--because the eyes are the windows to the soul. Everything--the bad things, the good, all the reasons why for every particle of energy composing you. And I knew what GA wanted me to do--to learn.

It was almost like merging energies--when you read someone's soul. I merged with his soul--briefly. In an instant I knew everything about him--all his whys. I felt no anger toward him whatsoever. Then--poof!--it was time to go back. GA sped us through the layers of souls--but I didn't want to leave! It was glorious! It was safe! (I just realized--there was forgiveness there!)

Next thing I kind of thunked-slid into my body on the couch. It seemed like I had been thrust in through my head. For a moment I couldn't see--even though my eyes were wide open--and I couldn't hear--even though the 55 gallon was pumping away a few feet from me. Then, like when your ears pop, my body popped in place or something.

At first I was really sad to be back--peering through these eye holes. I wondered why I didn't see myself lying on the couch like people describe? And I started giggling! GA knows me too well. If I had seen or felt myself leaving--I would have freaked out and slapped right back into my body, I tell you! He snatched me out so fast and tossed me back so hard and quick that it's a wonder I didn't suffer spiritual whiplash! Of course, I might not have returned otherwise! ;)

Not true, really. If he had reminded me of Dagan, I would have been back in a flash.

And I couldn't remember all that information about my husband. I just knew I wasn't angry with him anymore. (Then--ROFL!)

Note: Looking back...GA knew I needed to get my sh*t together. I needed to be spiritually grounded and in the right place--not waste any energy on negative emotions. I needed to be open to receive information. Daganneeded us.

Shortly after my OOB experience Dagan went downhill fast. Paler, weaker, projectile vomiting, crying, barely sleeping. I trusted my "knowing" things. I was ready to do battle. Brought Dagan in to that dense GP and demanded he find out what was wrong with my baby. I can't comfort him--I can't fix this--it is something that will kill him and we need to find out what it is. (Crazy woman loose in the office--hehe!) I demanded they weigh him--He's too skinny. Dagan hadn't gained any weight for six weeks and he wasn't even three months old! So--to "humor" me, he put him in the hospital for "failure to thrive".

In those days, anyone admitted to the hospital got a chest xray. Thank goodness. (Long story short--as if I am much good at that--Dagan's heart was three times the size--crushing his lungs and organs.) When the GP showed up the next day he couldn't look me in the eye, told me that Dagan"might have a heart problem", then avoided me, and had a nurse give me the xrays and instructions as to where to bring Dagan. I was told I had to see a pediatric cardiologist from Children's Hospital. Was under the impression it was a clinic visit. They said, just go in through the emergency door and they'll direct you where to go.

I waited for my mom to come and pick us up. (I didn't learn to drive till I was 30.) We went to the emergency door and they snatched Dagan out of my arms and ran down the hallway with him. At Children's they had expected him to arrive by ambulance.

Because of the OOB experience--I was centered, grounded, and focused onDagan. I never stopped to wonder about where the information would come from that would pop into my head.

Example: First thing after they got Dagan's heart rate as regular as they could with meds--they needed to perform a heart cath on Dagan to see exactly what his heart defects were. The pediatric cardiologist, Dr. Katkov, said it was a safe procedure and had become almost like having your tonsils out.

But--I was sitting in the waiting room during the cath with friends and family when I knew his heart needed a steady beat and he was in trouble. I just focused on sending him a steady beat. I softly pounded my fist on my leg and rocked in my chair a little--zoned out, as somebody described--pound--pound--pound. I remember Dagan's dad asking me what I was doing (I think he was a bit embarrassed). He needs a steady beat. (Crazy woman in the waiting room--hehe!)

But then a scrub nurse came out and said they were having trouble--had to stop the surgery--Dagan had gone into arrhythmia. They were going to have to get that straightened out before they could try again. (They did try again--went in under his arm--set his heart off even worse.)

In the waiting room--I knew it didn't work. I knew he was bad again. Got up and walked out into the hallway to the right set of doors to wait for him. (They had not told us anything and I had no way of knowing which doors or when.) Shortly they wheeled him out. Katkov was shocked to see me standing there. He told me they had to cancel the surgery. "I know." We have to get him back to Neo-Natal right now to work on getting his heart beat regulated. "I know"--nodding.

The cath lab is actually at Abbott Hospital. There's an underground tunnel between Abbott and Mpls Children's. The crew of people raced Daganthrough the tunnel. I followed. I know everybody else did, too--but I was on auto pilot.

When we arrived there was a team of people working over Dagan on his warming table. Friends and family went to the hallway to wait--where they hadn't drawn any curtains in the adjoining room so they could see right through into critical care and watch the team. Me--I silently went and scrubbed up. I walked in around the edge of the team, went into that adjoining room, found a rocking chair, pulled it up near the door to critical care, sat down with my back to the team frantically working over little Dagana few feet away, and rocked.

First I was too fast--because all I could think was--don't take my baby! don't take my baby! Racing through the tunnel had thrown me off.

But then it was like I got a soul shake. My rocking slowed. You're right. You're right.

Dagan was not "mine". Shame on me! Whether he lived or not was between him and God. None of my business. I was so grateful to have known him for the weeks that he had been with me. Dagan was such a precious gift. We had spent day and night together--just enjoying each other's company--for the short time he had been here. If it was time for him to leave, I handed him over--gladly and with love in my heart. And I would hug and thank every person who had worked to save him. But, if Dagan could stay--if I could help in any way....

I slowly and steadily rocked--and rocked. I don't know how long. I was in a zone--never noticed my family and friends before me in the hallway. I just remember I could feel when Dagan and I were in sync. I knew he was okay. I felt like God had given him back. At least for now. Then I could hear the people tending to Dagan. Confirmed.

A little while later Dr. Katkov was heading toward the hallway to tell the Dagan-group what was what--and as he entered the adjacent room he was startled to see me sitting there rocking. I stood up. He said--we got him stabilized. I know. (Is it any wonder Katkov always thought I was strange--hehe!) I had secret assistance. :)

Dagan was not expected to live.

http://soulcomfortsstories.blogspot.com/2009/08/soft-breaths.html

I've handed him over many times. Many times God's handed him back for a while longer. ;)

Dagan, GA, and I were very tightly connected on this level for the next dozen years. Then less closely--and eventually, when he was grown--that unspoken health knowledge tie was severed. Dagan was supposed to learn to trust his own angels and guides. And he does. :):)

GA loves Dagan very much, also.

http://soulcomfortsstories.blogspot.com/2009/08/ga-hypnosis-past-life.html

Dagan's amazing wife, Leah, is the one with him now for surgeries and such. If I was ever needed--well, GA knows I am here. I trust he'd let me know.

Life is a gift. We are all on borrowed time. :):)

Me, GA, and SC-Part 2: Strangers

2010-12-29T15:44:00.000-08:00

My life has been filled with lots of spiritual "nudges"--coincidences, surprises, comfort, solace. Looking back, there were certain incidents that stand out to me in this area of energy. It's not like these were daily occurrences or I constantly heard voices, like I understand some people do. (Might have been more helpful, GA.) I just never thought it was anything out of the ordinary when I did--even if there had been a decade of silence. (Or a decade of me not listening?)

I believed I was on my own, had to fend for myself, and I was unworthy of God's notice--despite the fact I also grew to believe I could be used as a conduit. Makes no sense? Well, it does if you think of God as the CEO of a huge conglomerate and you're a peon who works the night shift down in one of the thousands of mail rooms. ;)

I digress. As is my nature.

Let's see...the next big incident I remember had to do with the FridleyTornadoes-May 6, 1965-when I was 14 years old.

First of all, since I am not the best listener, I think GA found that he could contact me more easily as I was falling asleep or, most often, waking up--before my brain went into high gear. I'd be waking up and "get" information (still do). Like that my first pair of hamsters, Mr. (brown) and Mrs. (albino) Little One had just had nine albino male babies. (What were the odds of that!) But on rare occasions I'd get information in the middle of the night or when I was wide awake.

The first time I consciously remember one of those inside-my-head conversation was when I was five:

http://soulcomfortsstories.blogspot.com/2009/08/teddy-bear-on-bible.html

Okay--the tornadoes and strangers.

When I was in sixth grade I had this scary dream. It was pitch black. I was standing hunched against a mighty wind. My hands were bound in front of me. I was inside of something--my face was against this thin box or whatever it was--I could feel the rocks, branches, or something that was pelting against my face and the whole front of my body. I couldn't move my hands. There was this horrible, loud sound that reminded me of a train when you have snuck up too close to the tracks--but I knew it wasn't a train. I woke up in the dark, heart racing. I heard--"don't be afraid--remember this". Like a command. Made no sense to me.

Three years later. I'm at the Fridley Junior High Science Fair. My project was I fed two black guinea pigs differently. (Dumb project, but any excuse to spend time with my critters--hehe!) My friend, Lynette, and I shared a table. She had used her big rat, Charlie, (who never ran on the wheel) for her project. The various displays were arranged on the tables all around the outer edge of the gymnasium. Parents and teachers were milling. And I was feeling guilty.

My brother, Blaine, went to his boy scout meeting over by the trailer court, I was gone to the Science Fair, and my folks had wanted to go to a movie. They wanted me to take my sister, Renee, along with me that night. But I had adamantly refused. Didn't want my little sister hanging around and having to watch her when I was supposed to be explaining my experiment--well, you know how that goes with big sisters.

I felt badly, though--decided to call my folks and let them know they could drop Renee off with me. Found my dime, told Lynette where I was going, and went to call on the pay phone straight down the hall by the front doors. My dad answered--but before I could get much of anything out he shouted--A tornado's coming! We're going to the basement!

I stood for a second, listening to the dial tone, and gazing out the front sets of doors at the green sky. Nothing was moving. It looked really strange outside.

I rushed back down the hallway to the big gym doors and pulled--and pulled--there was this pressure--like suction--couldn't get the door open. The double sets of front doors suddenly blew open--and the doors way at the far end of the main hallway at the other end of the building flew open, too! Wind whistled down the hallway as the door finally gave way. I jumped inside and the big door slammed loudly behind me. Everyone was just standing or milling about--casually the Science Fair was in progress. A few parents looked over at me with that annoyed looked parents get when you are too noisy. I felt safe.

I fast-walked across the room to our table and grabbed up my guinea pigs. I looked Lynette in the eyes and said--my dad says there's a tornado....

...the lights flickered, my ears popped, and a long narrow section of the ceiling disappeared all along the opposite side of the gym wall.

People went crazy! Some screamed, everybody raced for the closest doors, a dad dove into a ball under a table across the room from me, some grownups pushed kids aside to get just themselves or to herd their own kids out into the hallways. I stood there with my guinea pigs and watched. I remember thinking that, if this was my time to die, I was ready. I "knew" I wasn't supposed to move.

Another section of the roof disappeared and another. A mini funnel appeared in the middle of the gym and the wind instantly geared up. Things started lifting up off the tables. At some point the lights went out. The last thing I saw was that man huddled under that school table. A big piece of poster board slapped up against my face and body and I braced myself against the wind.

AHA! The Dream!! It was exactly like my dream. But my hands weren't bound. I couldn't move them because I was cradling a guinea pig in each arm. It was poster board! And I was being pelted by glass and who knows what from all the displays. And the sound! The sound kind of like a train, but not. I remembered. I realized I hadn't been afraid even before I consciously remembered the dream--as soon as I heard the tornado--the sound--before the roof started coming off in sections.

Anyways, the wind died as the tornado passed over the Junior High. The poster board slid down onto the floor and it started to rain. The roof was gone and all the lights were out. As my eyes adjusted, I saw the man get up off the floor. The table he'd been hiding under was gone and so were the rest of them on that side of the room. I tried to see through my wet glasses and gingerly pick my way thru the rubble to get to the hallway. I had my penny loafers on and was afraid of losing a shoe. There was glass, rubble, and tables everywhere.

People were in shock. Most people were silent and hushed, some were aimless and confused, some were hysterical, many were crying. The first thing I saw was a dad standing against the wall with a blank, hollow glaze to his eyes. I knew he was in a bad way. I made a kind of basket out of my sweater for the guinea pigs, so I had one hand free--walked over and asked him if he was okay. No response. I placed my hand on his chest and stood there for a few seconds. He kind of came to and turned to look at me. Are you okay, I asked, as I moved my hand to his arm. He took a deep breath and looked better. I remember asking if he needed help finding anybody? He thanked me and said no and off he went.

I walked up and down the main hallway. Just standing next to certain people. Touching people's arms, hands--talking calmly to them. I was aware that in that crowd of people you could count on one hand with fingers left over how many people were centered and helping other people. It was the first time I was aware of being different in a crisis. (Not that I didn't have dream help--hehe! And I do collapse after the fact.)

But I would never in my right mind under normal circumstances go up to complete strangers--especially parents and teachers!--and touch them and comfort them. Good Lord! We didn't touch or hug in my own Swedish family.

Note: I went back into the dark rainy gym for Lynette to see if I could find her rat, Charlie. There was only one table left standing and only one thing on that table--Charlie's cage. And I could hear him running on the wheel before I saw him, so I was sure it wasn't him. Lynette could hear me laughing in the darkness. :)

Another friend, Cheryl, had her project with her two hamsters set up in a classroom down the hall (it was a big Science Fair--the windows in the classrooms had shattered--inward). I helped her locate one hamster (the other I did find dead, but didn't tell her at the time because she was quite rattled) and walked her home in between tornadoes. She lived about a block and a half from my house. Made her laugh by dancing on a piece of the senior high roof laying by the road. We avoided the live wires and rubble. I was glad to feel the warmth of my two furry friends in that chilly rain. (Never did find their cage.) Made it home. Mom, Dad, Renee, and the house were still standing. My brother was okay, even though the trailer court nearby the troop meeting was destroyed. My folks were immediately upset that I left my purse with my transistor radio in it, but brought the guinea pigs home. *she giggles*

Okay. My other Strangers story--skip to the winter of 1969-70. My life, shall we say, had been a lot about survival. Unlucky in love, rape, moves, different jobs. I had landed in a cheap 2 bedroom apartment with four other girls inAnoka, Minnesota. I'd already done a little experimenting with grass and pills. Enough to know I had an addictive personality, liked speed not downers or hallucinogens, and it was a good thing I had a near phobia about needles or I could have been a dead cokehead by then! I had backed off, but I'd come home from work and find parties going on most nights. Which I wouldn't have minded if I didn't sleep on the livingroom floor--hehe! But, I was the new addition to the group when I moved in, so had little to say...at first.

Note: Within a couple of months, I ended up the rent collector and payer, apartment cleaner, and chief cook--even if I really only knew how to makegoolash/hamburger hotdish.

Anyways, I come home one night, the place is filled with people, but they're not partying--they're all looking like rats hunting for the deck ropes--and I can hear some female sobbing. There was a girl curled in the fetal position on the floor in the corner of the livingroom. They told me the girl had taken acid for the first time and was completely bumming out and would scream if anyone touched her. Can you help her?

Now why on earth would they ever assume I could help her? And why on earth did I tell them--Yes?!!! I went into a kind of auto-pilot--like I did after the tornado. I had never had any experience with a situation like this--ever--yet I heard myself telling them I could, but they all had to leave (terrible energy?). The place was cleared out in what seemed like moments--(of course--hehe!) I don't remember exactly what I said or how I ended up with her head in my lap in the corner--but within ten minutes she was calm as I stroked herblonde hair off her damp forehead. I just knew that god-energy would be there to help her--to comfort her frightened soul. And this is on such a deep core level that I can honestly say I wasn't consciously aware of thinking or making decisions, you know? Like reaching out in darkness with your heart wide open and being guided along by a small beam of light.

Each of us is but a child of God. A solitary soul in this Universal web of life.

Whew! I had to stop for some serious nose blowing. I think I know now why I felt I was "supposed" to write about all of this. It brings me back and flings my heart open. A kind of preparation for what is to come starting on New Year's Eve, I bet.

Anyways, one of the roommates had forgotten something and came tiptoeing into the apartment. Couldn't believe her eyes! I put my finger to my lips and she backed out the door.

Apparently she told everybody. Fast forward a couple months...pounding on the door. I answer it. Two young men gripping the forearms of an angry, wild-eyed mumbling fellow struggling to get away. "You Rita?", one of the arm grippers asks. "Yes." "Somebody slipped him something at the pizza parlor." "Acid?" "Don't know. Think so. He's a redneck. A drinker. He'd never touch that kind of shit." (The roommates were already grabbing their coats and purses as soon as they overheard the conversation) "This is crazy," the other guy said. "Can you help him?" "Yes." They let go of him and start rushing down the hall. "What's his name!" "John!", they called over their shoulders. I heard breaking glass! "Good Luck!" one girl said. "Make him pay for that", another one said as they whizzed past me out the door.

This six foot something football-player-type guy had walked into our bathroom next to the front door and smashed his fist into the mirror over the sink. His hand was bleeding. He pushed past me, stumbled around the apartment, smashed a wine glass on the floor, headed down the bedroom hallway, and started trying to open the window at the end of the hallway--on third floor!

I wish I could tell you exactly what happened. I remember thinking in my head--okay--I need help now! I do remember suddenly knowing that he was hearing voices coming from other places than the person who was talking to him--and explaining that to him. And that he should sit in the bedroom and not the living room because we didn't have much furniture and it was more echoey in there. But ten minutes later he was calmed down, I was holding his hand wrapped in a towel with my left hand, and holding my other hand on the center of his back as we sat on the edge of the bed.

When they sent me the people on bummers, the roommates or any of the crashers gladly fled to find other places for the night. I knew I had a good 7-10 hours ahead of me with this particular stranger until either someone picked them up or I tucked them in to sleep and they'd leave after they rested. I remember redneck guy and I took a walk to watch the sun rise and then he got tucked into a roommate's bed with a kiss on the forehead--left that afternoon, but came back with packs of cigarettes for me. (I was often rewarded with packs of cigarettes. *chuckle*)

Note: As long as I was getting known, I used to feed the street people goolash or whatever I could make for dinner--first come first serve. And they could sleep on the floor (most of them were under 25 and it was winter poor things!) and what little we had that would serve as blankets and pillows was also first come first serve. (A rolled up sweatshirt can make a pretty fine pillow.) The door was locked to the crashers at a certain time--I think it was midnight--and no one was allowed in after that. Tough love. And no drugs allowed. I had to throw out somebody now and again. Learned there was another rule--no locking the bathroom door--period.

Toward spring we were robbed of our rent money, lost the apartment, and I ended up living on the streets of Anoka for the summer. I became known as "the mad hugger" and people who didn't now my name called me "Sunshine." I was protected--by big guys who were like my big brothers--and, obviously, GA. (I have overworked him a lot in my lifetime.) Good times.

Oh that reminds me--

http://soulcomfortsstories.blogspot.com/2009/08/god-on-bus.html

Me, GA, and SC-Part 1: The Hamster and The Crow

2010-12-29T15:32:00.000-08:00

I have been wondering how in the world to start this story. After all, I didn't even know GA (what I call my guardian angel for short) was an actual entity and not just my conscience talking inside my head until about 36 years ago when Dagan was a baby. I didn't even begin to start trying to learn about "energy work" until about 17 years ago--1993, when I was 42 years old. And the last 11 years--well, I moved up here to Fargo-Moorhead to go to college and the energy work went by the wayside. My spiritual path--especially as concerns energy work--has been choppy and sporadic, to say the least.

The only thing I always knew without a doubt for as far back as I can remember was that I believed in God. He was there for absolutely everyone and everything--and could do anything. God was pure, unconditional love. Looking back, I had GA guidance all along. I never questioned where it came from. As I got older I thought of it as just my naggy conscience in my head. (That I argued with--hehe!) I had my first religious crisis when I was five. Looking back--GA was there all along--even when I didn't consciously acknowledge it or know what it was.

http://soulcomfortsstories.blogspot.com/2009/08/teddy-bear-on-bible.html

Seems like my whole life I've had this personal internal battle going on between good and evil--worthiness and worthlessness. But in a crisis--whensomebody's hurting--I reacted on auto-pilot--no hesitation--with total, unquestioning belief that God would want to comfort and help them and I'd run to their aid. Took me many years to consciously stop and think about how that made any sense whatsoever--ROFL! All I can say is that I don't question God's decisions or try to direct or make requests or heal or actually DO anything myself--on any conscious level. It is none of my business. That may make no sense to anybody but me--hehe!

I just always knew that if I asked on a soul level to be of service that God or the Universal Energy or whatever you want to call that positive force could use me--direct me--guide me as to what to do to soothe that soul--be it animal or human. I was a conduit--a straw--a tool. But I never stopped to think about it. It was just something I did automatically in a crisis. I thought everybody could do it. (I guess I still do.)

Examples?

Well, it's not like there are too many crises to handle under the age of 10--ROFL! My experiences were mostly being out in the wild prairie area near our house. I did a lot of roaming about alone. Around that age I started collecting rodents and we got a dog and cat.

http://soulcomfortsstories.blogspot.com/2009/07/fridley-fields.html

http://soulcomfortsstories.blogspot.com/2009/07/flower-child.html

The things that happened were pretty subtle, I think. Looking back, there were a couple of animal incidents that were tied together in a strange way--and they set the stage, I guess. I didn't really remember them until I went to a psychic reader in my 20s. She asked me if I remembered holding a small animal like this (she demonstrated, hand cupped against my heart) and carrying it around for a long time--hours?

Instantly I remembered the hamster! I had those cages in the garage and one of my brown hamsters got out. I searched all over for it and figured it had gotten out the small garage door that had been open. I'm not sure how many days later I was looking for something in the garage and spotted the hamster lying on the bottom of an empty bucket. It was covered in eggs--yellowish oval maggot eggs--looked fat enough to start hatching! The hamster was limp and cool to the touch even tho it was a hot day. I sat and picked the maggot eggs off--one by one. Worried about the poor little hamster because it flopped in my hand as I moved it about to get each sticky egg off his fur. I was heartbroken--because it was my fault if he died. I hadn't secured the cage door well enough. His death was on my head. I felt that painfully in my heart.

After all the eggs were finally picked off, I gently washed him up with warm water and a little soap to clean all the sticky residue off his fur. Rinsed him off really well and massaged him dry with a towel--got a clean dry towel and carried him about--cupped as she showed me--on my chest--next to my heart, as she said. I tried to listen to his chest with my ear--and watch to see if his chest moved--nothing. Tried to give him water with an eyedropper, but it just dribbled out between his teeth. So I carried him around like that for a couple of hours--thinking that he just needed to warm up--and that it wasn't too late, he shouldn't give up, and didn't have to die. I was so-so-so sorry.

I had almost forgotten him--like he was just a part of my chest--when I felt him start to wiggle! And breathe and open his dark eyes--and with tears on my cheeks I rubbed him well and petted him--loved him up good! He drank water from the eyedropper. Within half an hour he was eating and drinking and running on the wheel. Blew me away! But I had forgotten all about it.

Anyways, I told the psychic reader--yes, I did. It was a hamster. And she asked me, did you know that it had passed over and you brought it back?

Come again?

What do you say to something like that a dozen years after the fact? I laughed. How ridiculous!

Later that night I remembered another critter incident I had forgotten. Happened after saving the hamster. We were visiting relatives in Minneapolis and us kids were playing outside. It was getting closer to dusk--bummer time for kids because you know the parents won't let you stay outside much longer after dark. I happened to see something fall off a nearby building. Just fall. But it looked like it might have tried to flap a little halfway down? How could a bird possibly fall off a building? Of course, I had to go see.

I was shocked to find a big black bird on the ground! The building was maybe three stories high, I think. Long way to fall. It might have been a crow, not sure. Could have been a starling. It seemed huge to me, but then I was only about ten. I thought it was a crow. Anyways, it didn't seem to have its balance--would flip in somersaults. I picked it up and held it upright in my lap. Just automatically started to move my free hand over the body to calm it down. It never tried to peck at me or claw to get away. But I will swear on a stack of bibles that I could hear it in my head telling me--just let me go--let me go.

At the time--probably because I was used to the occasional GA remarks in my head (not that I knew that was where they were coming from), and on rare occasions could hear people's thoughts, it didn't strike me as the least bit odd I might hear a bird's thoughts. The bird was dying and just wanted to die in peace. So, I lifted him up on my arm so he could grip it like a branch and I held his chest to steady him. He didn't want to die on the ground. We just sat there--watching the sunset. I kept him company. And while I did I heard in my head--in no uncertain terms--remember this--it is wrong to interfere--it is none of your business. After the sun had faded away, his talons loosened, he went limp, and he was gone.

But, since I never believed the hamster was dead (and still just can't), I never put that together with the crow saying "just let me go" and the GA lecture--until some lady tells me about the hamster all those years later. She tried to tell me I was a healer and have been in many past lives. And the very labelreally bothered me (still does). Later, when I remembered the crow--I knew why. I am just a conduit. I don't direct anything and am not supposed to. Healing--that is none of my business. Only God or that holy energy or whatever you want to call it knows what is best for each particular soul.

So, bizarre as this sounds--(even to me-ROFL!)--the backstory has begun

GA and Quitting Smoking

2010-12-29T15:21:00.000-08:00

Okay--the quitting smoking story...get comfortable...grab a cup of coffee or tea and here we go.

****

I started drinking, swearing, and smoking grass after I was raped the summer of 1968. It's a strange thing how being beaten and raped by total strangers and then treated like it was your own fault, even by the police, can truly bottom out what little self-esteem you may have had. I believed I was worthless damaged goods and had somehow brought this upon myself and deserved it.

****

There is a funny part...at least to me. I learned to smoke grass that summer, but decided that sitting around giggling and feeling a bit zombie-ish just wasn't for me. That fall I started at the Junior College and discovered that they had a cigarette machine right down by the cafeteria. They assumed everybody was 18, but I was only 17 (had been a year ahead). So I could buy cigarettes any time I wanted! I might be wrong, but seems to me they were 35 cents a pack.

****

Anyways, I bought a pack...thinking it would make me look older and cool...go to smoke one...and I automatically toked it! Held my breath and almost choked to death!! So funny! I had to be taught how to smoke a cigarette vs. toking a joint. (Don't I sound street wise for a suburban Minnesota girl?!) The occasional experimenting with drugs lasted off and on for a couple of years, but the cigarettes stayed faithfully with me for 21 years. Alcohol returned about a dozen years later. Quit that, too, shortly after the cigarettes.

****

Over those 21 years I had tried to quit many times--cold turkey, One-Step-At-A-Time filters--(this was before the nicotine patches)--even acupuncture. I had never been able to do it. I couldn't think straight, got shaky & nauseous, and even snappy to people. Finally I'd be in tears...and lighting up.

****

I had gotten an inflamed ribcage one winter. (I know--who ever heard of such a thing?) Viral. Hurt to breathe. Couldn't lift the coffee pot. Had to sleep sitting up in a chair. Took about 4 months to run its course. But I still smoked, of course.

****

It came back another winter...and another. The doctor told me that once I had this I was just susceptible to getting it again--kind of like how some people get pneumonia easily. The only thing that could probably help is if I quit smoking, of course.

****

The pain always started at the bottom of my ribcage on one side or the other. The winter of 1989 Dagan and I were living on the farm with Roger. (Didn't farm--rented the land out.) Roger was a produce merchandiser and was on the road usually three weeks out of the month and home on weekends. Dagan was upstairs sleeping. Roger was gone for the week. I was sitting writing a letter at the kitchen table. The pain had been there...again...on my left side. I had been hoping it would go away...that it was something else...a muscle strain or something...but that night I knew it was back. Not again!

****

That would make 4 out of 5 winters! I remember I got up and started to pace the floor...feeling like I was going to scream! Or cry!

****

No amount of mental wrestling with it could help me. There was no light at the end of the tunnel. I remember feeling totally defeated and so very angry as I threw myself into bed. Tossed and turned--thinking about the whys and my soul's bumpy path and what a failure I was...

****

And I got to, shall we say, discussing this with GA (my laughing, butt-kicking, God's-representative guardian angel). I was soooo angry. I was angry that it would be another horrible winter of pain. I was angry that I couldn't quit smoking. That I was soooo pathetically weak. I was angry that my relationship with Roger was on the decline and that I couldn't succeed in love, either. That I tried so hard to be a good person and to improve my soul but never seemed to get anywhere. Maybe I was a lost cause...

****

This "conversation" went on and on. Totally one-sided. No response from GA. But I was too angry to listen, anyways. I wondered aloud about my worthlessness. I had such faith in God being there for anyone else. Whenever a person or animal was in distress--if I asked to be used as a conduit to calm their fears--He was there for them--always--no doubts. Yes--I was grateful for that--but what about me? (Self-pity is an ugly thing.)

****

I probably would never find that soul mate--never be loved. I wondered if I was a good enough mother. I still had no clue as to what my life's purpose was. I might have to start my life all over again. (Roger and I did split up the following spring.) I was looking at another long winter of being sick. And I couldn't even quit smoking. I could not do it. I had tried and tried and tried--but I was too pathetic and weak. I never asked for help for me--knew I didn't deserve any--but I dared GA--cried out in the darkness. "If you are really there--if I matter at all to you--prove it to me! Prove it to me!!"

****

I expected to hear something--loud and clear. Nothing. Silence. I cried myself to sleep.

****

When I woke up the next morning I didn't even notice at first that I wasn't smoking. I hadn't grabbed my pack and lighter first thing. I had no cravings. No dizziness, nausea, and I felt perfectly content. Had absolutely no desire to smoke!

****

Haven't smoked since.

****

I feel like it would be an insult to God if I ever did.

****

So when I tell people I quit smoking I always add that I had help. Divine intervention. I wasn't able to do it on my own.

****

Being important enough to GA/God to be personally answered and blessed (despite the petulant, whiny, nasty manner of asking for help)--well, it is still sinking in. But it started me thinking that maybe I wasn't worthless after all. :)

****

Oh--and the pain in my ribs was gone that morning, too, BTW.

Daddy and The Cottonwood Tree

2010-11-13T02:53:00.000-08:00

Another entry from my blog.

Thinking about my Dad who just turned 90 on November 9, 2010. :)

****

We moved to Fridley from South Minneapolis when I was five years old. My dad was pulling weeds around the cement basement and window-wells of our new house and I came to watch him...and ask questions, as was my job. I know I asked enough questions about weeds to find out that this one larger one was a baby tree! I begged him to leave it grow. Too close to the house. Please plant it somewhere, Daddy! Please! Save it! Save it!

****

I missed trees soooo much! Fridley was a stark naked suburb--barren--blank. I missed the "old" feeling of South Minneapolis. I missed trees.

****

I begged and pleaded and promised to water it--until my daddy finally agreed to move the sapling. We planted it in the corner of the yard down by the street near the driveway. He said he'd just forget and run over it with the mower. No--you won't. I could tell he thought it was a silly thing to do to his brand new lawn and thought it would just die anyways.

****

I remember standing guard when he mowed--carrying glasses of water out to my tree. I remember daddy being surprised that it was getting bigger. I spied and saw him watering it with the big green hose one day and I knew he cared for it, too. Dad grew careful about mowing around it. I remember how excited I felt when it outgrew me. How annoyed Dad was with the sticky pods (we got a boy cottonwood) all over the lawn.

****

That tree towered over the neighborhood. Was a landmark for directions. Grew with two trunks. I loved listening to the leaves tremble in the wind and watch them silver-shimmering in the sunlight. It is almost 55 years old--if it is still standing tall--towering--and tearing up the asphalt road a bit along the edge of the yard. I have always loved that tree--and always thought of my dad when I noticed it and when I think of it now. :):)

****

Good vs. Evil (cogitation blog post)

2010-09-04T23:35:00.000-07:00

I'm overtired and hurt all over. Can't sleep more than an hour at a time. Finally gave in and just took a pain pill. Haven't taken one since three days after I had that tooth pulled, but I also haven't really slept much at all since Wednesday. Waiting for the pill to kick in. Hoping I will finally be able to reach that place in sleep that blankets the physical pain.

But--I didn't come back to piss and moan about my mundane pain issues. I wanted to talk about The Road! Would really love to read this book, that's for sure! :)

The Road is an "after the nuclear holocaust" movie about a man and his young son trying to survive and I won't reveal the plot beyond that. (I loved it, BTW!!) But, since I couldn't sleep, I was lying in bed thinking about good vs. evil--a personal battle of mine from birth.

I think there's a lot of the warrior in my soul. Maybe the warrior lies within each of us? My warrior has always been with me in my dreams--since childhood. Strong, powerful, violent--a vanquisher of evil. The warrior in me rises up to protect the weak--be it animal or human--be it dreams or waking life. I may not feel the urge to protect myself--even in my dreams--but I am beyond fear in protecting others. I can't tell you how many times in my life I have trembled uncontrollably after a confrontation or emergency where I was needed--after the crisis had passed and everyone was safe--and I could step back--collapse. Sometimes--looking back--I was amazed by what had transpired--what was done automatically--without conscious thought--like a knee-jerk reaction of my soul.

I have never yet had to resort to the physical violence of my dreams in my real life. But I have been the occasional deadly violent dreamer--ever since I can remember. When Dagan was a baby--in one dream--with my bare hands I ripped open a person's throat who wanted to kill him. And yet in real life--a was always handing him over to God.

Hence my perpetual internal battle between good and evil.

My belief in the power of good is carved into the bones of my being. But evil is just as real--and has great power of its own. Earth is a place of contrasts--a battleground between good and evil. I believe I have kept asking to come back here--because there is nothing like it! Souls are tested by fire here--moulded by choice--free to rise or fall--shine brightly or dissolve into the darkness. A place of heart-stopping beauty, soul-lifting love, and awe--as well as the hate, cruelty, ugliness, and fear almost beyond comprehension. Earth is a testing ground for souls. A place to discover who you truly are and what your soul is made of. By choice.

The gift of choice is not an easy one to bear. The hundreds and thousands of small choices we make every day are just as important in defining our souls as the few huge decisions we make in a lifetime--probably much moreso. Our choices bump up against each other--large and small. We're constantly effecting the people around us--and creating influences on them with their choices--positive or negative. Ahhh...chaotic, seductive, difficult, painful, scary, glorious choice.

Anyways, back to the movie. The movie made you think. What would you do? How far would you go to protect those you love? To stay alive? What lines would you cross? Or would you cross them? Is mere animal survival enough? Is it enough to limit your love to one person?

And it was clearer to me why I disliked that movie Unthinkable. There was no goodness--no God--in that movie. No hope. No light. I have been up close and personal with evil--several times. The warrior in me is a champion for goodness and light. I know. I have been tested. The light is always there. I have seen it!!

[ http://soulcomfortsstories.blogspot.com/2009/07/rape-and-love.html ]

My soul will not leave without a fight. I will stand up and look evil in the eye--and try to remind it of the light--see the glimmer of light within the evil. Whether it works or it doesn't--I don't want to join that side. I'll die first. I hope and pray--for my soul's sake--that I would allow myself to be killed rather than switch sides just to stay here. Maybe I have done it so many times in past lifetimes that the shame of that lesson runs deep?

I have been close enough to feel the hot breath--have looked evil in the eye--and spoken of love, God, right and wrong--bared my soul to evil. Sometimes the best response was silence--or appealing to their better nature. The rapists, a man trying to drown a puppy (I was 10), a man threatening to shoot me if I left him, another threatening to strike me with an iron skillet (or butcher knife, I can't remember and it didn't matter to me at the time), a repairman pinning me against the wall, another one advancing with a knife, people on violent acid trips, a hammer thrown at my head, another threatening to run us into a telephone pole if I left him, malicious employers, women who hated my guts and spread lies, one woman cut off all my hair...I'm sure there are more incidents I can't possibly remember them all. I cannot say I've had a dull life.

When I was taking the Human Services Tech course I asked to always have them give me the worst they had when we went to our on the job training spots. I wanted to know what I could actually handle. I prefer to face things head on--whether I like it or not. So--at the Anoka State Mental Hospital I was assigned to the lock-up ward for the weeks I was there. The employees warned me not to spend very much time in the day room and told me I could spend time helping them in the office. But, of course, I spent all my time in the day room--except for staff meetings I was required to attend. So they warned me about this big, angry-looking man who paced up and down the long hallway with his hands clasped behind his back--all day long. They told me he was very violent--a rapist--don't look him in the eye--don't talk to him--stay away from him.

I'd been raped, so I had no trouble following those orders.

One afternoon while I was standing chatting with a patient who was admitting to me for the first time that she heard voices, that angry pacer man suddenly entered the day room at a fast clip and walked straight up to me--invaded my space--nose a couple inches from mine. I didn't flinch or back away. We stared into each other's eyes.

"Are you good.....or are you evil?", he inquired in a baiting tone.

"Well, I hope I'm good." Our eyes were locked. "I try very hard to be a good person."

We stared. Suddenly his eyes were not as empty as he wished them to be.

He turned and walked away as four orderlies raced thru the dayroom door.

And he paced the hallway as if nothing happened.

A couple of days later, while I was at lunch, he attacked a fellow patient and almost choked him to death in the dayroom. Took more than the four orderlies to pull him off. The pacer was sent to St. Peter (for the criminally insane)--where the poor soul should have been in the first place, if you ask me. They watch them very closely there. I felt he lacked self-control and he knew it. Sad. He believed he was evil. I've always wondered if he was allowed enough room to pace?

Good and evil.

I believe in the power of good. Doesn't matter to me if evil makes temporary gains down here. Wouldn't honestly matter to me if I was killed by evil here--or disease, or accident. It really doesn't matter how you die. It matters how you live. We don't have much choice about how we leave. But--rich or poor--free or not--we still choose every single moment how we live.

These are the kinds of things I think about. Ask anyone who knows me. :)

Is it any wonder why I have been so happy with my quiet life these past few years? ROFL!! Maybe I have earned these more peaceful years--a time for rest. But the battle of my soul rages on...within a myriad of small choices each and every day. :):)

My dearest wish for you? For me? For humanity? Wise choices.

But be prepared for battle. There's no one to fight for your soul but you. Or maybe me, if I am nearby enough to draw my sword! ;)

Love and light!! :):)

I Mourn My Body Past

2009-09-29T13:36:00.000-07:00

I Mourn My Body Past

I remember
Racing through the Minnesota grasslands
Playing wild horses with the neighbor kids
Until I fall
Rubber legged
Smiling
Rolling upon the ground
Too winded to laugh out loud

I remember
Teetering on two inches of wood fence
Encircling the dusty
High school ice rink in July
Watching dirty toes inch
With winged and waving arms until
Sweat trickling down my neck
I retreat
And nestle into the oak tree’s arm
Jagged bark prickling the back of my thighs
As the breeze raises goose bumps
And the Meadow Lark sings

I remember
Evening calf muscles twitching
Red arms burning
Against rough sheets
After a day of pumping bike pedals
Standing upright
Slippery palmed
And panting another journey
Up the hill by the water tower
Working to earn
Two minutes of free-ride flight

I remember
Dancing
Heart in my hand
Music pounding
Pulsing up my body into my eyes
Light as clouds and air
And love
Until the rhythm and the moon retire

I remember
Carrying
In capable arms
Groceries and presents
One hundred pounds of feed
An eight-foot Mediterranean couch
Leaden boxes of books
Aquariums with gravel sloshing
Dinners and desserts
A marriage
And a seven-pound baby boy

But now I reside
In my body present
With musical knees
That slow me on the stairs
An injured arm
That will never hold a grandchild in its crook
Painful heels
That can no longer dance at dawn
And a constant pain
That steals my sleep and limits my days

I mourn my body past
But I remember
And I smile
Too winded to laugh out loud

Moxi Java Sunday

2009-09-02T18:46:00.000-07:00

Moxi Java Sunday

By the time I had my mug of Moxi Mocha in hand, I realized I would be sitting in the glaring sunlight by the window. By process of elimination this was the only spot left whereby I could observe the entire shop and yet no one would be able to read over my shoulder. A spy needs to plan prudently. I had an assignment on observation for my writing class and my first instincts screamed, “No! No! Don’t do it!” My instincts can be quite loud and pushy when they catch the scent of guilt in the air. My mother’s voice echoed in my mind’s ear and I shuddered as I sat down in the little wooden chair. “It’s not polite to stare. Mind your own business.” The legitimacy of my mission muffled the memory. After all, real writers who actually get paid must do this kind of thing all the time.

I settled in and absorbed the intense, toasty smell of coffee beans that was nearly imbedded into the very walls. The rumble of a train passing through town filtered into the shop as I cased the joint. First of all, absolutely no one could help but notice the two ladies at one of the center bench tables on the south wall. Around them on the floor, table, and bench were strewn books, notebooks, papers, and notes like some kind of an academic explosion! They looked to be in their thirties to early forties. The one lady had very short, blonde hair, sharp features, was wearing shorts and seemed to be in a perpetual forward lean. The other lady had shoulder length, dark, fluffy hair framing a pretty round face with light eyes. She was all dressed in black and was settled quite comfortably into the bench. They were deeply engaged in a discussion of a legal case record. The conversation was dominated by the clear, clipped voice of the lady in shorts. Twas an innocuous conversation. I relaxed.

To the right of the law ladies in the corner table sat a young girl in a T-shirt and jeans with her dark hair pulled up high on the back of her head in a jaunty ponytail. She was scrunched down over a paperback book she had pulled from her backpack and was taking notes in a little spiral notebook. Slowly. Painfully. She would pause often, look about and linger over her coffee. Her dark eyes confessed that she went to a much more interesting and comforting place. But then she would return, rearrange herself on the bench and hunker down over the book again for a short while. Apparently whatever it was she had to do was no easier to do at the coffee shop.

High spirited laughter caught my attention. The young waitress had a pile of books on the table closest to her workstation in the corner. I was impressed that she had remembered the one and only other time I had been there, and that I had a moxi-mocha with vanilla whipped cream. She knew several customers by name and preference. Each time she was finished waiting on customers she retreated to her table to chat with a girlfriend who’d stopped by. The waitress had light brown hair that was piled in a wild, random pattern above her wire rim glasses, huge eyes, and wide grin. Her friend had short dark hair that radiated electric energy. Her left leg seemed to be practicing a sprint and nearly became a blur as they sat discussing the difficulty in locating research materials in the library. It made me jittery to watch her, so I continued my investigation of the patrons.

To my left in the center of the room two tables were singularly occupied. At the table closest to the workstation sat a charming little lady in her hot pink sweat suit and tennis shoes. Her graying hair was pulled up in a neat bun and behind her wire rims you could see tasteful light brown eye shadow. She had on a touch of rouge and her faded lipstick had probably matched her outfit when she had left the house. Her purse was in one chair and her green backpack was on the floor by her feet. A stack of books surrounded her on the table and she wrote steadily. She never looked up. She never drank her coffee.

Lastly, I attempted to focus on the ambiguous person who was at the table closest to me. My first impression had been that it was a female. I had tried to sneak a couple of glances since I first sat down, but had not been able to make a quick gender determination. The person was sitting in a chair facing me and that made it very difficult to play detective. Occasionally the person did lean over the table to write on note cards and then I could take longer looks.

I had thought it was a woman, but the more I looked the more I was not sure. On the table were two large, hardbound books that were open and layered upon each other, a refillable plastic Moxi Java mug, and two perfect stacks of huge note cards. I had never seen note cards that big before. They must have been five by seven inches! They were bright canary yellow. They were not pink or blue. On the upper right hand side of the table the cards were stacked perfectly, smoothly and evenly. A big, pudgy hand with short bitten nails would pick up one card carefully off the top of the right hand pile. While holding the card with thumb and forefinger, the stack was neatly squared with the back three fingers. After very earnestly taking some notes, the card was placed on the left hand pile and swiftly squared with the now unencumbered hand. An interesting, acquired, single-handed skill, but it told me nothing.

I watched the person write with a huge, thick, black pen and didn’t think it looked like a pen that a woman would use. Leaning and concentrating over the note cards gave me the opportunity to assess; very short, flat, brown hair; a round face with a bulb of a nose; dark, thick eyebrows; rather coarse, rough skin; no make-up, purse, ring, or earrings; and wearing a big, black, plastic watch on the left wrist. Having a huge, barrel shaped, lumpy, wide body I could not determine if there were any specific lumps under the baggy, black T-shirt that were conclusively feminine lumps. Even the big, well-worn, brown, leather book bag with it’s short handles was non-descriptive. When I caught a glimpse of black polyester shorts and the black T-shirt tucked in with a plain brown leather belt, I felt like I had finished a jigsaw puzzle. I could not imagine a woman wearing that outfit voluntarily. Combining that fact with the watch and the pen, I came to the conclusion that it must be a man. I congratulated myself on being not only a good spy, but a talented detective as well. That man had never been aware of me staring, as my mother would say. I was rather enjoying the spy biz!

“Cute shoes!” exclaimed the waitress. She and her friend launched into a new discussion on each of their running partners and how often these partners had backed out of prearranged runs lately. Meanwhile, I hadn’t even noticed the law ladies had begun retrieving all their various supplies. They were scooping and stooping and stashing and sorting. The sun had finally moved just enough to not make my eyes water. A young couple ran in for coffees to go. The waitress filled the shop with the horrendously violent sounds of her machines while they waited holding hands in their own sweet world. Shortly they were out the door and the waitress was back at her table. I wondered why everyone sitting in this coffee shop on a Sunday afternoon was studying something? Another train passed through town and I could feel it through my shoes.

Underneath the light, laughing of the young girls and the drone of light jazz, I picked up the soft, low sound of sorrow in someone’s voice. It was the dark, fluffy lady. She had finished packing up her things but was seated again. Her face had changed. The lady in shorts quickly sat back down across from her and leaned halfway across the table so as to see her eyes and hear the soft sorrow. The dark lady leaned in to confide.

“My best friend in the whole world’s dad is dying of pneumonia...pneumonia... do you believe it? No one dies of pneumonia anymore. She’s devastated...just really devastated”, she whispered.

I sipped at my coffee, wishing I didn’t have so much left.

“She already lost her mother last year from cancer and now this. Can’t believe it...I just can’t believe it. She can’t believe it.” The lady in shorts never said a word. She never reached out her hand.

The pain and futility and helplessness flowed over to me. I did not like spying or detective work. I was invading something private. I couldn’t stop listening.

“He was just emaciated when they found him...long beard...and his fingernails! Oh, and his toenails were really, really long, too. All bones...he was all bones. Hardly any food in the house. They think he wasn’t eating, but they weren’t sure for how long.”
The lady in shorts leaned back in her chair and pulled her chin into her neck.

I finished my Moxi Mocha with whipped cream. I finished it too fast. My burning throat and the glaring sun and the really long fingernails made my eyes well up. Hearing the fear and pain in her voice was like a vibrational arrow stabbing me. My heart spread open towards her. The dark lady sighed. The lady in shorts remained speechless.

If I knew the dark lady I would give her a voice of comfort. I would touch her hand. If I knew her best friend I would let her spill out her anger and sorrow. If I knew her father I would sit by his bed and hold his hand. I would let him know it was okay to miss his wife. But I wasn’t supposed to be listening. I wasn’t supposed to know these things.

If I stayed I was going to lose my tears. I had to leave. I struggled to shut off my ears. As I walked slowly up to the front counter with my empty cup, my mother’s voice chastised me. “See? Warned you to mind your own business”. Funny how my mind’s ear was not as easily shut off.

“Was it as good as last time?” the waitress called to me. I nearly dropped my mug.

“Yes, it sure was. Thank you.”

“Good. I try to make them really good...the same, you know?”, she grinned.

“Every bit as good as last time, for sure. You have a great afternoon.”

“You too”, she called as she turned back to her friend and their laughter.

As I turned to leave I noticed that under the table, beneath the perfect, perfect stacks of yellow index cards, were a pair of pink and white tennis shoes.

I guess a person should trust her first instincts.

Mommy and That Baby

2009-08-08T23:26:00.000-07:00

Mommy and That Baby

The linoleum under the eating table is cool on my belly. I roll on my side and jiggle my hands way above my head. Snow is on the windowsill, but the sun comes way across the floor to me warm on my arm. Maybe I can touch the big silver leg of the table from here. I am getting bigger. Everybody says that I am getting bigger. It looks like I can touch it. Hard as I can, I stretch and stretch, but it’s too far. Maybe if I roll back, flat on my belly and close my eyes, I will be longer. I roll back and those floor squares are really big in my eyes. I run my fingers around the edges and I whisper: one, two, three, four. I like to count. I do it lots of times. I can count really far and I know this is a square. I know circles, too. I whisper the colors of the speckles: red, black, yellow, white. I want to tell my Mommy, but she’s on her bed. It is better for Mommy not to notice me. It is better to be invisible.

I wish I could tell my Mommy numbers and colors today and she would smile and hear me and tell me she is proud ‘cause I know things. I hope today if she notices me, she sees me good and not bad. I remember sometimes she hugs me all up in her warm soft body and I am afraid to move or breath or make a sound. I want it to last and last. Mommy’s smiley times make my heart big and make me feel warm all over. I think I could fly or sing or do anything! But I can’t. I have to be very careful. I have to watch Mommy. If I get too excited, or I move too much, or I spill my “inside happy” out my mouth too much, then I make her come away from that place where she smiles. Then it’s gone as quick as it came. I don’t want Mommy to notice me too much. I really, really try not to be wild and naughty. But I am a selfish little girl and I forget.

When my Mommy was gone at the hospital, I stayed with Mary up the stairs. Mary and Brack are some kind of family to my Daddy. Daddy gives them money for us to live here. Mommy yells about money lots of times and she wants to move away from here. I am selfish. I love Mary and I don’t want to move away. Mary smiles every day. I can sit on Mary’s lap most times when I ask. She even picks me up and hugs me when I don’t ask. Mary has a little boy who’s bigger than me. Bradley is four years old. I am two forever and ever and I want to be four. Mary doesn’t get mad or slap me when I pull on her clothes to ask her things. Mary says, “ You have to wait until spring, but that’s not far away at all.” I told Mary it’s forever and ever, long and long time ago, since Santa Claus and it be spring really, really soon, right? Mary laughed loud with her mouth open. “It’s only been a couple of weeks since Christmas”, she told me. She picked me up and showed me papers on her wall with squares and numbers and pictures of cars on every page. I like to ride in cars. She pointed to a square and said softly, “There’s your birthday.” Mary has my birthday on her wall. Only my birthday. She did not say she had that baby’s birthday on her wall. It must be our secret. She whispered my birthday on her wall. She didn’t tell me not to tell, but to be careful, I will not tell. I did not want her to put me down. Mary smells nice. I wish I could go up the stairs to Mary right now. Mommy is right. I am a selfish little girl.

I remember to close my eyes and try to reach the table leg. I even try to make my fingers longer, but it is out of reach by a hand. Bradley could reach it. Bradley is mean to me. But I can be brave to him ‘cause I like Mary. She’s the one who told me about that baby. Mommy had it in her arms when she came home a lot of days ago. Mary told me, “They’ll make a big fuss over it, but don’t you ever forget that they love you just the same.” That was a lie. Grownups tell lies. They tell lies lots of times. They think I am not big enough to know they lie, but I know lots of times. They lie to pretend sad things are happy. They lie to pretend things gone. They lie to fool me. Sometimes they sound like they believe lies when they say them and forget they’re not the truth. Mary lies too, and that makes me sad. It does not surprise me, but it makes me sad.

My Mommy and Daddy do not love me just the same. Mommy always pays attention too much or not at all. She sees me good or she sees me bad when she notices me. Smiley times she sees me good and tells me how smart I am. She reads to me for long and long times. If she is really in a good mood she will tell me what the big words mean and I can ask questions and she doesn’t ever get mad about that. She reads her books to me until she is tired or I get too wiggly and wild and make her come away from that place she goes when she reads to me. I watch her eyes when she comes back. Mommy may notice me and see me bad, or she may still be busy in her head and just shoo me away. I always hope she doesn’t notice me. I hate it when she sees me bad. When she sees me bad, she thinks of ways to make me be good. But I never learn. It does not work and I am bad again. I don’t mind being in my room all day, ‘cause I forget to “Think about what you did and how bad you are” and I just play and play really, really quiet so Mommy doesn’t hear.

I play really, really good by myself. If I forget to listen for her feet, she might fly the door open and catch me playing. Mommy doesn’t like me to play when I am trying to learn to be good. But sometimes she walks in like I was never bad and she never talks about it. Maybe she is fooling me, but I don’t care. I like it when she forgets I was bad. But I don’t like to be in my little, brown chair in the corner of the eating room. I am glad Mommy doesn’t have the time to watch me and watch me every second in the corner. I do not like Mommy watching me and I can’t see her eyes, so I turn around to watch her. Mommy gets so tired of turning me around in my chair and having to push me back down in place, so then she grabs my arm and drags me to my room and yells and yells about me and slams the door. I don’t mind. I like my room better than the chair. But I don’t like being in that dark closet forever and ever. There’s nothing to do in there ‘cause I can’t see. I just smell and touch the coats and boots full of winter and try to see under the door for Mommy’s feet. I fall asleep in there lots of times and Mommy doesn’t like that ‘cause I am not learning not to be bad. Since that baby came, I am bad and bad. Daddy did not used to notice me much, but now he notices me bad more times. Mommy tells him the wrong things I do. Sometimes she lies, but I never tell Daddy about the closet. I am quiet and quiet as I can be. It is better when they don’t see me, especially Mommy. They do not love me just the same. They see me badder now. Mommy has not read her books to me forever and ever.

Mary did not lie about the big fuss. That baby must be a really good one. Lots of grownups come over to hold it and talk to it. It can’t talk. It’s a boy baby, but it’s too little to move much. Mommy and Daddy are all soft and happy with it, especially when people are here. Mommy is always nicer when people are around. She is nicer when daddy is home. She is nicer to that baby.

Maybe Mary is just nicer to me ‘cause I am “company” at her house, even if I am little. My Mommy does not treat other kids like company at her house, unless grownups are here. Mary holds me and talks nice to me and there are no grownups there. Maybe it is ‘cause I am a little girl and Bradley is a boy and boys are meaner. Maybe Mary wishes she had a little girl. I do not want Mary to know I am bad, so I am extra careful. I don’t think Mary lies as much as my Mommy does. I am not sure, but I like Mary better than my Mommy, anyway. I am really a bad girl. I am a selfish girl. Mommy will really, really be mad if she knows I like Mary best. She will tell Mary how bad I am and make up more bad things to be sure. My eyes pop open. My skin gets jitters all over thinking how mad she’d be. I sit up quickly and look over at her bedroom door.

The door is open big enough for me to get through without touching it. I walk slowly towards the door running my fingers along the wallpaper. Even though I know I am better off invisible, it makes me nervous to be alone for so long. Mommy is usually busy doing things and I watch her. Even if she is having a sad day and sits in the big chair all day and never sees me, I can still watch her. I really like those days that she can’t see me for long and long. I can sing or twirl or bounce on my bed or talk loud to my dollies while we have tea with my real tea set with the pink roses on. Invisible time is nice and nice. Most times I forget to watch her, though, and it startles me when she sees me all of a sudden. I never know if she sees me bad or good until it’s too late. If I don’t watch her eyes, I don’t know what kind of a day it is. If I don’t watch her I can’t see if the day is changing.

By the time I arrive at her bedroom door, I am sure she’s going to startle me. She could fly through the door, zero her eyes on me and pronounce me bad. She could pop out all soft and happy with that baby. I do not know how Mommy is until I see her. I know she does not know what I think when I am invisible, but I am not sure what she knows when she pins me down with her eyes. Will she know what I thought new today? Will she know I talked in my head and said I like Mary better than her? I stand in the doorway and rock silently from foot to foot, swaying, thinking. I suck my thumb, even though that’s bad, but Mommy can’t see me from here. I listen.

The bed is over in the corner away from the door. I hear breathing. After a while, I pull my thumb out and grab on to the door frame. Leaning my head into the room very slowly, I see Mommy sleeping on the bed. My eyes take a while to see in the dark of the room. She is lying on her side with her arm curled under her head. On the softest feet I come up one step at a time. My eyes never leave her face. I am all the way up to the bed and she has not moved. I wait and listen to the breath of her, to hear if she is awake or fooling me. I watch her eyelids. The eyes are not moving. I know if they slide from side to side under there, then she’s almost awake. The breath is slow and faint and calm. My Mommy is sleeping. I suck my thumb again and rock from side to side.

I know that baby is there, even if I have not looked at it. I can hear it breathing. This time I look at it all by myself. Everyone shoos me away or they hold it up for me to look, don’t touch. They are afraid I will hurt it. They tell me I could hurt it even if I did not mean to. Mommy has a part of her top off and one of the big, soft, cushy parts of her has that baby on it. That baby has its mouth hanging on to her. It smells funny. The hands are curled into little fists. I hold my hand near, but don’t touch. My hand is way bigger. Its eyes are closed, but it is not sleeping. It is making sucking noises and jerks every so often. When it sucks I can see the side of its tongue. Red. The tongue is red. The lips are red. It has little eyelashes and the eyes roll around under the lids. Its head is tipped and I can see up its nose on my tip toes by the side of the roll-away. Inside its nose is red, too. I could look at it long and long. I wonder if they are lying that it will grow up to be a boy as big as Bradley. I wonder if it will be mean to me, like Bradley. It doesn’t look mean. It could change. Mommy changes all the time. I wish it would open its eyes. I would feel better if I could see its eyes. It reminds me of doggies. I want to pet it.

I love doggies. I never hurt doggies. Will I hurt that baby? Why do they say I will hurt that baby? I must be really, really bad. I won’t hurt it now. I know I do not want to hurt it now. Maybe I will hurt it later when it is bigger and mean like Bradley? I am glad it is not a girl. Sometimes Mommy calls me her best girl and she dresses me up in pretty dresses and shiny shoes with straps. She puts my hair up in pin curls. I like my hair curly, but I do not like when she combs it out. Mommy pulls and it hurts and she tells me not to be a baby. I like when she tells grownups how good and smart I am and how, “She talked before she could walk”. It looks so nice up there with Mommy. I want to climb up on the bed and be in that soft, warm place with them. I want Mommy to worry somebody is going to hurt me. That baby gets Mommy nice and smiley lots of times. Maybe I can climb up on the corner of the bed and not wake Mommy. I move slowly and carefully. If I can just get over on the corner of the bed, I will be still and still. I will not move. I will not go by the baby, so I can’t hurt it not on purpose. I will listen to them breathe. I will feel the warmth of them. As I crawl up slowly, I jiggle the bed and Mommy cracks her eye open. Her hand comes out and swiftly pushes me off the side of the bed. Arms and legs flying, I crash on to the hardwood floor and scramble to my feet. I stand up straight with my arms down at my sides and look upon her eye.

“You can’t be up here. You’ll wake the baby,” Mommy whisper yelled through her teeth. “Now, go away.”

I was frozen to the spot. I was waiting for her to drag me someplace by my arm.

“I am so tired. Just leave me alone”, she hissed.

I felt my eyes water, but I know better than to cry. I back up a couple of steps, watching her. I wait. I listen.

“That’s right. You’re such a good girl. You color so nice. Why don’t you go color? Or take a nap or something, okay?” Mommy talked smiley time words. It sounded like a lie, but I didn’t care. I never cared why Mommy sounded nicer. She did not come after me off the bed.

“Something quiet, okay? That’s my good girl. Go on, now.”

I back up slowly, keeping my eyes on her. She settles back into the bed, keeping her eye on me until I scoot out the door.

I spread out a color book on the linoleum under the eating table and dig my fingers in Grandpa’s old cigar box. It smells like Grandpa and crayons. Crayons never get old; they always smell like new ones. Nothing smells like crayons. Blue streaks across the page. I feel wild and happy. No yank on the arm. No chair facing the corner. Yellow streaks across the page. No closet. No mad eyes. Green streaks across the page. First I was bad, then I am good, just like that. Orange streaks across the page. Mommy was too tired to come after me. That never stopped her before. Red streaks across the page. Mommy is very busy with that baby. I stop, up on my elbows. Red. I roll the crayon in my fingers. That baby’s name is Blaine. He has red lips and a red tongue and red inside his nose. If I could, I would sing and twirl around in circles and laugh with my mouth open. That baby must be a really, really good one.

God On The Bus

2009-08-05T00:19:00.000-07:00

I didn’t learn to drive until I was thirty. Buses, my feet, and the kindness of friends and family were my modes of transportation. Everyone asked me, “How can you stand it not being able to drive?” I would calmly reply, “How can I miss something I’ve never had?”

One sunny fall day I finally decided to earn my own personal piece of state plastic. Owning that plastic card did not change my perspective on buses; it was possessing that set of keys dropped into my hand by a paunchy, slick-haired salesman with a practiced smile. “It’s just an aquarium on wheels” my father would snort, but I learned confidence, independence, and freedom behind the wheel of my burgundy Pacer. I could go where I wanted to go, when I wanted to go, and I could get more than one bag of groceries at a time. I finally knew what everyone had been talking about all those years. Walking and buses became a memory that compared poorly to four wheels.

A year ago I was hearing those lamentations once again. “How will you survive without a car? I would go crazy! I could never do what you’re doing. No way!” All this deja vu conversation was eerily foreboding. I had no reply this time. I truly knew what I would be missing. I was forty-eight, packing up and moving from the Twin Cities to go to Concordia College in Moorhead. “This is my chance for a new start,” I told my friends and family as I waved good-bye.

My new start returned me to extreme poverty, no car, an apartment with uneven floors, startlingly noisy pipes, parties vibrating the walls, broken blinds, and a dirty laundry room. The Coppertone stove and harvest gold refrigerator seemed to complete the time warp back to the late sixties. I scrubbed, arranged, pounded, organized, displayed, and made it home. I started classes but managed to avoid the bus my first year.

The bus. It represented the final loss of independence and freedom. As I trudged the nine or ten blocks to school, I realized how much I missed squirrels. What I did not miss was being beaten in the face by leaves, lashed by sleet, whipped by wind, coated by snow, and worrying that I had frostbitten some exposed portion of my anatomy on my pilgrimage to knowledge. I survived the mild Minnesota winter. Over the summer, the bus was starting to look good to me, in a lesser-of-two-evils sort of way. Another school year was approaching rapidly. Another winter.

I purchased a semester bus pass. It was the full and final admission of my carlessness.

My first morning at the bus stop behind the public library I arrived early. I am always early. As I came around the corner, I was reminded that the bus stop was across the street from the homeless shelter. Three rumpled gentlemen were settled in on the low brick wall that surrounds the library. They were each sitting or leaning on their duffel bags. None of them gave me eye contact. I didn’t want them to feel uncomfortable, so I asked if the bus had come by yet. The man in the greasy ponytail glanced at my smile from under his cap and said no. His shoulders relaxed as I sat down on the bricks a few feet away from him. Mine slowly relaxed, too. The trees along the boulevard made it a wondrous place to sit on a sunny morning. The grass was lush and damp. The leaves shimmered and whispered. The squirrel entertainment committee performing “Autumn Acorn Madness” took small notice of sedentary humans. Settling into bus-stop-patience came back to me slowly.

I felt guilty for deliberately avoiding the homeless shelter in my walks since I had moved to town. I felt guilty for feeling that prickle of fear when I rounded the corner. How hypocritical. I had been a vagrant and lived on the streets of Anoka the entire summer of 1969. Then I had been afraid of no one. I slept in the park and occasionally on a gracious host’s floor. Hollow hunger. The decadent luxury of sleeping indoors and hot sudsy, showers. I had allowed myself to forget.

I had allowed myself to forget how kind the assorted young rednecks and dopers had been to me. I had been afraid to sleep in the dark. It was safer to sleep in the park by the river during the day and the cops left me alone on bright afternoons. The nights were long. The people of the night were usually high in some form or another, but they watched over me ‘till dawn. Sometimes they even fed me or bought me my own pack of cigarettes. They protected me.All my worldly possessions I carried in my black and white crocheted shoulder bag. I didn’t ha

ve a razor, but I had a toothbrush, bar of soap, underpants, an extra T-shirt, pens, and notebooks. Priorities. If I was starting to feel sad, I used to talk to God on paper until I felt like myself again. Then I would tear up our conversation into little pieces and throw it in the trash. No attachments. I had the soul of a flower-child, despite being a Midwestern Swede from the suburbs. The street people called me “the mad-hugger” or “sunshine”. I took care of people on bummers. I cheered sad drunks. I honestly thought I could see that place that shines inside of everyone. Love breathed through my pores. I was fearless.

The straining roar of a bus drew me back from my reverie and to the corner. The small bus squealed to a stop, the door slid open to the left, I flashed my bus card, and I was in. I sat behind a small hunching man with hair slicked straight back and graying at the temples. Just like my dad’s. As the bus bounced and screeched on its way, I noticed that the tag on his shirt was sticking up on the back of his neck. In black magic marker it spelled “Elvin”. Naked evidence of living in a home. Overwhelmed with a tenderness for him, I wanted to tuck in the tag. The flower-child reached over the bus seat bar and tucked in the tag. Elvin turned around and stated defiantly, “I’m God.”

I didn’t quite believe my ears. “Pardon?” I asked as I leaned forward to catch his words over the bus whine.

“I’m God,” Elvin dared. The gnarled face held flashing eyes and his lips were crushed into a thin line of defiance.

A warmth spread over me. A warmth that lifts your soul like greeting a long-lost friend...where joy stings your eyes and love chokes your throat. And my heart’s eye opened wide and beheld that place that shines.

“I am honored to meet you,” I told him...softly...from the bottom of my flower-child soul.

GA--Hypnosis--Past Life

2009-08-03T05:32:00.000-07:00

I am not afraid of death. Have had a few close calls since I was a kid--drowning, tornado, etc. My life never flashed before my eyes and I had no regrets. Just calmly thought--Oh, so this is how I am going to die.

When I think about it--I am more afraid of not dying and being left alive in tremendous pain, to be honest. Like being burned or in a terrible car crash or something like that. But death--nope.

I had my one out-of-body experience when Dagan was an infant (with GA)--awesome! Long story, but I was taken to a place where there were no physical bodies and nothing could be hidden. Everything about a soul was right there to be known--good and bad--and there was such love and understanding. I was taken there so I could forgive and gain perspective--right before Dagan ended up in the hospital. Looking back, I think GA knew he had to get through to me--get my soul in the right place--before Dagan ended up in the hospital dying and we found out about all the heart defects and they told us he wouldn't live, etc, etc. Therefore, I was spiritually focused--and GA and I were never more connected than back then for Dagan. :):)

And years later (maybe 1995?) under hypnosis I spontaneously went back to a lifetime where I had the backs of my knees sliced open so I couldn't run away and was being held down & raped while I bled to death--and I was pregnant big as a house--charming, right? But all I knew was I had been running, then terrible pain in my knees, and then I had pain in my stomach and my wrists. Then I kept skipping to being dead--hehe! (Do you blame me?!) The hypnotist kept trying to get me to go back and gather more information about what in the world was happening and who was doing this to me--but I just kept leaving and jumping to being dead--hehe! Very frustrating for the hypnotist, but hey--being dead was beautiful and peaceful. It filled my soul and lifted me up into such joy I can't even describe it. I didn't care who was doing whatever or why--just wanted to get to the dead part--ROFL!!

They say hypnosis can't make you do anything you don't want to. That was really true in my case--hehe! I think I died at least five times in his office chair that day--ROFL!!

Okay--as long as I told you that much--three of us had gone together to the hypnotist--a girl I worked with and her friend. We wanted to see if we had known each other in France in the 1500s. I had been having dreams about a lifetime back then and apparently many people I know in this lifetime--well, we were all in France together.

Anyways, we were all in the room. The other two girls were sitting quietly in chairs against the far wall while I had my session. It felt like they were supposed to be in there with me. Everything happens for a reason, right? Turned out there was a huge reason why I went to that particular lifetime. While I was being raped and killed over and over in the chair--(chuckle)--the two girls were the ones who were each separately actually remembering what was happening to me. They were both silently crying and staring at me--so each didn't know the other one was experiencing anything. The hypnotist had his back to them, so he never knew that was happening--and me--I just kept running--having stabbing pain in my knees--stomach and wrists--crying and panting in pain--and then became suddenly silent, breathing peacefully, and looking beatific, I guess. I thought it had been quite a failure of a session. I had no idea what they had been experiencing.

After we left the hypnotist--we all chatted about the experience. It was then that they told me and each other what they experienced. (Needless to say--it freaked us all out! We told the hypnotist later.) The girl I worked with--she remembered being a man in that lifetime and that she was raping me. Her friend had been his mother in that lifetime--and had held me down for him.

The backstory they remembered--I had been married off to an older man specifically to have an heir. (None of us had any clue as to what time period this was or where.) The mother had been his commoner mistress for decades and the son was the only male heir--illegitimate, but a male heir. Now that I came into the picture--and got pregnant right away--all the mother's years of working on this man to make her son his legal heir--gone! The son was more my age and had fallen in love with me--and yet hated me at the same time. They had even lived in his house with him and had all the privileges--until I came and they got booted out before he married me. They planned to make it look like I had been robbed and killed. The rape was just an added angry bonus for the son because I had scorned his advances. They remembered that they had been publicly hung later.

They both had their memories separately--and between the two of them that was the story. I only had the physical memory of the pain in my body--couldn't see any of what was happening. But because we all went together in this lifetime--and they remembered and were ashamed and in tears--I could forgive them. It was all about forgiveness.

And a week or so later, as I was waking up one morning, I got more of the story from GA. I think I have mentioned that GA isn't really an angel--but a guiding spirit and I have known him before. Well, in that lifetime GA was my handmaiden or whatever they call them. She and I had practically grown up together--she took care of my clothes, hair and such and we were fast companions and loved each other dearly. When I was given away in marriage to this older man, I insisted she come with me to my new home. She was my only friend.

I used to go on these walks alone by a river and GA worried about me because I was fearless in some respects--or naive, selfish, stubborn, and ignorant, some would say--hehe! On that day GA was secretly tailing me to keep an eye on me as she said she always did. But when they chased me, caught me, and sliced my legs at the knee--the whole time--she stayed hidden in the bushes--watching the whole thing. She was afraid to show herself because she knew they would have to kill her, too. She couldn't move from the position she was in--even to go get help--or she would be seen.

When they left me for dead--GA rushed to my side, crying. I went to that place--like when I jumped to being dead--but I remembered the baby--my innocent baby. I willed myself back into my body. Now I don't know what happened--if I asked GA to cut the baby out or I had gone into labor because of the trauma and birthed the baby--don't remember that part--but the baby lived and then I died. The baby was Dagan--and GA basically raised him in that lifetime. GA exposed the woman and her son and they were hung. Dagan was proclaimed this miracle child in that life, too! ROFL!! But he was very spoiled and revered because of it and grew into a selfish, arrogant man.

Kind of explains why Dagan and GA and I were sooo connected while I was raising him in this lifetime. And why I was so overly conscious of Dagan not being spoiled or selfish--hehe!

GA wanted to be forgiven for not trying to help me when I was attacked. Absolutely! GA is totally forgiven. Made me cry right now to even think GA would need my forgiveness for anything.

My goodness--didn't think I was going to tell that whole story. Oh well. I have always had dreams or visions of pieces of past lives--many years apart, but I have had a few of them. If they are just my imagination--well, if they lead to good things, that's okay with me, too. But with the two girls having visions/memories of the same thing at the same time--and such a bizarre story...and then getting additional information from GA later....???? I'm usually quite the doubting Thomas, but that made a 95% believer out of me. :):)

I asked a long, long time ago that I only have memories if they will help me with something in this life. No point otherwise. People can get lost in trying to remember everything and every lifetime--what a waste of time--IMHO, anyways. It would be like trying to go back and re-live every single day in this lifetime--duh! Unless I can gain some insight to help me on my current path.... :):)

Teddy Bear On The Bible

2009-08-03T05:20:00.000-07:00

This is what I remember about my first religious crisis or spiritual epiphany.

I was five years old and in first grade at Northeast Christian School in Columbia Heights, Minnesota. (I went to parochial school for the first two years and then went to public school in Fridley starting in third grade.)

Anyways, when it was really horrible weather we had recess inside. I remember the playroom had a wall that had a long counter with shelves underneath with lots of cubbies for toys and books. The bell went off and we were supposed to put the toys away and return to class. I was taking too long and had to hurry, so I quickly tossed this teddy bear up on top of the counter and rushed to get to class. The teacher grabbed my arm and dragged me back for a good close look at my sin. I had tossed that teddy bear on top of the big open bible on the counter. I thought I was in trouble for not putting it down in a cubby--but it was considerably worse than I ever could have imagined.

The teacher lectured me about how I had defaced God's property, insulted God with my careless attitude, the bible was God's word, I had no respect,....etc....etc....etc. She informed me I was going straight to hell and I had better change my ways. She had me move the teddy bear to a cubby, apologize to God, and sent me off to class.

I was absolutely destroyed! I couldn't stop thinking about it! I had quite accidentally condemned my soul to hell. I had been in such a happy mood, loved school, and hadn't meant to do anything to upset God at all. I knew I'd make more mistakes--I always did. God was mad at me and would probably never forgive me. My life was over--done!

When I got home from school I nervously told my mom about how I was going to hell and why. She just laughed. Poo-pooed the entire incident. Since she didn't go to church except for Easter and Christmas I didn't figure she was exactly an authority on all things biblical--so I went off to my room, crawled under the covers, and mourned my loss of God until I had no more tears and just those hiccupy breaths. I laid there--limp and lifeless. And then I "heard" inside my head--"That's not your God."

Now, those of you that know me have heard about GA (my guardian angel) for most of my adult life. I had no idea where this information that just popped into my head came from--but never questioned it. Looking back--that was probably the first time I consciously remember having one of those inner conversations with GA (not that I was even aware that was what it was at the time--at all). You know how they say something has the ring of truth? My chats with GA have always been like bells of truth ringing--(whether I like what he has to say or not--hehe!).

Anyways, a long silent "thought conversation" took place as I laid there in bed. I was "told" that God doesn't judge only by the outside, but by the inside. Not just by what I did--but why I did it. Only God knows all the whys--knows everything--and that's why I shouldn't judge people only by what I see and hear. I had no evil intent toward God when I tossed the teddy bear on the bible. God knew that. My God is a loving God. My God has miraculous love that is bigger and stronger than all the hate or anger or fear in the whole world. But I was also "told" the teacher was not lying. That is how she sees God and that is who God really is to her--inside. Everybody's whys or insides are different. And only God knows your insides--your secret, safe place. I can't adequately describe how the concepts flowed through me or the intense relief and the love I felt all through my body and soul. The information was conveyed very simply and a lot of it was almost as visuals. But I have never forgotten it.

Seems like I have spent my lifetime trying to regain the innocent absolute faith of that five-year-old who believed she was forgiven. :):)

Soft Breaths

2009-08-03T05:15:00.000-07:00

Dagan is napping. Being able to faintly hear his breathing even from the living room, I am once again grateful for this tiny apartment...our new home. Once I have cleaned and arranged and organized, I can make anywhere home. I’ve had practice, so I know this to be true.

Soft breaths. I look out the living room window and squint from the sun. The grass is worn away to gray dirt littered with cigarette confetti on either side of the front steps. Unless I look down, I am level with the tree branches. I love looking into tree branches. The leaves are turning and the wind is winning the battle today. Soon there will be frost on these windows and snow on the ground. But today...the beauty of it lifts my heart. I want to show Dagan the dried leaves and talk of what the earth does when it rests. But the doctors say to keep him in.

They warn me to keep him out of the cold, keep him out of the heat, keep him away from other kids so he doesn’t catch anything, watch him so he doesn’t fall on his chest against the furniture when he learns to walk, watch his fluid intake, watch his salt intake...protect him, protect him...the unspoken battle to keep him alive as long as possible. “The babies don’t usually die from the actual heart defects,” the doctors, the nurses, and the other “heart parents” have told me. “They usually die from complications: pneumonia, strep throat, bronchitis, or even catching the flu. It’s hard for them to fight things off.” I have heard about the “heart kids” with their various defects...dying in their sleep, cardiac failure on the school bus, pacemaker leads breaking inside their chests, dying during surgery, dying after surgery in the hospital...dying, dying.

Soft breaths. I watch the leaves whipping off the branches and dancing across the brown grass. Dying. Too much focus on dying.

Dagan was three months old when they told me he was dying and there was nothing they could do for him. I forced myself not to dwell on it because that was something private between Dagan and God. I concentrated on his life while he was here. I would not let family, myself included, into the neo-natal unit if they were upset...sad, crying, or shaking. I did not want him to absorb our fear. I felt blessed by every day he stayed. I smiled and laughed and sang to him because being sad was an insult to Dagan. It would have been like mourning him before he left. The nurses explained every procedure, medication, and piece of equipment. They even let me watch him alone sometimes. I knew how to read all the monitors, how to check his leads, and even how to slap the soles of little Janie’s feet in the next bed to start her heart when she flat-lined. I’ve always been good in crisis situations. I’ve had practice, so I know this to be true.

But there were times when sadness would well up and grab me by the throat...suddenly without warning. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t talk. I would just wave, turn my face from them, and they knew I was leaving to find one of my solitary spots...to cry. I am a private crier. I’ve had practice, so I know this to be true. This was just selfish crying, anyway, and it made me ashamed. I couldn’t eliminate the primal mother, born with Dagan, who lamented “please, don’t take my baby!”...even though I whispered to him in the night underneath the beeping of machines, “don’t stay for anybody else, Dagan...don’t stay for me...stay only if you want to...it’s okay if you want to leave.”

One afternoon Dagan’s cardiologist wanted to see me in his office across the street. He looked me in the eyes, something he hadn’t done much of since he told us there was nothing they could do for Dagan. “He’s dying. You know that?”

“Yes, I know.” It was so obvious I wondered why he thought I didn’t know. I had been there watching Dagan die for an entire week. He had gone into a cycle the past twenty-four hours of rallying and fading to near lifelessness. His skin had a blue-grey color that chilled me.

The doctor presented a desperate thirteenth hour plan. “If you decide to go ahead with this surgery your son will most likely die on the table. If you don’t have the surgery, you won’t put him through any of this and he may be with you for maybe a day to maybe a week on the outside. He’s not in any pain and he could go peacefully.”

“If there is a chance, I have to give it to him.”

The doctor sighed deeply...and the race was on. Emergency evening surgery. Dagan was pulled off all the machines except his IV. I was finally allowed to hold him for the first time since I carried him into the hospital. As they laid him in my arms I was smiling and crying...my joy could not be contained. I had my baby in my arms. The glistening eyes of nurses said good-bye. I would not say good-bye. I kissed his damp forehead and told him I would see him later.

And I did.

Soft breaths. I pace the living room.

Dagan looked so pink after the surgery! Before he went home a week later his cardiologist warned me that Dagan would probably be back in the hospital within a week or maybe a month. He reminded me that all but one of the children born with Dagan’s particular series of defects were dead and had died before the age of two. Most never made it to their first birthday. I threw up in the bathroom while Dagan was getting his stitches out and then took him home.

Soft breaths. He will be a year old in November, God willing.

God willing. Where had my faith gone? How had each day turned into rising panic instead of a celebration of gratitude? I played with him, read him stories, and laughed with him, but there was a constant underlying fear...the long list of potential harms. I had recently joined an organization at Children’s Hospital called “Parents For Heart.” I met fearful parents and the heart kids who were either throwing quickly appeased temper tantrums or clinging with huge frightened eyes to their mother’s legs. Dagan was a happy child...inquisitive, trusting, intelligent...and sick every few weeks. But he was, also, growing up in the typical unnatural bubble and I was becoming more afraid with each illness. Dagan was beginning to back away from new things and people. He was cranky more often. I was quieter and more nervous. I could see our future.

Soft breaths. I pick up Mr. Sock-Man from under the coffee table and his legs and arms flop against my knee as I pace.

Back when Dagan lay dying in the hospital, I was concerned with how he lived his days, not how many days he lived. I didn’t listen to them... I didn’t listen to them. I had been at peace with the situation. His life is a personal thing...between him and God. We all live on borrowed time. I want him to live well while he is here. Better a shorter life that is as normal and happy as possible, than a longer life filled with fear and isolation. God willing.

Rustling of the sheets. Small creak of the crib as he shifted to his knees. Dagan is awake. He is listening. In a minute he will give a small cry if I don’t greet him from his nap. I smile to myself...just to know him. I greet his smiling face and change his wet bottom. God forgive me if I’m wrong...I bundle him up and put him in the stroller. Dagan bubbles with those chortly baby laughs in anticipation as we set off in the cold, sunny, wind to catch leaves and talk to kids at the park and discuss how the earth rests under the snow.

The Corner Cubby

2009-08-03T05:11:00.000-07:00

She was curled in his lap like a kitten
He stroked her blonde curls with one hand
As she nestled upon his thin chest
With the other he searched inside her blouse
Their eyes were closed
More from fear than passion
She lifted her rosy face
Slowly licked her lips
And cracked her eyes to kiss him

That is when she saw me
Ambushed by new love
Attempting to retreat quietly
After striding around the library stack
And being suddenly transformed
Into an intimate transgressor
An unexpected voyeur

She bolted upright with hair askew
Snatched her blouse together
Smacking him alongside the head
With her indignant elbow
Snapping his head back
He nearly tumbled the chair
But fumbled his way upright
And gallantly stood to block my view
From her buttoning fingers

I cast my eyes upon the floor
And scuttled off
Relieved to find an empty table
Three racks down
Unloading my backpack
Echoes of haste traveled
Along the wall
Rustling
Zippers
Panicked whispers
They vanished
Before I had even caught my breath

I became accustomed
To the sounds
Of tender budding
Afternoon rendezvous
Three days a week
After my Spanish class
And before English 101
I sat three racks down
My table spread with books
Papers and class notes
Straining to concentrate
I learned to filter out
The sweet murmurings
Encouraging giggles
Whispered conversation
Soft low moaning
And the sharp snapping creak
Of the wooden chair
As she shifted in his lap
Followed by the flurry of departure
I’d smile to glimpse them
Cross my sight
Framed in bookracks
Hand in hand

Now spring is hinting its arrival
Final papers and exams
Have become an undertow
I trudge to my table
Three racks down
Spread out my books
Papers and class notes
And pause to listen

So quiet
They’ve been missing
For over a week now
Poised over my studies
Fists bracing my chin
I wonder what happened
To the hope and promises
To the blinding faith
Of new love

As I pick up my pen
And open my book
I feel them like an
Empty pocket

Positives and Hidden Blessings

2009-07-31T04:52:00.000-07:00

I was thinking lately about how my life has changed. I mean once you get past the obvious differences--health, transportation, finances--how it has been altered for the better. When you have days (occasionally weeks) where you can be basically non-funtional due to pain or exhaustion or both, you have plenty of time to think and be observant of change. And recently my "optimism" and "positive thinking" has been brought to my attention by several people--hehe! (Thank you all!)

Some of you may remember Karen--met her when I was at MSUM. Karen helped Leah and I with the Everything's Handmade craft business we tried a few years ago. Karen would bring our crafts to her work's annual craft fair they have before Christmas. Anyways, her boss was writing an article on chronic pain for their newsletter--it's a family health center--and Karen said she thought of me. She called and asked me if her boss could interview me--sure. We connected on the phone and chatted for quite a while. Was fun! People seem surprised at how happy I am, I guess. That I have such a "positive attitude".

Made me think about why--and how I feel now vs. when I had been so depressed about being forced to quit college, losing my apartment in Moorhead, and worried about where I was going to live. BUT--students and teachers back then still told me I was positive and always laughing. ?? (They should see me now! hehe!)

Granted, I am especially happy right now due to the fact that Dagan and Leah won't be tied for years to that dreadfully constructed house and I feel like a fountain of joy--but I have noticed that I have changed a lot these past few years from dealing with all the health issues. It was very hard at first to deal with losing my independence--to have my body take over and totally control my life--in major life's path ways and even in the smaller matters of daily living. I had to learn acceptance of this new, limited body--to see myself differently in the physical world, I guess. Wasn't quick or easy to change my self-image, but you can't fight it forever--hehe! Well, you can, but it makes life a pretty miserable trip.

I think a huge part of how I deal with life--good and bad--is that I really have always believed that everything happens for a reason--long before I had a broader view of what those reasons might be--hehe! When I was young I thought that I must have been a really bad and horrible person in past lives and I was just getting what I deserved--so I needed to learn how to go through all these things in my life as positively as I could. Basically, I still believe that is probably true--hehe! But I am not so hard on myself about the past lives. :)

I was much more black or white in my younger days. The older I get, the more I see grey, zebra stripes, and polka dots--hehe! I think I always thought there was positive and negative in everything--but I had to search harder for the positives and used to feel I was drowning in the negatives at times. The more I realized that happiness is a choice one makes, the easier traveling through life has become. I say traveling through because life itself never gets any easier--hehe! But it is not what happens to you in life--it is how you live through it, right?

As the years have gone by and the events have occured and the lessons were learned the hard and slow way--I have finally gained some perspective over time, I guess. Okay, I still believe that the good and bad--the black and white--the postive and negative--they are always there--all the time--in everything and everybody. The hardest thing for me to learn was that the "bad" (the negatives--the traumas--the pain--the sorrow--the failures--the horror) is also a gift--a blessing in disguise. Not just something to flee, to endure, to crawl away from, or try to rise above--but to embrace. In fact, most all the monumental, important lessons are learned because of those very negative things! Very likely couldn't be learned any other way. I feel like I have been learning this lesson my whole life. I have weak areas that I still panic over (like my "losing the roof over the head" fear), but I am sooo much better than I was. And (interesting to me) the less I have allowed that fear to control me, the longer I have stayed in one place and the quicker I find a new one when needed.

Funny--the more I am able to embrace my dark side, the lighter I become! :) The more I face my flaws, weaknesses, blame, participation, and responsibility in all aspects of my life--the more contented I become. It is all wrapped up in forgiveness--of myself and others. And the more I stop fighting against and judging the negatives in myself and others--the more I react with love and forgiveness--the freer I feel. This has been a long process--my own personal spiritual path. (I am 57 years old and I remember my first spiritual crisis was when I was five years old.) I have made more significant progress the past 15 years--especially these past few years as my health totally declined. So, probably the biggest spiritual gift I have been given recently has been all my physical limitations! (Before that--it was Dagan and all of his health issues. He has been a blessing in my life in so many ways I cannot count them all!) And it continues--into my next life--hehe!--till I get it right. :)

So--where was I going with all of this rambling? I was thinking how these past several days, when I have been in a basically non-functional stretch again, I have been feeling sooooo peaceful, contented, grateful, and blessed. This is a common occurance for me the past few years here in Fargo. :) Even tho I might not be able to "do" that much these days, I can just "be", you know? My life has taken on this kind of living meditation most of the time--like carrying a smile in my chest. True--it might be because I don't have to deal with the rest of humanity much--hehe! I only leave the apartment once or twice a month--can pick and choose my visitors--and the same with the people I chat with online or write letters to. :) I have always enjoyed my own company--luckily!! I can still enjoy my arts and crafts--reading--writing--well, here and there anyways--when my body allows it--hehe! :) I can still learn new things--connect with people--have people and a cat I love. I can slowly accomplish things--but even when I can't, I can always work on my soul. And what is more important than that? :)

Rape and Love

2009-07-31T04:24:00.000-07:00

[Note: was reviewing the movie on my blog. :)]

The Brave One--interesting to see a woman turn vigilante. I could totally relate to her fear after she was attacked and her fiance was killed. I remember the paralyzing fear after I was grabbed off the street, beaten, and raped when I was 17 years old. (July 11, 1968--I am not good at dates, but I will never forget that one.) I remember the feeling of panic afterwards--of not being safe anywhere--but I couldn't relate to her hate and anger, to be honest. Not even back then. It was fear--and pity--overwhelming pity for their souls. An overwhelming mix of sorrow and fear--but there was a great joy mixed in there, too. But then, I am weird. I don't always react in "normal" ways to events--as people who know me will attest. You'd have to know the whole story.

I totally understand the anger--someone reacting as she did in the movie. As a human being, you can understand why, of course. The movie made me sad. It did show that reacting to violence with violence just left her feeling empty and unhappy with who she had become. Just added more violence to this unpredictable world. She became like them.

I didn't lose someone I love to violence, tho. I had no one to avenge. It was just me--my body--that was hurt. I discovered that no matter what someone does to your body, they can't touch your soul--not unless you allow it. Whatever they do--is on their souls. What I do--is on my own soul.

I have often wondered if I would ever resort to violence to save my own life? I would hope not. Having been in that kind of situation, I don't think so. I think I would be much more likely to become violent to protect the people I love and care about. But I would hope and pray that any situation could be resolved without violence--on my part, anyways. I have a tremendous faith in the power of God/goodness/positives/love--since I was young. It has faltered at times, but has always returned to me. :)

I guess I have to tell you the story--short version.

There were three men in that car. The leader snatched me off the street as I was walking home--drug me into the back seat of the car--two other men were in the front seat. He beat me till I passed out. Drove around in the country where there were no street lights. Played cat and mouse with me. As I was getting dressed--he took the driver's seat and sent the man who'd been at the wheel into the back seat with me--threatening to run me down and kill me if I tried to get out of the car. I couldn't see anything but black night and trees. Then the second man was instructed to take his turn--and the boss turned on the dome light to watch and drive and laugh. And he kept telling me all along that they were going to kill me when they were done with me. I had nothing to lose.

I had never been that close to such empty, lost souls--to such a level of anger and hate. I really had absolutely nothing to lose. I was going to die soon. Was overwhelmed with such sadness for their souls. There was no point in telling them I was afraid or I wanted to live--they could see me shaking and I believed what he told me. I was going to die. I had this overpowering feeling that I was supposed to say something before I left this world--so I started talking. It almost hurt to "feel" them--don't know how to explain it.

I wanted to help before I left--(the "soul comforter" in me runs deep). I talked about how I felt alone, too--about how you can't take love from someone (I was too naive to know that rape has not much to do with love and a lot to do with power and hate)...I don't remember eveything I said, but I know I talked about God and love...mostly about love and how precious it is when given freely...I remember feeling lifted up just talking about it--like I do.

They had all been silent and listening to me as we drove in the darkness. The boss suddenly screamed at me to shut up and turned the radio up really loud. I had done my best. I had opened my heart to them. I sat quietly in the back seat--shaking and trembling--waiting. The second man was huddled up against the door looking pointedly out the window. I had a good idea what was next.

The music pounded and I watched. The boss leaned over and shouted into the third man's ear. He shook his head no. The dark-haired boss struck him hard on the side of his head. I knew what that ring felt like. The sandy-haired man kept his head straight forward and wouldn't look at the dark-haired man--and kept shaking his head no as the dark-haired man struck him several times.

I am crying as I am writing this. Every time I think of the sandy-haired man I am overcome with joy--with love. I wish I could meet him one day to thank him--and to tell him how proud I am of him for saying no. For standing up to that angry, frightened dark-haired bully. For being a man he should be proud of--for taking a stand--for saying no.

If you believe in God or the positive power of love in the Universe--I felt it there in that car with me that night. The boss man's shoulders dropped a little. He didn't turn around again except to turn the dome light off. He couldn't look at me, either.
He let me go. They didn't kill me. He even drove me to within a few blocks of where they had kidnapped me--dumped me off with threats--to kill my family or anyone I told--don't turn around--keep walking.....

I am glad I have been reminded of the girl I was and the unwavering faith I had. I can still connect with that pure part of myself, but it is a little more protected over time and hidden by layers, I guess. But I am still here.

Now you see why I also have "joy" when I remember being raped 40 years ago. Over time the fear grows less and the joy grows more.
I still believe! :)

Six Unimportant Random Nothings about me

2009-07-31T04:18:00.000-07:00

I was supposed to think of six very unimportant random nothings about myself to reveal. The hardest part about this task was to think of something most of the people who know me might not know already. You all have heard most of my stories--hehe!Well, here goes:

1. When I was a teenager I once had a job for three days constructing aluminum screen door frames with a screw gun. Worst job ever! Apparently I had been very good at it, though. When I informed the supervisor that I wouldn't be coming back, he told me I was better than any new employee he'd ever had--male or female--not one door frame rejected--and that I was "born to handle a screw gun". I disagreed. Same thing happened to me at a plastics factory where I sat and checked those pop-up liquid soap caps for defects--watched them shuffle past me, in mirror surround, for eight hours a day. I lasted two weeks--not one box rejected--they begged me to stay, too. I have always been very good at boring, mind-numbing tasks. But I vastly preferred jobs where I had to mulit-task!! :)

2. Speaking of....residuals from past jobs waitressing and working Natural Foods in a grocery store...all my condiment bottle caps can never get too dirty or I clean them, I tend to top off my salt and pepper mills, and I group and face my dry goods in my pantry. But--which came first? The jobs or the OCD tendencies? I have to be honest and admit that the tendencies were already deeply apparent. Probably why I enjoyed the jobs--hehe! I'm not like Monk, tho--I am able to ignore things for quite a while--but I can certainly relate to him--hehe!

3. I owned a skunk named Jorj (George) when I was a teenager. Couldn't take him with me when I left home. (Not one apartment would allow a skunk, imagine that!) Sold Jorj to a skunk-loving couple who already had five descented skunks, a cat door for them, all trained to go in a cat box, and had a fenced in yard where the fence went 6-8 feet below ground (they're diggers). They told me Jorj was the friendliest skunk they had ever met! Jorj went to skunk haven!3. I have some very old items I have been unable to part with--besides my year books, Dagan's baby shoes, more normal things like that. I have my cloth doll from my first birthday (from my uncle Ardell), my high school homecoming button collection, my pep club beanie (which I refused to wear at the time), the metal ankh necklace that Alan made for me senior year in shop class, and even the booklets they gave us for "the" movie in fifth grade--one is titled "Very Personally Yours"--hehe!

4. A few of the ladies from Lee Square (the senior building where I both worked and was live-in security for a couple of years before I came up to Fargo/Moorhead to go to college) still write and/or call me--nine years later. :) It was like a big extended family to me. Loved those ladies--and the few gentlement were pretty nice people, too--hehe!

5. I am afraid of creepy, crawly things that fly or have legs getting on me. Hate wood ticks and leeches!! Young boys who discovered that an almost fearless tomboy was afraid of having spiders, grasshoppers, cicadas (on vacation in Ohio) or crawfish, sand crabs (this was on vacation in Florida)--whatever!!!! *sigh*--thrown at her---well, they had a lot of fun and made my life hell! I made sure that this dangerous knowledge did not leak back into my life at home where I had a brave image to maintain. You are all sworn to secrecy!!

6a. I have an almost endless sense of humor. Under certain circumstances some people have considered it to be quite inappropriate. (I have been told as much--hehe!) I can usually find something funny, ironic, silly, joyful, absurd, or sadly humorous in almost any situation--even fender benders, flat tires, being locked out of the house, watching people totally lose their tempers over some inconsquential occurance, ruining my "good" arm from overuse..etc, etc. When I stop laughing--then you know I am in deep trouble. Or you are--if you have thrown a spider at me!

6b. I probably have passed this crazy sense of humor on to Dagan--hehe! More times than with any other human being on this earth--he and I have laughed until we cried with high pitched squeals--often in public places!! Ask Dagan about the penguin card at Hallmark---"I gotta be me!" Oh goodness! I guess you had to be there!

Fridley Fields

2009-07-31T03:57:00.000-07:00

I love toads, salamanders, dragonflies, butterflies, turtles, fish...all the fluttering and crawly critters I spent so many hours with when I was a kid wandering the fields and lake by our house in Fridley. I didn't like the green frogs we had by the lake. But I do love tree frogs--saw them later elsewhere. We didn't have any tree frogs. :(

We also had mallards, an owl I could never get a good look at, flickers, red-winged blackbirds, blue jays, sparrows, killdeer, a couple of crows, and a bluish black bird--maybe starlings? Garter snakes, rabbits, skinks, thirteen striped ground squirrels--all the critters of the Midwestern plains, the grass fields. Probably a lot more I can't think of anymore off the top of my head.

Things I wasn't quite as fond of--loved to observe but didn't want them too near me--shudder! Little black and white jumping house spiders, daddy long-legs, various other spiders, wood ticks, bats, snapping turtles, shrews, moles, and something that may have been a woodchuck?

Don't know what got me to thinking about Moore Lake and the fields this morning? It is only 19 degrees--but it is sunny out.

I loved being outside when I was a kid. I spent entire summers wandering about by myself--laying in the tall grass fields and watching dragonflies gather on the tips of the wild grass above my head. Laying silently on my stomach next to a ground squirrel hole waiting for it to pop its head out--sometimes I fell asleep there in the sun. After a rain storm, collecting the yellow spotted salamanders from people's new window wells and carrying them in metal coffee cans back down to the lake. Sitting quietly for hours watching a mama mallard on her nest.

I climbed the rough oak tree. Balance walked around the top of the dusty ice rink fence in the heat of summer. Ran through the fields of wild flowers and spun with arms wide. I love wildflowers!!! Even if some of them smell bad--the stems--and the flowers are very small. People think of a lot of them as weeds. But I think of stickers and those thorny green clumps as weeds! Hard on the bare feet, I tell you.
Tumbleweeds! When we first moved there and all the houses were brand new--there were tumbleweeds and sand dunes!

I was so blessed to have lived where I did. Most all of these memories were when I was from 5-10 years old. We moved to Fridley when I was five. When I was ten they were digging up the higher field to build a senior high school--killing so many animals--most of the wildflowers grew there, too. Broke my heart.

After that--it was softball fields and more housing. Nothing is left of the Minnesota grass fields of my youth. The lake--they built a walkway along the "wild" side of the lake--so people can look from a dry wooden planked footpath. There must still be children who touch the earth--that walk barefoot through the mud...push aside the grasses to peer at mallards mumbling contentedly and smacking goodies from the slimy bottom...smell the damp water's edge covered in algae and dancing water bugs...hear the red-winged blackbirds call...frighten leaping frogs back into the hot shallow water...???

May dragonflies follow you and feel safe enough to perch upon your body. May you hear the meadowlarks song and allow a killdeer to fool you. May you notice whatever is outside your door.

Flower Child

2009-07-31T03:54:00.000-07:00

Flower Child

I was cleaning cages in the garage. I had to clean half of the twenty-seven cages and aquariums every day to keep the smell down or my folks would start evicting my critters. Various rodents, lizards, and amphibians lined two walls in the garage and a corner of the basement. No animals were allowed in my room. Mine was next to theirs and Mom, especially, was personally affronted by pungent odors. It wasn’t easy to maintain control of the odor because I didn’t have store-bought bedding for my rodents and had to use hand-shredded newspapers. Selling babies to the local pet shop kept me in seed and pellets, but I couldn’t afford bedding. The manager preferred buying his rats, mice, hamsters, and guinea pigs from me because mine were all gentle, hand-tamed, and less likely to be returned for biting. He saved cracked aquariums and gave them to me for free. Neighbor kids brought me their folks’ newspapers and were on trash alert for great stuff like a bruised apple, wilting lettuce, or a pile of carrot tops and peelings from dinner. A couple of moms even wrapped their critter salvageable garbage in waxed paper for their kids to deliver for my “zoo.” Kids always popped in. All those little hands helped keep the babies tame and I taught them how to be gentle with animals.

As I softly poured a hamster family from the ice cream pail back into their clean cage, I heard a small troop of feet come up short by the open garage door. “I’m cleaning right now. Can’t play with ‘em till I’m done, okay?”

As I slid the cage cover on, they all started talking at once. “No. Rita, look! Look what we found.” My heart sank. I turned and saw two kids with hands cupped gingerly in front of them moving forward. One of the red-headed boys had something scooped up in his t-shirt and there were several observers anxiously circling.

“We saved ‘em, we did. From where they’re diggin’.” The foundation for the new Senior High School had begun about a block and a half away, just across the road from Moore Lake.

“You’re not supposed to go over there, ya know. Better not let anybody catch ya,” I warned. They knew I searched The Flower Field after the workmen went home. I was second to the oldest in the neighborhood. Besides, nobody would bother to tell my folks, anyways.

“We were watching from the backyard over there across the street.”

“They shut the machines off. They’re gone- eating their lunch.”

“Yeah! We snuck out. Only on the edge. Not by the big hole, ya know?”

“I didn’t go. I stayed in the yard,” said a little girl in back.

“Me, too. I stayed in the yard, too.”

“They chopped the Mom rabbit!”

“Yeah! They chopped her!”

“Well, most probley it was the Mom, ya know. She wasn’t way far from the babies.”

“It was the Mom,” pronounced the little girl with wet eyes.

“Yeah! Really icky! All blood and stuff.”

“This one’s leg is broke, though, Rita. Can ya fix it?” Hopeful hands raise the baby like an offering. A white bone stuck out of the rabbit’s back leg and the splintering of the wishbone at Thanksgiving jolted to mind.

“You didn’t see a cat or a dog by there, did ya?” I wondered about the facts.

“Lookit! You can see the bone right there.” One of the girls stuck her pointing finger too close.

“Get away. Don’t touch it.” The boy shouldered away from her.

“I wasn’t!”

“This one here’s got a bloody nose.” Another offering.

“Just a minute. Let me get a box for them.” I scrambled up the big ladder leaning against the back wall and found the smallest box I could in the rafters where all the forgotten junk was piled.

“Hey, Rita! Rita! He’s got three more of ‘em in his shirt.”

“Just a minute. I’m comin’.” Stealing an old hand towel from Dad’s rag-bag near the foot of the ladder, I headed back over to the group by the door. They hovered as I fixed up the box.

“Remember,” I warned, “I found those four baby rabbits last week that were way bigger. They had their eyes open and could hop and everything and didn’t look hurt or nothin’, but they all died.” I took the broken-leg bunny from the dirt-encrusted hands. Being ten, I could fit it pretty much in one hand. It never made a sound. I laid it carefully in one end of the box. It just laid there, flat on its side with its legs straight out and was barely breathing. It never tried to move. “Don’t think this one’s gunna make it. Sorry, can’t do nothin’ ‘bout the leg.”

“Here. Lookit this one.” The bloody-nose bunny was placed in my hand. I lifted my palm up and tried to see it from different angles. The blood was just kind of sitting in its nose making little blood bubbles. It was trying to sit up and I saw blood in its mouth, too.

“It musta got hurt inside.” When I set it down there was a little airy-squeak and it pushed its clotting nose up next to the broken-leg one, wobbled and fell over. “Don’t look good,” I sadly diagnosed.

The red-headed boy had inched forward and pulled his shirt out. A clump of bunnies swung in the bottom of his t-shirt hammock. These looked more normal, so I picked them right up, one by one, and looked them over and put them in the other end of the box. “These ones look good, but don’t know if I can save ‘em. Lookit. Their eyes aren’t even open yet. But, I’ll try, okay? But don’t be surprised if they all die like the last ones. Remember -these ones are even littler babies.”

I pulled a corner of the towel up over the three good ones who had curled up together in a ball. That done- I turned, put my hands on my hips and eyed them all good. “You could get hurt over there and I don’t want any of you kids gettin’ hurt, ya know? You hear me? What if you fell in that big hole and could never get out? What if you got chopped up like the Mom rabbit? Huh? What about that?” I stared them into silence. “If you see somethin’ just come and get me, okay? I will go out there, not you. Okay? Promise?”

Heads bobbed.

“You guys, The Flower Field is gone. You’ll have to play over in The Grass Field and The Sand Dunes, ya know. And, you guys stay away from The Big Sand Dune and The Dead End so those bigger boys don’t push you down. You know you can come get me if you need me, okay?”

Heads bobbed.

“Okay. I gotta try and get ‘em to drink something now, so you guys gotta get goin’. You should be eatin’ lunch, anyways. You can come and ask me every day how they’re doin’, ya know.”

With bright eyes and confident hearts, they scattered.

Carefully carrying the box steady, I opened the back screen door. Silence. I scooted through the backside of the house into my bedroom and quickly shut the door. Kicking everything over to one side of my closet floor, I scuttled the box into the corner, hauled the lamp in there, flicked the light on over them, and hunched cross-legged over the box. They had tiny ears lying flat to their heads and they reminded me of newborn kittens. At least I had learned not to use the heat lamp Dad used for his bad back. I, literally, cooked some Mallard eggs the kids brought me last year. My eyes still sting every time I picture the warm, wet feathers shining through the small hole I had delicately picked with shaking tweezers when I checked one of the eggs after it was cool enough to handle. Ignorance is no excuse for murder.

I wondered if the workmen thought about the animals they killed every day. It was spring, 1961, and there were babies everywhere up on The Flower Field where they were digging. Baby rabbits, thirteen-striped ground squirrels, gophers, mice, moles, killdeer, garter snakes, meadowlarks, and skinks were the ones I could think of right off. That’s not counting the salamanders, frogs and toads who wandered across the road from the lake. The best part of my own personal sanctuary was being plowed under. The prairie grass was shorter there and you could twirl and twirl about, arms raised to the sun, amidst the wildflowers. Tiny yellow, clumpy purple, small violet, yellow beady, and purple thistly flowers grew there. There were white flowers that grew in clusters like parachutes and orange daisies we made wishes on while we plucked them naked. I just could not believe that teeming, flowered meadowland was being replaced by a stupid old school. I hoped as many critters as possible had escaped either to The Lake on the one side or to The Grass Field and Sand Dunes on the other.

The bloody-nose bunny quit breathing. Not the one I thought would die first, but I was glad it wasn’t suffering anymore. I wished the broken-leg one would die soon, poor thing. It’s hard to tell how an animal feels when you can’t see its eyes.

I grabbed a couple of Kleenexes out of the box on my headboard, wrapped up the dead one and shut my bedroom door on my way out. I peeked in the living room and Dad was asleep in his chair. Saturday afternoon. I went out the back way to the garage, put the dead bunny in the ice cream pail and covered it. No time for burying. There’d be another soon, anyways, so I went back and stashed the bucket in my closet. Then I located the doll bottle in the basement, even though the last bunnies hated it and had kicked scratches all over my hands and forearms in protest. I needed to find something else. I searched the basement. I scrounged through the garage and quietly through the kitchen, so I wouldn’t wake Dad. In the bathroom medicine cabinet was a bottle of old eardrops with an eyedropper.
Down the drain. Hot water and soap.

“What on earth are you doing in there? That water’s been running for five minutes!”
Mom! I hadn’t seen her when I went through the house. She must have been in their bedroom with the door shut. Not good.

“Nothin’. Just washing my hands. Been cleanin’ cages. I’m almost done.”

“Well, good.” Oh, great! Dad was up. “Money doesn’t grow on trees, ya know. We pay for all that hot water.” He was backing her up. Not good.

I hid the bottle in my underpants. “Okay, okay. I’m done,” I said as I was already shutting my bedroom door.

The broken-leg one hadn’t died yet, so I covered it with some Kleenexes to keep it warm and, to be honest, so I wouldn’t have to look at that bone for a while. It puzzled me why it was hardly bleeding. I tried to give it some warm water where it laid, but it didn’t move. Arranging a t-shirt in my lap from my dirty clothes on the closet floor, I proceeded with the careful task of coaxing the three good bunnies into drinking some water from the eyedropper. I didn’t want to fetch milk for them until I knew whether Mom was working herself up to one of her filibusters or if this would rate as a minor skirmish. She sounded testy.

We moved to Fridley, Minnesota in 1956. We had been living in a duplex in South Minneapolis. My world had been; sidewalks, traffic, squirrels, tall trees, and a fenced-in back yard with patchy grass. I remember when we drove out one day after a rainstorm to see how the house was coming along. I thought the new housing development was an awful place to live. Flat. Sand. No roads- just rutted paths and mud puddles everywhere. Everything had been leveled and lots were paced off with stakes and string. Houses were in various stages of development. Basement holes were dug, cement floors poured, cement block walls were raised, and the dirt was filled back in around the basement walls and window wells when the blocks were dry. The timber foundations were braced for the main floor, the floor bases were laid, and then the outside walls would go up. Our house had gotten to the skeletal wall stage when we came creeping up the rutty road and Mom and Dad pointed out our new home.

Dad was going to park where it looked like the driveway was supposed to be. Mom said it looked like a lake there and he should park wherever he wanted. Always alert to authority, Dad was sure he would get in trouble if he didn’t park in the proper place. Mom said it was all just sand, anyway. There may have been no defining lines yet in the naked suburb, but there were always defining lines between my folks.

I don’t remember where we parked, but I do remember walking a wobbly plank over a mud puddle to get to the stacked basement blocks that formed the temporary front steps, climbing halfway up and Dad grabbing me by one arm and hauling me up onto a vast wooden platform. I stood on that plywood floor with the breeze blowing my jacket, looking through the wooden frame in all directions and thinking this was a terrible, empty, dead place as far as the eye could see. There was not one living thing. Not one tree. Not one blade of grass.

“I don’t want to move here,” I whined, tugging at Mom’s coat.

“Lots of kids will be moving here. You’ll like it.” She smiled.

She was all happy on the way home.

That night she cried. She was afraid the new neighbors wouldn’t accept her. She cried for three days.

We moved.

Mom was right. There were, quite literally, kids everywhere. Every single house had toddlers and babies. Witnessing the magical transformation of the neighborhood was an adventure that mesmerized our puerile minds and convinced us we had moved into a place of eminence and grandiosity. Awe-inspiring machines graded and paved the streets with smelly hot tar and giant roller machines. A procession of giant dump trucks visited the bare yards, leaving mountains of black dirt that the moms had to keep the little kids out of all day until the shirtless, sweaty dads could shovel it into wheel-barrels and scatter the dark, loamy lumps to the staked edges of their property lines. Next came the huge flatbed trucks filled with rolls of grass.

The city planted a slip of an elm tree in everybody’s front yard by the street. The sandy soil was an unforgiving host and most of them died. There were no curbs or sidewalks. Garages went up- mostly doubles. Driveways appeared- with the kind of tar that would burn your feet and sink your kickstand in the hot summer sun. Flowers, shrubs, and trees arrived. The whole neighborhood went from brown sand to green manicured lawns in what seemed the blink of an eye and another suburb of Minneapolis was born.

We lived about a block away from the untouched Minnesota prairie land that surrounded the end and side of our part of the Vern Donnay housing development. We lived on the tip of, what seemed to us, an endless stretch of blocks of houses and on the opposite side was Moore Lake. I lived for summer. My heart and soul thrived at The Dead End, The Creek, The Grass Field, The Sand Dunes, The Big Sand Dune, The Flower Field and The Lake.

Take The Dead End, for instance. The short tar road just stopped on the top of a small incline. The rain had gradually undermined the artificial tar horizon, cracked and crumbled the edges of the road and dropped it off into a miniature, swirling ravine that fed The Creek that advanced across The Grass Field and carved through the base of The Big Sand Dune. The Dead End was my favorite place to be during the thunder and lightning of a hard summer rain. Waiting in anticipation for the dark swirling water of The Drop Off to rise high enough to overflow, being peltingly caressed with warm water, staring into the darkness of the unknown depths, being privy to the rushing birth of The Creek, staying ahead of the creation all the way to the oak tree at the base of The Big Sand Dune, laughing at my footprints in the sand, appreciating the true beauty of wet rocks, floating leaves, wiping water out of my eyes, and opening my mouth to the rain with arms spread wide was definitely worth the random possibility of being electrocuted by lightning. The sun came out and the creek dried up. Left in memory were the imprints of the moving water against the sand and the flattened grasses. I learned about the power of God at The Dead End.

The third good bunny suddenly stiffened in my cupped hand against my chest. Silently the little legs stuck out and it trembled. I hadn’t even gotten the eyedropper out yet. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t see what was wrong. Its mouth had opened and the tip of its tiny gray tongue stuck out. I knew it was dying. I just held it, kept it company and waited.

I wrapped the bunny in Kleenex and put it in the ice cream pail. Mom’s voice was louder and higher. The broken-leg bunny was dead, too. I wrapped it and put it with the other two in the pail. The remaining two had damp faces and they felt cool, even with the lamp on them. The bulb was too far away, but after the Mallard eggs I wasn’t pressing my luck. I could still hear Mom in the kitchen. I dashed out and grabbed a hand towel and two baby pins from the hall closet. I put the two in the towel, folded it in half and pinned it to my shoulders with the big baby pins. Cradling the bundle with my left hand, I put the lamp back where it belonged, moved the box and pail to the other side of the closet, sat in the corner and slid the closet door not quite shut. Now I could relax. They wouldn’t know I was here and I had enough light to use the eyedropper. I could hear Mom crying and shouting in the living room. Three dead already. It got hard to breathe and a tear fell off my face onto the towel.

When I was trapped in the house and couldn’t get away to my wild sanctuary, I could always go there in my head. I leaned my head back, propped up my legs, wedged my hands beneath the bunny bundle and remembered saved animals. One of the older girls came over one evening last spring to tell me that there were some birds in a tree trunk beyond her back yard on the edge of The Grass Field. “My mom and dad say they haven’t seen them get fed since yesterday. My mom watches the woodpeckers from the kitchen window- now she’s all sad because they’ll die. I told her I would come and tell you…that maybe you could do something for them?”

There were a few abandoned basement cement blocks on the edge of The Grass Field. Sandy helped me haul one over to the tree and put it on end the tall way. By this time it was dusk. I wasn’t tall enough to see in, but was close enough to just tentatively reach inside the hole. Beaks lunged at my fingers. I snapped my hand back so fast that I teetered the block. They were awful strong and were obviously better off in the tree trunk. We caught some grasshoppers. The birds actually pecked them out of my hand when I held them in the hole. They hurt my fingers, so I knew I couldn’t get any of the kids to help me.

Sandy and I spread the word and the kids brought me all kinds of bugs. Their initial enthusiasm waned in a couple of days, but by that time there were only a couple of beaks in the hole. Those birds ate so violently that I couldn’t believe they were dying in there, but they were either dying or leaving. I wasn’t tall enough to see into the hole, but I could see their heads sometimes and they had feathers. It smelled bad enough that I thought maybe they were dying in there!
That last week I only felt one left, which was actually good because by the second week I was getting tired of catching bugs all by myself and my hands were raw from beak abuse. Coming to the tree with a jar of juicy grasshoppers, I was just about to stun breakfast by snapping the jar back and forth as hard as I could, when I was stopped dead in my tracks. There was a grown bird sitting in the hole - just watching me. It took me a moment to realize it was the last baby, because it was a regular-sized bird, just a little fluffy looking. Seeing the whole bird, not just the bobbing top of the head and the flash of an eye, was enlightening. I wasn’t sure it was even a woodpecker.

We just stared at each other. Then it leaned forward and took off like it had always known how to fly. It flew low along the waving blanket of tall prairie grass and then rose up and circled the tree three times and headed toward The Lake. I let the grasshoppers go. I waded through the grass until I found a level spot without too many rocks, laid flat on my back, stared up the tapping straw walls in the narrow hole my body made, and watched dragonflies and clouds until lunch. Despite my total lack of categorical or labeling interest, I must confess that I searched bird books at the library until I found a picture of that up-close meeting.
We saved at least one baby flicker last year.

I smiled to myself in the corner of my closet. The two babies wiggled in the towel. They were warm now, so I reached for the eyedropper.

There was a physical pain in my chest when I thought about The Flower Field. Now, even The Dead End seemed pregnant with ominous intent, poised as it was over The Grass Field. I could not even imagine my life without startling a basking skink on a dune and watching it whip its stubby, snake-like body across the sand with its furious little legs pumping; or ignoring the male Killdeer’s pleading, broken-winged, pied-piper performance to walk softly in the opposite direction so as to glimpse the frozen female guarding her grass nest; or sitting on the crest of The Big Sand Dune and looking across the top of the oak leaves; or hearing the familiar rustling of the tall prairie grass that billowed in the breeze like a mom shaking out a clean sheet over a bed; or enduring the rough bark on the back of my thigh for the perfect, perching crook of the gnarly oak tree in The Flower Field; or twirling in the sun amidst the wildflowers.

I couldn’t imagine my life without it.
************************************
By some miracle, one bunny lived. The neighbors complained about Juniper for years, because she grazed in their gardens and bore babies under their bushes. She had to live with us… in the housing development. The remaining prairie land was transformed rapidly into more housing and Little League softball fields.

For the past forty years, when life cuts hard, I can still close my eyes and escape into my sanctuary fields…arms splayed, face to the sun, I twirl and twirl…where wildflowers brush my bare toes and baby bunnies are safe.

Baby Girl

2009-07-30T03:00:00.000-07:00

Baby Girl

“Yes, ma’am. Cold outside to-day,”
He grins with large white teeth
Pulling his collar up against
His salt and pepper beard
And the frigid, gray morning.

“It’s the wind,” I reply,
Arriving at the bus stop
Flipping back my errant scarf.

“Yes, ma’am. Yes, ma’am.
It’s the wind cuts through ya,” he nods,
Cupping his white breath into his black hands.
He buries those hands pocket-deep
Braces his shoulders in his tattered navy pea coat.

I lean against frozen bark.
We settle into bus stop silence.
Shift in our boots with shrunken necks
Huffing white, crystal clouds.
Tree and corner lamppost our only cover
Beside the insurance company parking lot.
He checks his watch
Swivels a glance behind the post
And cries to the parking lot,
“Baby Girl! You come here now.
Bus be comin’ soon!”

She explodes from beside a parked car
Where he had tucked her safely from the wind,
Flailing the long arms of a
Bursting neon pink coat,
New, three sizes too big.
Under her hand-knit rainbow colored hat
Blooms an identical wide, white grin
Framed by deeply dented, caramel apple cheeks.

“Come on, Baby Girl. Don’t you be playin’ with me, now.”

Gingerly she hobbles across the slick, packed snow
But as he extends his hand
She chortles and hides behind the lamppost
Giggling and rocking foot to foot.

“Okay,” he smiles and slides his back down the pole
Curls up on his haunches and covers his eyes.
Laughing, she swings her vacant neon sleeves
Slaps at his huddled form
Until his baseball cap is whacked into the wind.

“Uh, oh,” I say in mock dismay.

She freezes, eyes wide.

“No, that’s okay,” he grunts with pride
As he hand-crawls his back up the pole.
“It’s Baby Girl.”
As if by right of birth and love
She was forever vindicated from sin.

The cap was luck-caught
On a snowbank ice shard
As he swoops it up he boasts
“I take Baby Girl with me everywhere I go,”
He places his hand on her back.
“She’s my only Baby Girl.”

He lifts a stiff pink sleeve and peers in.
“You got your gloves, Baby Girl? Where your gloves?”
She grins, scrunching her chin into her neck.
“They in your pocket, Baby Girl?”

Squealing brakes startle us
As the bus sighs to a stop.
He lifts her in.
I follow.
Rattling heater, coins clinking,
Murmuring conversation,
Deep-chest coughing,
And the winter fragrance of wet boots.

He blocks me in the aisle
Greeting a burly blonde man
With intricate handshakes.
I sideways past them
Settle in against a foggy, splattered window
As the bus driver sighs into his mirror,
“You gotta siddown back there.”

He turns and puts his hand on her small back
Her grin returns
Automatic to his touch.
He places her against the window
In the seat opposite mine
And the big blonde perches sideways
On my seat.
They whisper
Head-to-head and knee-to-knee
As the blurry buildings slide past.
I sway and vibrate with the road.
Baby Girl and I are like bookends
Silent and still.
I close my eyes.

At her age
I remember panic
In a department store downtown
Straining to keep sight of my mother’s blonde hair
And brightly flowered blouse.
Neck arched,
Walk-running,
My heart in my throat,
A maze of counters and racks,
Weaving through the Amazon shoppers,
A sudden bottleneck of legs,
And I lost her.
That was my job.
To keep up with her.

I had failed.

A clerk finally noticed me
Huddled under a clothing rack.

As she led me behind the counter
She told me not to worry
And put her hand on my back.

They called my mother’s name.
From the ceiling.
Three times.

In the car on the way home,
With her eyes on the road,
My mother told me
That she didn’t bother to hurry,
Took her sweet time with her purchase.
She said,
“That’ll teach you.”