What’s new here:

Saturday morning, after posting the latest blog before this one, I slept about an hour before the phone woke me around 9 AM.  Greyfox said he had figured out why he was so squirrely and surly yesterday, very irritable, restless and discontented, not to mention hostile and short-tempered (with everyone and everything but me, miraculously). 

He had run out of the packs of amino acid neurotransmitter precursors I had made up for him to help him deal with his detox and withdrawal.  I have been tapering off mine, but he just ran out cold turkey, and he’s a lot more toxic, and addicted to somewhat stronger stuff (alcohol) than my sugar, gluten and such).  He had a white-knuckle day Friday.

I told him I needed more sleep, but that I’d make up new packs as soon as I got up, and bring them in when I came in for the potluck.  But I couldn’t get back to sleep, so I got up, had coffee and started sorting out pills into little bottles. 

While I was doing that, I had a chicken roasting in the oven, with stuffing made from my gluten-free muffins.  Yum… but I digress.  This was the first really complicated thing I’ve tried to cook since I’ve been on this strict diet.  Usually, I content myself with a dish of yogurt or a bowl of amaranth flakes and goat milk, or some nachos (which are only marginally “on” the diet, but don’t seem to be doing me much harm).

When the chicken was done, I ate a serving of it, having first swallowed some stimulant pills consisting of ma huang and gotu kola, because I’ve been getting way too much caffeine lately.  Angina a few nights ago was my first clue to that… that and the fact that the old caffeine addiction is raging again, and I get headaches if I don’t drink coffee often enough.  It’s time to start cutting down there.

That trip to town didn’t go quite as planned.  Greyfox wanted to keep the stand open as late as possible, so I ended up going to the potluck alone.  I listened to a really good speaker tell a great story, then helped sweep the dance floor after all the chairs and tables were cleared away.

And then I danced.  I got out on the dance floor alone and boogied.  I warmed up the floor, was dancing with the push broom as the band warmed up, and then was first out on the floor, getting things started immediately instead of waiting until some other woman nagged or dragged a man onto the floor.  Dancing alone is okay.  God knows I did plenty of it when I danced in bars, and this time I had all my clothes on. 

Like riding a bicycle, I guess one never forgets how to dance.  I did have a few balance problems at first, probably because it has been so long since I danced and my center of gravity has changed.  But I can still pull off a graceful recovery and turn a bobble into a bounce.  I got really warm and a bit out of breath, but wasn’t really tired when I noticed it was time to go meet Greyfox.  He’s got the key to the meeting room now, and made a commitment to be there every night to open up for the 10 o’clock meeting.

Since most everyone was still boogying in Palmer, only one other guy showed up for the meeting.  It was quiet and casual and ended in the usual manner.  Instead of going back to his cabin with Greyfox, I was tired and drove straight home.  The sun was going down as I left Wasilla, and was below the horizon and glowing gold when I got to Kashwitna Lake, but I was too tired to stop and take pics.  Had to open a window and stop humming the repetitive hypnotic tune I’d had in my head all the way (radio broke yesterday), to stay awake.  Got home and got in bed right away, but not before noticing that Doug had gotten ALL the dirty dishes done, first time in months!  Yaaay, Doug.

I’ve been sucked into the temple.

I resisted a while, but recently I wanted to reply to some of the people on the BBS at totse.com who were wanting answers from Greyfox NOW, and he wouldn’t be back for almost a week.  At first, I just logged into his account, but then decided to register my own.  Greyfox was right:  they need me over there, and with my social worker complex, I’m a sucker for needy ones… got sucked in again.  Some of it is fun, too.  Giving flip (but accurate and true) answers to naive questions that have already gotten a whole string of stupid answers–that’s my forte, I think.  That and starting threads that bring replies like, “Man, you’re a sicko!”

Nothing is simple.

Blessings and curses mingled together–that’s the story of my life.  Peaceful seclusion and bleak isolation are one and the same.  The best way to tell when I’m in trouble is when things are at their best.  Always, life’s most rewarding times are the most punishing.  Bittersweet should be my name.  It certainly is my disposition.

I went to Wasilla today–no, it was yesterday.  The brief summer night passed while I was on the road home some hours ago.  Now the sun is up and starting to warm away the chill of night.  It was a very damp and chilly night and my fingers got cold taking some of the pictures below.  At mid-day when these were taken, it was hot, windy and dry.

Here is a picture of Greyfox’s stand in the flea market strip at Rainbow.  Dusty, noisy and dangerous:  a week or so ago, someone speeding along the strip, probably to avoid the traffic slow-up on the highway it parallels, caused by the traffic light at the next intersection, hit a little boy and sent him to the hospital.  Troopers came, couldn’t do anything because the accident occurred on private property.  Today I watched two cars pull the same stunt during rush hour traffic, close to 50 MPH, kicking up dust, making everyone there tense up, squint, cough, and look around for the kids.  This is not my idea of a good place to spend my day.

If I want to spend time with my baby between his Monday-Tuesday “weekends”, though, this is where I have to be, because this is where he works.  Today, I had work to do in town, too, so of course since I had to be there anyway, I stayed a while and hung around with him so we could spend time together and talk.  Talking is great with him now, with his new outlook on life.  Greatly challenging for both of us, too, confronting years of dysfunctional communications and many once-buried memories for him, the things from his past that bred psychopathology.  We work, do talk therapy, and sometimes it feels like we are ripping our guts out to get things fixed.  But things are getting fixed so it is worth the effort.

Besides the personal marital bonding and healing, and the joys of the fellowship in the meetings we go to after the stand closes, and the rewards both tangible and intangible for my service work, those trips back and forth have their own costs and benefits.  I get chances to see things along the road that I’d not see if I stayed home.  I get to take pretty pictures.

Of course, there’s a downside.  With me there is always a downside.  The highway and the schedule beats me all to shit and isn’t doing my old car Streak any good either.  Today, the return spring on the ignition switch broke, so that the starter just stays engaged until I jiggle the key back into place.  Damp, misty weather like this also causes some sputter-and-die incidents just like we used to have in the GMC Jimmy when his carb iced up.

Last night we closed the stand shortly after 7 and went to our favorite Mexican restaurant.  While we were looking at menus, a burglar alarm in a neighboring business went off, for about ten minutes.  It seemed to irritate everyone except me inordinately.  Then, we went to the ten o’clock meeting, where people were more squirrely and surly than usual.  Then back to Greyfox’s cabin for some more therapeutic talk.  It had to be after two, maybe after three before I started home, because I didn’t get here until about 4:30.  I’m still awake because about 10:00 PM is my usual bedtime, and in order to be wakeful for the drive home, I load up on caffeine.

This pic is the muskeg just across the road here, the green, green grass of home.  It’s nice to get back to it after the crazy days on the highway and in town.  It’s going to be nice to crawl into bed in few moments, and when I wake up it will be nice to get back on the road again and go back to town to see my soulmate and catch a few meetings.  This evening, the last Saturday of the month, is the big potluck get-together of all the local 12-step groups, and will be the first of these for Greyfox and me.  We’ll see all those people we love, and meet others to get to know and love, and we will have time to pursue some of those issues we didn’t get to today.  And there will be huggin’ and kissin’, and inevitably more coffee and gasoline for the road… the long, loong, road back home by myself.

All caught up…
ready to go,
I guess.

As far as I know (haven’t checked my power animal Ursula’s webmail inbox for a few hours, nor the feedback log at KaiOaty’s Klinic for an hour or so–but even if there are more requests for readings I couldn’t get them done tonight, too tired) I have my work backlog all caught up… ooooh, except, that is, for carding the new batch of earrings I’m supposed to take in to Greyfox tomorrow–just remembered that.  *whimper… moan*  Okay, I suppose there’s enough life left in me to do that, after I do this.

I transcribed Episode Six of the Adventures of Melody Andrewsdottir, Lady Shaman today.  Episode Five went up at Greyfox’s site two days ago.  This puts us close to halfway through the old archival material, halfway to the beginning of the fresh batch he has started writing, which is funnier than ever.  Mel’s fans will know that that means it is funny, indeed.

I have posted the past-life readings the Old Fart did on his last trip home, and the reality checks that had been waiting for me for a day or three, leaving only a new past-life reading request waiting at KaiOaty‘s place for Greyfox’s next day at home, next week. 

Probably my most significant work today, the thing that has been much-needed ever since Greyfox started working with me over there, which kept getting put off because of client work backlogged and my frequent trips to Wasilla or Talkeetna for meetings, was the new FAQ page for past-life readings.  Especially the strays from totse.com, who straggle over here to find their old ArmsMerchant, have been getting lost on my site trying to find him.  Now if they can’t find him, they don’t need him.  He’s there, with a couple of adorable pictures of the North American gray fox, reputedly the only tree-climbing canid in the world.  Cute little animal, my Greyfox is–and the gray foxes, too.

I have also gotten Doug on task and kept him intermittently on task for a while, and have hopes of seeing another sinkful of dishes go into the draining rack before I crawl into my rack tonight.  I hope to get to bed before midnight, want to give myself time to sleep and restore the body and mind, get ready for tomorrow. 

It’s a gig, my first in a long, long time as an inspirational and motivational speaker.  I’d probably be anxious about it, if I had to think of something to say, or make a speech, but all I have to do is get up there and speak from the heart, tell my story and let Spirit speak through me.  No sweat.  The big challenge will be to do it well, as I learned in speech class:  eye contact, a beginning, middle and end, project the voice, enunciate.  I can do all that.

Now I have to go poke holes in little cards and poke earwires through the holes, and maybe print a new page or two of cards and cut them carefully apart… g’nite all.

You be the judge:
I almost posted a different, more subdued, polite version of this on KaiOaty.  I even considered registering on totse so I could post it over there where the most interested individuals would be sure to see it, and see it sooner.  Then I realized that my original personal blog was where I want it and where it belongs.

Some of my readers will surely think I’m brewing a tempest in a teapot, (and others, I’m sure, will find the whole subject insanely absurd) but this has significance for me.  Greyfox and I talked about it and he was totally mystified at the client’s response, or lack thereof.  It’s so on my mind that I’m even neglecting fresh new client work to air this old business.  (Sorry ’bout that, Sara.  Probably later today.)  So here goes… you be the judge:

Greyfox did a kickass, totally impressive past-life reading for acero.  In reporting it to him, I said that it was unusual in the depth of detail and the fact that Greyfox even had a name (first name Mark and a couple of possible [Peters, Petrie, etc.] surnames) for his past incarnation.   Although it might actually be possible to track down birth or property tax records to place his family and his own birth from the information given (which is rare, indeed in this business), I suggested a way that acero might verify it to his own satisfaction.  I got the impression he didn’t even try.

Instead, in a thread on totse, where another client of Greyfox’s was discussing his own reading, acero judged his (acero’s) reading to be, “totally lame and boring.”  Having observed Greyfox’s excitement at the reading in question when he came out of the shamanic trance after that journey, and having felt the excitement myself as soon as he related it to me, I did not want to let this pass unremarked. 

The exciting thing was an intriguing scandal and coverup.  It seems that famous Civil War photographer Matthew Brady (Should I say “allegedly” here?) covered up the accidental death of his apprentice and took credit for the young man’s entire body of work, a collection of photos Greyfox judged to be “more than a dozen, less than a hundred.”  Greyfox said that Brady not only learned some tricks of artistic composition and techniques of exposure, etc., from him, but some of Brady’s best-known and most admired photos had been made by this young man who, unlike some other, later “assistants”, never got any credit at all.

I had suggested to acero that he might be able to look over Brady’s portfolio and recognize his own work among them.  I mentioned that Greyfox and I have both had compelling experiences in museums when we encountered artifacts that we recognized from past lives.  Seeing such things can often trigger spontaneous past-life memories, as many others from Bridey Murphy on can attest.  For Bridey, a teacup was a significant trigger.

I decided to see if I could, using a pendulum, determine for myself which photos were which.  I have a nifty, beautiful and beautifully responsive new pendulum (thanks, Deb), so I did an image search on Google for Matthew Brady.  At the risk of “contaminating” acero’s recollection with my pendulum’s results and my commentary (WTF, if he doesn’t care, why should I?), I’m posting the results here. 

I was struck by contrast immediately.  Of course, contrast is to be expected between posed portraiture such as this shot of Jefferson Davis and battlefield photos such as the one below from Gettysburg, which my pendulum says was set up and shot by Brady himself.

Now check the compositional similarity between the battlefield shot above and the more architectural one below, which the pendulum indicated was also shot by Brady.

As a photographer, I find that horizontal strip in the foreground and the centered subject behind to be interesting.  I find corresponding similarities between compositions in my own portfolio.

My pendulum gave me positive hits on three photos that it indicated were shot by Mark Petrie (and it also confirmed that his name was Petrie, not Peters or any similar name), and in the process of sorting out the Petrie coverup, it has also resolved a dispute over the maker of this compellingly evocative portrait of Walt Whitman which has been attributed to “possibly Matthew Brady or William Kurtz.”  The pendulum says it was Kurtz’s work.  Perhaps the contrast between it and the shot of George Armstrong Custer, below, was due to the difference in subjects; perhaps not.  I don’t think anyone disputes that Custer’s portrait is Brady’s work. 

I wonder if it would pique acero’s interest to learn that his previous incarnation might have appeared on the cover of Smithsonian Magazine.  The pendulum indicated that the unidentified “assistant” sitting on the ground beside the standing Matthew Brady in this photo from 1863 is Mark Petrie. 

Just in case acero would like to try the experiment of Googling Brady’s images himself to see if any of them ring bells, I’m not posting the three positive hits openly here, but only the links to them:  #1  #2  #3

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Expectations

I wondered when this would happen.  I suppose I expected it to happen.  I had little doubt that it would happen.  When I started posting regularly on my second Xanga site, I thought I’d try to do one thing here and something different there, but I was pretty sure the time would come when I’d be uncertain which site would be the “right” place to post something.  I have cross-posted before and I expect to be doing it again.  This blog will probably end up being the first draft for a FAQ on expectations at KaiOaty’s place.  God knows, many of my clients over the years have tripped themselves up with expectations, and they are still doing it, as am I.

My mind has run in circles for at least half a century over questions and issues surrounding expectations.   As a kid I thought I was SO smart whenever I “knew” ahead of time that something would happen, especially when some adult told me it wouldn’t.  Then, sometime in elementary school, I encountered the concept of the self-fulfilling prophecy.  That muddied those waters, blunted some of my joy when my expectations worked out, and gave my mind a new set of circles to run in.

I have, on occasions throughout my life, done myself and others psychological harm through unreasonable expectations.  I’m embarrassed to admit this, but I used to believe that people would do what they told me they would do.  I’ll put the blame for that on my parents, because they were sticklers for keeping promises.  Then, about half my lifetime ago, in therapy, I learned two things that have made life much less traumatic for me and for those whose lifepaths cross mine:  I must NOT expect others to keep their promises to me, and I must neither make a promise I cannot or don’t intend to keep, nor break any promises I make. 

I balked at first at the transparent injustice in this, but eventually acceded to the logic, for reasons of spiritual and psychological self-preservation.   Buying the logic does not automatically immunize me from mistaken expectations and consequent disappointment, but it helps, and I am getting better at not-expecting. 

As a rule of thumb, a principle to live by, that works for me and serves me well.  The biggest everyday problem I have with it is remembering to mind my speech and not carelessly make some casual commitment I may not remember to keep.  The most troubling and traumatic aspect of my attempts to adhere to that principle is the matter of mutual vows.  When two people make promises to each other and the other one breaks his vows to me, am I still bound by mine?  It’s a poser, a peach of a plum of a problem for philosophical debate.

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Woohoo!  Wee digression here:  Greyfox just came in from town, which would be cause for minor celebration all by itself, but that’s not why I’m hootin’ and hollerin’ and laughing my ass off.  He brought with him two NEW hilariously self-referential satirical episodes of the continuing Adventures of Melody Andrewsdottir, Lady Shaperson to the Rich and Fatuous, or whatever the hell that title has morphed into over the years.  (*Thank you Kabuki, Riott, Spinsky, roadrunner and everyone who expressed appreciation and motivated him to write on.*) (Click here for episode 1, if you’ve not read it.)

I could, of course, just jump ahead and start posting the new stuff, but where’s the fun in that?  I’m planning to step up the posting of past episodes to several a week now, whenever I have the spare time and think of it or someone pleads with me for more Melody, but don’t get your expectations up.  I’ve got a lot of other work to do, too. 

And there is the matter of lacunae:  I still have not found some of the last of the previous sequence of episodes, the ones that came after I last updated the archives.  One of those missing ones, in which he satirized ME, as Dingo Juju, I’d just as leif leave lost, if truth be told.  But Dingo Juju and her son Vomiting Vole (known online as retrogradejaculation23) appear in the new ones, so I won’t escape unscathed no matter what.

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Expectations:

We are hard-wired to form them, based on past experience.  A reality in which the unexpected always happens would be too weird for words.  One in which the unexpected never happens would be equally weird. 

The tricky part lies in judging which expectations are reasonable and which are not.  There are possibly fewer pitfalls in laying expectations on oneself than in laying them on others, unless of course one is some nutso histrionic narcissist or something and the hypothetical others are more stable personalities. 

The truth is, one simply never knows when chaos will jump up and disrupt one’s orderly expectations.  We have a Tarot card for that very concept:  the Lightning-Struck Tower.  I like the fact that Chaos Theory was built into the ancient oracular system.  Those old Sages and Senseis knew their beans, didn’t they? 

I also like the fact that there is no Tower card in the New Tarot for the Aquarian Age.  It has been replaced by the Citadel, which symbolizes the progression upward through the Chakras toward ultimate transcendence.  Chaos has been given a place in each card, which I feel more closely reflects how things are in reality.  Wherever you are, you just never know what comes next.  You may be able to perceive the distant mountaintop, and you may have faith that you will reach it, but you never know what lies just ahead on your path.  Now, if I can just remember that….

Pulling Covers

One edge of the big muskeg across the highway from the spring where we get our water.

Doug and I did a water run today, went to the old place across the highway, and picked up a futon, some craft materials, more junk–still moving in here and it’s going on five years since we first came over here to “house-sit”.  The pictures are just some decoration, I guess,  not illustrations, but views from the water run, not related to the central theme of the blog.  All day long I’ve been thinking about “pulling covers”, which was biker slang thirty-some years ago for blowing someone’s cover, revealing some hidden truth.  The subject came up last time I was in town with Greyfox, a couple of days ago.

The creek that flows out from our little waterhole.  In winter, without all that vegetation, you could see a mile or so across a muskeg and down the road from this angle.  Now it’s the great green wall of summer.

Covers– I don’t even recall exactly what we were talking about, as we waited around for a meeting to start, but Greyfox said something typically dramatic and self-serving and I shot it down, just told him it was narcissistic nonsense, but probably not that politely.  Nothing new about that, up to that point.  But lately, since his spiritual awakening and his finally getting it through his head that he has an unhealthy case of histrionic/narcissistic personality disorder, those shots across the bows don’t fall on deaf ears, to shamelessly mix metaphors.  Used to be, he would either clam up and pout or go all defensive if I pointed out his bullshit.  This time, he smiled a little bit ruefully, said, “You pulled my covers… again,” and gave me a sincere hug.

I rarely take pictures of traffic, but just to give the balanced view, because there really is some traffic out here, especially on weekends….

I really do enjoy and appreciate Greyfox’s newfound willingness to accept my feedback on his behavior, my therapeutic input, because accept it or not, he will get it as long as he hangs out with me.  Take a perceptive and empathetic naturally mouthy Virgoan perfectionist and put her through a few months of Reality Attack Therapy with a group of social service professionals and recovering junkies, where the only rules are no physical violence and all bullshit gets shot down, then apparently what you get is a skilled, natural-born cover-puller, an unstoppable denial destroyer.  I’d be in deep shit without my First Amendment right to free speech.  Shit, I’d be in trouble even with it, if I gave a shit what people think of me.  Ever hear that saying, “Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke”?   I have my own twist on that:  Fuck ‘em if they can’t take the truth.

Below:  more of the big muskeg

This attitude, added to my trust in the Flow so that I’m not all hung up on getting paid for every last reading I do, serves me well in my work.  I can look at a given layout of the cards and see denial.  Don’t ask me how I do it, because I can’t explain it.  It’s like being farsighted and reading the road signs half a mile away, only I can more or less explain that.  It’s not always the same cards or combinations, it’s just that sometimes things add up to things that it’s obvious to me that people would just rather not believe.  I seldom miss on that, and I address denial directly.  Feedback from them usually confirms it–not that they say, “I’m in denial,” not right at first anyway.  They say it’s not true of course, and then eventually if I keep at them, restate it, make it undeniable, they will cop to it, some of them, most of the time.  There are always the pissed-off few who would rather hang onto their sick delusions than adjust to the healing truth.  That’s where the Flow comes in, because of course they don’t pay me.  And it’s where the attitude comes in handy, because they give me hell, too, and say things that would hurt the feelings of any normal person without my unshakable self-esteem. 

But I can take their crap and laugh it off, tell it to Doug and Greyfox and laugh with them at the idiots who would rather keep propping up a pile of bullshit with ever more bullshit and denial until it overwhelms them, rather than let it go and rebuild a life on a basis of truth.  The payoff for taking the deluded ones’ negative feedback for daring to question their illusions and threatening their shaky reality structures, comes from the ones for whom the truth clicks into place and who with a grinning “AHA!” and a sigh of relief, say thanks and get on with rebuilding a real life.  Now that it’s coming from my soulmate, the man that I still love despite years of abuse and denial, that payoff is particularly sweet.  It’s gratifying and it is validating, and I can just imagine a lot of benighted future clients of mine who would, if they knew what was coming at them, cringe in their crappy denial now that my cover-pulling muscles are stronger than ever.

The other night in town I was not happy with having to come home alone and I bitched Greyfox out.  I probably went overboard.  I do that sometimes.  He says I’m a poor winner, don’t quit when I’ve made my point.  I don’t think he understands what venting is.  But that time, after I had gone on for a while about my not liking the set-up he’d concocted before that last binge, renting that little cabin in which to drink himself to death, he thanked me for my input.  I was… not shocked–am pretty much unshockable, by him at least.  But it did surprise me after forcefully expressing my displeasure with having him living in that little cabin fifty miles from home and the two of us commuting back and forth to spend time together, when he thanked me for the reality check, the wake-up call.  We are getting somewhere, I guess, and he is living there only for the summer, the tourist season, and he is considering other options, other places he might set up the stand closer to home.  Once again, pulling covers paid off for me, so watch out world, no secret is safe.  I’ll never back off if this is the kind of payback I get.

Last picture:  Doug, resting after loading the full jugs and buckets in the car.  When I was really ill, until a few months ago, I’d just drive him to the spring and wait while he filled and hauled the buckets up the slope from the waterhole and put them in the car.  Now I fill and he schlepps.  Toward the end of today’s task, he came back down the slope and saw me there, sorta leaning on a full jug sitting beneath the outflow, overflowing, while I stared off into space.  He asked me what was wrong, what was going on.  I answered, “Nothing, just resting, gathering strength.”  Then I hefted the full 5 gallon jug up onto the platform for him to carry, but he sat down on the full bucket beside the full jug, instead, and said, “Me too…” then he squirmed a little fidget and said, “…and getting my butt wet–multi-tasking!” 

Fading Sunset

I’m a bit late posting these.  They were taken last Tuesday night around midnight, four days before the Solstice.

What my eyes saw here was much redder, more intense color on the horizon.  Shooting into a light source always tends to wash out the color, but I like the busy sky in this shot I got on the highway, just as soon as I was far enough out  of town and on a high enough hill to get a good horizon shot.  The sun was already down; that’s just sky glow above, showing through thin clouds.

I broke the speed limit in the attempt to get to Kashwitna Lake before all the color was gone.  I just barely made it, and watched the color fade from the sky as I picked my way down to the shore, leaping from high spot to hummock to avoid the mud.  It  has been raining and many feet had been churning up the soggy ground.  That’s a cloud-decapitated mountain visible reflected in the lake.

The sky faded to a rosy glow and then to gray.  I could hear frogs, ducks, loons and trumpeter swans, but saw no living thing besides mosquitoes and tourists.  The parking lot is behind my POV here, and it was so full of RVs when I pulled in that I drove an obstacle course between them to get in and out.  Don’t you just love my ability to ignore what I don’t want to see and record?

After the color was gone from the northern sky, I turned the camera toward the south end of the lake, where the swan sounds were coming from, hoping to catch trumpeters on the wing, but I think they were just making their version of pillow talk before settling down for those brief few moments of twilight that are as close as it gets to night here this time of year.

And this is it, as dark as it gets.  I got back on the road for the last someteen miles home and by the time I got here it was already getting lighter.

It is gray, blustery and rainy here today, and I have no plans to go anywhere.  I may even skip the usual Solstice Sunset walkabout, since I slept only about two hours last night… unless of course I go down for a nap soon and have lots of wakeful energy later on.

So much to do…

…so much to do.

So little motivation to do it.

Resentment

Treatment vs Program

Aaarrgh!  Boys and girls, SuSu is giving herself fits, driving herself nuts (I know, I know, that’s not a drive; at most it’s just a short putt).  Today, I have hands-on work here at home that needs to be done, a backlog of readings to do for clients, and a few readings already done by Greyfox that need to be posted by me.  Not sleeping well at night, I find myself napping by day but never feeling rested.  Focus?  Uhhh…wazzat?

Nothing is clear-cut.  Where’s the clarity?  Program tells me to turn it over to God.  Treatment tells me to own my power, take responsibility for myself, stand on my own two feet.  Not that I’m immersed in either treatment or program.  New to the program and many miles from any regular meetings, I’ve always mistrusted its principles anyway.  Three decades out of treatment, keeping it all alive only in my mind and in my everyday interactions with people and my work for and with clients, it is frankly not a lot of help to me now when I could use some help.

So, welcome friends to this informal meeting of Xangroup 12-Step Therapy.  My name is Kathy, and I’m a maverick… uhhh, I mean, addict.  Let’s have a moment of silence to reflect on why we are here, followed by the maverick’s prayer….

God, Goddess, All That Is, thank you for cutting me out of the herd.  Keep my eyes open and my soul free.  Let me roam the High Planes and find enough companionship Out There that I can always remember that we are All One.  Show me your Will and strengthen my will to make your Will mine.  And if all else fails, just let me die well and come back to try again.

Tonight’s topic is resentment, that “dubious luxury” that normies can afford, but which is for us addicts and mavericks too costly to indulge.  In treatment I worked out my resentment by, whenever possible, confronting those who had wronged me and injured me.  When that was not possible, I worked through resentment by venting in group or facing the feelings through roleplaying games.  In the program I’m told that I should handle my resentment by apologizing and offering to make amends to those I resent.  Forgive me, Great Mystery, if my bullshit meter pegs out and bends the needle in a neat little kink.

I know there is not one bit of advantage to anyone in feeling resentment.  What’s done is done and right now is the only time there is, so what point is there to remembering past hurts… unless by so doing we might keep from getting into those hurtful situations again.  When is it foolish to forgive and forget, and when was it ever wise to hold a grudge, goddammit!?

The irony here is that it is not even my own resentment that’s hassling my head so much today.  A few days ago my discomfort at trying to achieve and enjoy intimacy with a man I cannot trust brought all of that to a head for me.  I spoke to him from deep within my heart and soul.  I cried out my resentment and spoke of feeling that something was broken inside me, a part of me missing.  I cannot trust anymore.  I realized that I trust no one but God and myself.  Finally, having that realization, I felt okay with it.  It felt true and I knew I could live with it  I still love him and everyone, and I trust me, so that’s okay not to trust anyone else, I think.

Then another woman’s resentment, her impotent anger and well-justified recriminations against someone who had gravely wronged someone she loved–her feelings touched me.  She needed to know how to deal with resentment when she must face this other person regularly in a setting where trust and mutual help are the reasons for coming together.  Sharing my experience didn’t help her, couldn’t help her.  No one else’s experience, strength or hope seemed to help her, either, and the crease in her brow stands in my mind’s eye as confirmation of our impotence and as an indictment of our principles.  We all eat away at ourselves with regrets and resentments.  How do we who can barely help ourselves hope to help each other?

That’s all I have to share tonight.  Let’s close the meeting in the usual manner.

 

 

Great Moments in Family History

Years ago, when Greyfox was new to our family–just visiting, actually, even before he was part of the family–and new to Alaska, Doug and I, in the course of our ordinary mother-son interaction, provided Greyfox with a memorable moment and a quote from me that is now part of our family history.

For Doug and me, the moment came and went without notice.  I was not aware of the impact it had on Greyfox until much later, when I was present as he told the story to someone else.  Not much of a story really.  When he visited us, the “guesthouse” in which we put him up was a pickup camper parked in the yard.  Next to the cab-over bunk was a pair of bench seats flanking a table that could be lowered onto the benches to bridge the gap between them, and padded to make an extra bed.

I kept my chainsaw stowed under that table.  The three of us were sitting on the benches, Greyfox and I on one side, Doug (nine years old at the time) facing us from the opposite bench.  With his bare toes he was gripping the saw chain and turning it.  Thinking both of the internal mechanical parts and of a destructive interaction of cutting edges and bare toes, I uttered an offhand, “Doug, stop playing with the chainsaw,” and went on with whatever we’d been discussing.  Since the rattles and clanks ceased and I could tell he had obeyed, I gave it not another thought.

Greyfox is a horror movie fan.  Where I see a chainsaw as a handy survival tool, he sees it as a bizarre murder weapon.  He says he had not noticed the chainsaw there in his temporary quarters, but had been wondering about the clanks and tinks coming from under the table, too polite to ask.  I would find that hard to believe, if I did not know him so well.  He could miss noticing an elephant in the living room, I think.   Even if he did see it, if it did not seem proper for him to take notice, he would at least pretend it wasn’t there.

I was reminded of that incident this morning.  Doug was showing me several new cat images he had downloaded from some Japanese sites.  Our shared love of cats verges on awe and originates for us in ancient Egypt.  Our wallpaper is more often some cute cat or kitten than any other image, and it is usually something Doug has found and downloaded.

He had flipped through half a dozen adorable images, and we were laughing at the one above, when he asked, “Did I show you Hello Cthulhu yet?”

I answered that I didn’t think he had; that name didn’t ring a bell… so the furry little pirates vanished from the screen and this came up:

I gasped in surprise, then giggled in delight until I was gasping for breath.  Standing there leaning on Doug’s shoulder, I knew that, “Did I show you Hello Cthulhu yet?” is going into the family history book along with, “Stop playing with the chainsaw.”  I can hardly wait until Greyfox sees it.

ooooOOPS!
I must start paying more attention to the woodpeckers.  I already listen delightedly to their drumming, and love catching sight of one in the woods, but I mean I have to pay attention to WHERE they are doing that drumming.

It was windy yesterday.  Greyfox and I were in here talking contentedly, which a few months ago might have been enough all by itself to make the roof fall in, but recently our relationship has taken a bizarre turn in a functional direction, and it only sounded as if the roof was going to fall in.

Whannggg! Whap! Thump! Swish!  The place shook, stuff rattled in cupboards, and I looked up in time to see branches and twigs fall past the front windows.

Greyfox asked, “What was that!?!”  I was on my way out the door, and didn’t answer him until he caught up with me.  By then, he could see as well as I could that a tree was down across the driveway, between the tongue of our trailer house and the front of the old blue truck parked there.

As best I can reconstruct events from the sounds I heard and what I can see of the aftermath, the tree broke off about 6 feet above the ground, bounced off the aluminum ladder, then off the roof, and landed on the ground.  There is no apparent damage to the domicile, and given the magnitude and weirditude of recent events around here, it barely made a ripple on our nervous systems, once the effects of the startle reflex and the adrenaline surge wore off.

Koji dog got his chain tangled in the branches a few times before Doug got out there, hacked the fallen dead wood up and moved it out of reach.

It is rather obvious from the standing remains, that splintery six-foot stump, that bugs have been munching it for quite some time, and birds have been drilling for bugs.  I had never noticed.  Oblivious.  Unaware.  Just not paying attention.  My bad.

No harm done this time, and that other poplar tree, the bigger one that leans kinda threateningly over the middle of the trailer on the same side, is still green and healthy-looking.  But even so….

I guess I need to pay more attention, eh?