STRIPPED NAKED

Some of you are old enough to recall a TV show that ran from 1958-63 called "The Naked City", which was a black and white police procedural set in New York City.  It's famous episode-ending line was a solemn-voiced narrator intoning, "There are eight million stories in the naked city.  This has been one of them."  I don't recall ever watching the "grown-up" show -- I was 8 when it started and 13 with it ended and it was likely on past my bedtime.  But I remember that line vividly as it became part of the pop culture of the day. 

So, here's my tag line:  "There are 40 million anxiety sufferers in the United States of America.  I am one of them."

I wish I was like "The Bloggess", a blogger I love who writes with laugh-out-loud humor about her anxiety/depression and has gotten famous and sold books and has a gazillion followers and fans.  But I'm more the maudlin type, who tries to just tell the painful truth about this condition, hoping my story will resonate with others and we will become sisters/brothers of the heart; not famous, but still fighting for the Light in our own ways, in your own lives, whatever that looks like at your house.

At my house it looks like an almost constant low-level hum of "what if" and "be careful".  (Thanks, Mom, for those oft-repeated "words of wisdom" and the anxiety heredity factor.  I don't blame you anymore;  you are one of those sisters of the heart and I totally get it now -- you couldn't help it any more than I can and you had zero tools to mediate it.  So, actually, hats off to you; you fought and survived all on your own.)  

The hum becomes an audible persistent whisper when I am occasionally home alone for extended periods, like last week. I don't like nighttime.  I joke about being on 'lockdown' with every door and window secure, the direct-to-police department alarm system on at all times, and security cameras scanning.  It only helps a little bit.  (Is there a 'Rent-a-Rottweiler' place I can call?)

Let's add to that a horrific school shooting.  Every single time (there are so many that that phrase is not even weird), I go into "OMYGOD!" mode and project myself into that scene with pounding heart, lightheaded terror, overwhelming grief for those kids and their families.  It seems impossible to take a step back.  

I was sitting at Dairy Queen, enjoying a hot fudge sundae as a Valentine's Day treat to myself, when the report came over the TV (ubiquitous intrusions into public spaces these days.)  The sweetness turned sour in my mouth.  I watched for a few minutes as they reported one dead.  I drove home in dread, switched on my own TV and soon the reporting indicated there were "multiple" fatalities.  We now know there were seventeen.  I turned off the TV.  I meditated.  I did all my breathing exercises and positive self talk.  I started to calm down a wee bit.

Then, at dusk, the doorbell rang.  A stranger at my door is unusual.  I live up a steep driveway with a flight of stairs to the front door.  It's not an easy trek and it is very intentional for someone to come to our door.  Door-to-door salespeople often pass us by...not worth the physical effort.  Same with trick or treaters.  And some of our friends with bad knees.  But this guy made it a point to ring my doorbell.

He was fairly well groomed and not badly dressed, but seemed "off" somehow; darting eyes and kind of a slurry, sing-song-y voice.  He asked for "Lance" and since we've lived here for 35 years, the chances of him coming to Lance's old house seemed impossible.  I told him he had the wrong house and he left, muttering unintelligibly all the way down the front stairs.   

Our neighborhood listserve includes an ex-cop who has warned that often the bad guys will case a house by coming to the front door to see if anyone is home.  If so, they use the ruse that they are looking for someone, and leave.  But if no one answers the door, they go to the back, knock or ring again and if no answer, they break and enter.  This very thing happened to me in 1985 when I found myself alone in the house with a would-be thief who heard me call 911.  He fled, thankfully.  

So that's all it took for my already hair-trigger state of anxiety to tip into, let's call it, paralyzing fear.  Yep, fear cuz some yahoo rang my doorbell.  

I hear how crazy this sounds.  With all the of compassion and caring you can muster you will tell me all the rational ways to reframe this.  I AM NOT STUPID!  I tell myself the same rational story.  But Anxiety is a master teller of horror stories and your voice (and mine) don't stand a chance.

The next several days had me on high alert, where every sound, every shadow held menace; where every breath was hard fought when it feels like you can't breathe.  Still, I went about some semblance of "normalcy", seeing friends occasionally, going to Yoga class.   But I felt like an imposter and couldn't wait to get home to my sofa, and my house ... where I was scared again.  It was all so freaking exhausting.  And I knew it was TOTALLY irrational.  So next came Depression to seal the deal, with the constant berating, the constant judging, the constant nudging toward self-pity and self-loathing.  And that, my friends, is the aftermath of an Anxiety "episode".  

Depression comes in to tell you what an idiot fool you are and you deserve only to sit on the couch and hate yourself for another week or so -- or months or years.  But I think I can beat this thing off me in a few more days because I am now enlightened to its ways, even if I can't stay out of its way completely.  I know I'm coming out of it, actually, because I'm even writing this at all.  It's a step, revealing myself this way, to you who might be laughing at me.  Well, fuck you if you are.  

There are 40 million of us.  We are all struggling, suffering, and hopefully surviving.  I'm so grateful to have a supportive husband (pink roses, endless discussions, loving arms, lots of patience).  I'm so grateful to now understand this chronic condition and know it will never go completely away -- I liken it to a chronic physical ailment that is always there but can be managed, like arthritis or colitis, but still "flares" occasionally and needs a more aggressive intervention.  (Maybe I should call it "my anx-itis".)  

I'm so grateful to have found tools like breathing, yoga, meditation, and cognitive therapies to turn to in both the best and worst of times.  (I fought mightily to come off a terrible medication cocktail for anxiety and depression years ago that had me shaking with chills and head clanging brain fog, so not going back there.)

I'm sending love and compassion to those who share this condition, especially to those who don't have the support and resources I do to mitigate the "flares".  Nobody wants to be in this club.  Lucky you if you are not.  Mostly those of us who deal with this tend to sequester ourselves in a cocoon of isolation when we are at our worst.  But we love you for quietly holding us in your thoughts and being ready to welcome us back, without judgement, when we emerge -- raw, naked, and needing to know you are still there.

At least, that's the view from here...©

A short, easy article about anxiety, FYI:  https://www.elementsbehavioralhealth.com/mental-health/8-facts-anxiety-anxiety-disorders/

HIGH ALERT

Hub wears earplugs to bed every night.  I find this appalling.  First, I don't snore, he does.  So what's he blocking out?  It's not like we live in the heart of a major metropolitan area with screaming sirens, car alarms, and drunken hooligans roaming the streets all night.  Well, maybe we do hear those things off in the not too distant distance, along with freight trains and Port noise, screeching seagulls and  barking sea lions; OK, it can get a wee bit noisy.  But I used to think it was just his convenient way of blocking out crying babies.

I would never, ever wear earplugs to bed.  There is just so much I have to be aware of 24/7.  Those babies back in the day were Job-One of course, but also sick kids, sneaky teenagers, dog needing to go out, the occasional car driving by (suspicious!  we live on a quiet street!  there is NO reason for a car to have to drive by!),  distant thunder, wind through the branches, house creaks (why, oh why?), bad guys breaking in....  You know the usual dead-of-night stuff one must be aware of.

But even with his earplugs in, at least I can shake him awake if I have an auditory concern and say,
"Did you hear that?!?"  (No, of course he didn't!)  It's when he's not here that the problem arises.  My little bitty anxiety disorder kicks in and my hearing becomes like that of the Greater Wax Moth -- galleria mellonella.  (The animal world's best hearer; I looked it up.)  I hear everything, some of it real. 

I tell myself the neighborhood is no scarier in the dark than in the light of day and I know that to be true, intellectually!  But my reptilian brain wants me to be on high alert because sometime in the distant evolutionary past they didn't have home security systems that connect directly into the police department.   But that is of only limited reassurance, because my hyperactive Worry Wart Amygdala decides to perseverate on the fact that the alarm might go off and then what?!?  That would be super scary!  Let's get scared in anticipation of the scare just so we're super ready to be scared!  (See what I mean about the little bitty anxiety disorder?  This is the kind of game it likes to play.)

I try to calm myself with the knowledge that the woman down the street is, if not older, at least slower than I and she seems very confident living alone.  I'm not sure what her issue is, but for awhile she had a walker and now doesn't -- I'm thinking some sort of joint replacement surgery -- but I'm still more fleet of foot.  I know she too has an alarm system, but when she described it to me, I got alarm system envy because she has cameras apparently mounted everywhere, like Fort Knox or Alcatraz.  I know those are old and maybe closed down places (yes to Alcatraz; no to Ft. Knox -- I looked it up)  that probably don't have cameras so much as barbed wire, but there might be zoning violation about barbed wire in my neighborhood, I don't know.  Anyway, that many cameras could be cool to monitor.  I bet I might catch the critter who is eating all my bush beans!  My gardener friends are thinking either deer or rabbits are stalking my raised beds under cover of darkness and with the right infrared camera I'd nail them cold!  I digress.

Fortunately Hub doesn't go away that often and as already mentioned, he's pretty useless to me even when he's here with those earplugs in and his sleepy-making allergy medicine onboard.  He has an alarm clock that gets progressively louder the longer it beeps.  There are times it's at full volume before he rouses.  And there was the one time our burglar alarm really did go off (triggered by someone opening a door before disarming the system), the siren screaming at one million decibels and he didn't hear it!  

How can someone purposely make themselves deaf in the dark of night.  That's just wrong.  I say, "All senses! Take your battle stations!  It's 2 a.m. and we have a job to do!"

At least, that's the view from here...©

THINGS THAT GO BUMP IN THE NIGHT

Is anyone else out there a little afraid of the dark?   I hate to admit this but several weeks ago I had a pretty horrific, adrenaline pumping sleepless night because I was awakened at 1:00 a.m. by what sounded just like the door to our side yard slamming shut in the room just below our bedroom.  I know that sound, even thought I'd felt the vibration of the slam.  I sat straight up in bed, heart pounding.  I was home alone.  Immediately I felt very vulnerable in this big 'ol house.

Also, I felt silly.  We had an alarm system installed in 1986 after a bad guy broke in to our basement while I was home with infant Son One.  He fled when he heard me calling 911 from upstairs.  Still, that was enough to keep me in "fight or flight" mode for a good long time.

Even now, I guess, I still have a high alert response to unusual noises in the night.  I'm always overly self-protective when I'm sleeping here alone.  Alarm on; all doors double locked; maybe a little light burning in the kitchen.  But once those compulsive security measures are taken I usually sleep great, enjoying the bed to myself for a day or two.

But not this time.  I lay awake and alert for a good half hour, hearing every creak and moan of the house.  Finally,  I got up and tiptoed to the window.  All dark and quiet.  No cars on the street.  The wind was calm.  Nothing moving.  I shuffled over to the phone to ensure the lines hadn't been cut.  Nope.  I heard a strong, steady dial tone, so the alarm was working.  (I never should have watched that TV movie some years ago where the bad guys came in during the unprotected daytime open door and hid inside until night when the family was asleep.  I mean, really!  Who thinks this stuff up?)

I stood at the top of the stairs and peered down, trying to determine if anything looked different from when I went to bed.  No; everything was the same.  Still…I kept thinking I heard "something" down there.  I stood motionless for probably 15 minutes.  Then I slowly descended the stairs, clutching my cell phone and my weapon of choice: the deadly sewing shears.  (Don't worry; I've been trained in their use, which generally involves fabric, but I figured I could improvise.)  I did a cautious walk-through and nothing was amiss.  Still….I couldn't relax completely.

Eventually, I got so tired of feeling frightened that I nearly decided to check into a hotel, just to make the anxiety stop.  Quickly I decided against that extreme measure.  I thought of calling Son One to see if I could crash on their couch, but the thought of his heart racing when he saw me on the caller ID at two in morning stopped me from doing that too. Why bring him into this craziness?  Besides, both of those choices would also require me to go into the garage…an area I had not checked in my walk-through.

So, I moved from room to room over and over, peering out, listening, wondering what I might have heard, telling myself how foolish this was and how once the sun came up I'd feel better and this would all seem so unnecessary.

Still, I couldn't imagine going back upstairs and expecting to sleep.  I sat erect on the sofa, checked the mass distribution emails that always come in the middle of the night; flipped over to Facebook and noted which of my friends was up and posting at 2 a.m. (a new mom, of course, and my night owl friend who works all night on producing a monthly arts magazine in South Carolina).

Finally, by 3:00 I lay down on the sofa and soon was asleep, awakening to the sunrise at 5:00 with stiff shoulders and a sore neck. I got another hour of dozing in before being up for the day.

And sure enough, it all seemed so very over-wrought in the daylight.  I am quite certain I didn't dream the sound, but I certainly can't account for it either.  But I shouldn't be surprised, really.  I have had that experience in this house on and off ever since we moved in….the phantom door slamming thing.

I thought we had evicted our resident ghost.  Maybe she's back.  Anyone want to come by for a sleepover?  We'll have tons of fun!

At least, that's the view from here… ©

MAXINE SPEAKS FOR ME

I saw this posted last year and again recently, updated for 2014.  I tried to find where it originated, but no luck.  So, not wanting to plagiarize, let me just issue a disclaimer:  THIS IS NOT SOMETHING ORIGINAL TO ME; I DON'T KNOW WHERE IT CAME FROM; I'VE SEEN IT ON OTHER BLOGS; DON'T SUE ME.

And this is often how I feel when I read all those forwarded emails and Facebook posts.  YIKES!  I haven't made any "resolutions" yet, but I think there might be one about STOP BEING AFRAID OF EVERY DAMN THING!

So….here's Maxine.  Long may she live.

As we progress into 2014, I want to thank you all for your educational e-mails over the past year. I am totally screwed up now and have little chance of recovery. 

I can no longer open a bathroom door without using a paper towel, nor let the waitress put lemon slices in my ice water without worrying about the bacteria on the lemon peel. 

I can't sit down on a hotel bedspread because I can only imagine what has happened on it since it was last washed. 

I have trouble shaking hands with someone who has been driving because the number one pastime while driving alone is picking one's nose. 

Eating a little snack sends me on a guilt trip because I can only imagine how many gallons of trans fats I have consumed over the years. 

I can't touch any woman's handbag for fear she has placed it on the floor of a public toilet. 

I must send my special thanks for the email about rat poo in the glue on envelopes because I now have to use a wet sponge with every envelope that needs sealing. ALSO, now I have to scrub the top of every can I open for the same reason. 

I can't use cancer-causing deodorants even though I smell like a water buffalo on a hot day.

Thanks to you I have learned that my prayers only get answered if I forward an e-mail to seven of my friends and make a wish within five minutes.  

I no longer use plastic wrap in the microwave because it causes seven different types of cancer. 

And thanks for letting me know I can't boil a cup of water in the microwave anymore because it will blow up in my face, disfiguring me for life. 

And thanks to your great advice I can't ever pick up a dime coin dropped in the car park because it was probably placed there by a sex molester waiting to grab me as I bend over. 

I can't do any gardening because I'm afraid I'll get bitten by the Violin Spider and my hand will fall off. 

If you don't send this e-mail to at least 144,000 people in the next 70 minutes, a large dove with diarrhea will land on your head at 5:00 p.m. tomorrow afternoon, and the fleas from 120 camels will infest your back, causing you to grow a hairy hump. I know this will occur because it actually happened to a friend of my next door neighbor's ex mother-in-law's second husband's cousin's best friend's beautician! 

Oh, and by the way... A German scientist from Argentina , after a lengthy study, has discovered that people with insufficient brain activity read their e-mails with their hand on the mouse Don't bother taking it off now, it's too late. 

P. S. I now keep my toothbrush in the living room, because I was told by e-mail that water splashes over 6 ft. out of the toilet... 

NOW YOU HAVE YOURSELF A VERY NEW YEAR.©

CIRCLES OF HELL

In a crisis-type situation, I'm not that courageous.  Mostly I fall apart.  For awhile anyway, then I can buck up and get relatively brave and do what has to be done with some resolve.

So when, after an entire adult lifetime of normal mammograms, I got called back for "further imaging due to changes since last mammogram" I did not take it in stride.  Nope.  Not at all.  I have a couple of teeny tiny risk factors and I always hold my breath just a smidge about it anyway.

I had a long few days of of bouncing from "Awww….I'm sure it's nothing" to vivid scenes of surgery, chemo, hair loss, and death bed farewells.  And lots of heart-racing, sweaty-palm anxiety, and crying; yes, lots of crying.  I hid out in my house for 24 hours, not even getting dressed.  I do not believe I have ever not gotten dressed; lazing 'round in PJ's and robe is just not my thing.  That's when I knew I was seriously freaked.

I do wish I wasn't like that.  I see it as a weakness of character.  I so admire those who can, you know, just soldier on, or barely give something like this another thought; actually believing the idea that "it's probably nothing."  But not me.   I go from zero to worst case scenario in far less than sixty seconds.  Six is more like it.

So, today I got nicely dressed, did my hair, put on a bit of make up (because damn it! fear can be pretty!)  and made my way to the Comprehensive Breast Center for another round of tests, possibly to include:  more imaging (tit in a wringer time again), ultrasound, and MRI.  In that order.

The first thing I saw upon entering the waiting room was a giant inflatable pink ribbon hanging from the ceiling like it got lost from the Macy's Day Parade.  I wanted to pop it.  The waiting room was jammed and I tried not to look at the other women.   I didn't want to wonder, to see, to connect about this thing.  I AM NOT ONE OF YOU!

I got checked in and sat down.  Long wait. So I started to look up from my nervous "reading" of the newspaper (without really concentrating on one word) and look around.  A few women were reading and looking quite calm.  One sat next to her husband and he occasionally helped her take a few sips of something from a cup with a straw.  Another sat near the door, weeping a bit.  Another sat next to me, legs crossed, foot swinging in the air, gulping deep breaths.  She, too, occasionally wiped a tear.

I don't believe I was wrong in my assessment that the energy in the room was fairly intense with terror.  I wiped some tears too.  But bravery was also on display.  The silent journey each woman was walking may have been telescoped to the close observer, but the casual passerby only saw a roomful of women, each patiently waiting for her name to be called.

Mine finally was.  I went back to another waiting room, after disrobing from the waist up and being handed a flimsy (but flowery feminine) little short-sleeved gown to wear, "open to the front, please".  The room was freezing and I noticed all of us from the first waiting room were now in the second circle of hell together and all hunched up against the chill.  Then I saw a sign that said "Gowns for Your Use" with an arrow pointing to a rack of still flimsy, but long-sleeved gowns.  I stood up to retrieve one, setting off a line up of other women grabbing them as well.  I said it wasn't as plush as I'd like, breaking the silent tension, I guess.  We laughed.  We joked about being half-naked in an ice box.  We agreed we'd rather be at the spa.  We were bonding, smiling at each other, holding our respective copies of Women's Day and Oprah and Living magazines on our laps, again waiting for our names to be called.

When it was my turn,  I was ushered into the mammography room for more imaging.  Five more 'pictures' of my errant left breast.  The technician mentioned she wouldn't be surprised if I also would get a sonogram while I was there.  I did not take this as encouraging news.  Then I was led to yet another waiting room.  I saw there, again, the woman from the first waiting room, the one who I'd first noticed crying.  She and I smiled at each other and wondered aloud how many waiting rooms we'd share that day.

In a jiffy my name was called again.  No sooner was I in the hallway than the technician said, "OK, you can go.  It's all clear this time…just some tissue folds or something that now are all flattened out.  Thanks for your patience."

WHAT?????  THANKS FOR COMING?????  The floodgates sort of opened then, shocking her, I think.  I didn't wail, but the tears of relief flowed freely.  She said she was sorry I had been scared; was sorry I had to wait to get in; sorry this is such an anxiety-producing, heart-wrenching thing.  She dropped the professional, "all in a day's work" facade and we hugged.

I love that the Comprehensive Breast Center does the work it does.  I am grateful for 21st century medical technology.  I am grateful for my healthy breasts.  And grateful for my life.

And I wonder how many Circles of Hell my sister travelers endured today... and will in the days ahead.  If I ever have to go again, I won't avoid their eyes.  Because I am one of them.  We all are.  So, I'll look right at those women waiting and try to convey, "Yeah, I'm scared too, sister.  Let's do this together."

At least, that's the view from here….©

RATINGS AND RANTINGS

I'm not a big fan of Katie Couric, except the time she took Sarah Palin to task (although I wanted her to push much, much harder).  
So, today when I read her mea culpa about airing a diatribe about the dangers of the HPV vaccine on a recent episode of her TV program, I felt both pleased (thanks for the apology) and disgusted (what were you thinking in the first place?!)

Her show, an afternoon talk-fest much like all the rest, is on at "prime time" for daytime TV watchers.  Sexist as it sounds, that audience is mostly women.  I think there are more guys home during the day than there used to be, but my guess is they are not tuned in to Katie.

Katie said she regrets not presenting a more balanced view and admitted that her own daughters have received the vaccine.  But in my mind the damage was done.  All the afternoon viewers already watched a grieving mother blame the vaccine for her daughter's death; another blame it for her daughter's ongoing, intractable health challenges.  How many took these emotional stories, designed to scare, to heart?  Where was the science?  Where were the stories of lives saved?

What was up, surely, is it must have been ratings month.  I noticed a strong uptick, as always, in advertising for local news broadcast "Undercover Stories" as the month of November unfolded.  I don't really follow the TV industry and their seasonal push for ratings too much, but I know there are still monitors and measures by which advertisers decide which shows to throw money behind.  And traditionally November is a "ratings" month.

So all the salacious stories are trotted out:  child prostitution, identify theft, secret lives of Happy Hooker wives; bullying unto death,  airbag asphyxiation, cell phones causing brain cancer…all of it.  Apparently the very worst of humanity's foibles, and all of our worst fears, are fodder for ratings.

The thing is, even when I turn off the tube, I'm still bombarded by fear and destruction.  Facebook, a place where I find much that is fun and good, a place where I stay in touch and exchange good wishes and condolences and clever repartee with my friends,  is also a forum for some for near constant barrages of "doom and gloom".  I'm very, very tired of finding posts of warning about all sundry of personal, political, and global maladies.  I KNOW IT!  I KNOW EVERYTHING SUCKS!  Like most people I am doing what I can, when I can, how I can, to make my little bitty corner of this big awful world better.  That's my response, offered with some defensiveness, I know.  But damn it, if I wanted to feel guilty all the time I'd go back to being a Lutheran.  (Sorry to all the nice Christians I know.  But really, there is that thing about us all being sinners that's a little hard to feel good about.)

But I guess I am guilty too of posting on my own pet issues.  My "thing" is gun control and I occasionally post about that.  My "thing" is being a liberal Democrat outraged at times by the craziness that is the Tea Party.  But do I really think I am changing any minds with my posts?  No, I'm just preaching to the choir, and folks, so are you.  This choir member would like to take a time out.

Yes, I'm feeling grumpy today and it's not fun, really, in this season of merry and bright.  I just wanna know, can we please take a break from scaring, berating, and shaming?  Can we just stop hating the Right or the Left or The Man or whoever is the 'bad guy' du jour?  I would like that.

At least, that's the view from here….

LIMPS AND SWAGGERS

It's raining.  A good day for cocooning in and being quiet.  I've been busy, busy, busy with home projects and social events.  My dear, sweet, brave, beautiful, hilarious friend from Boulder, Co. just left after a short visit and I miss her already.  Our long talks about life, personal work, and spiritual growth has put me in a contemplative state.

That, and reading a book called "A Year to Live" by Stephen Levine, in preparation for a monthly class I'll be taking with 7 other intrepid seekers over the coming year.  We are going to explore how to live fully in this moment as if we only have a year to live...and to face that end time without fear, whenever it comes.

I read this morning in Chapter 5 about the importance of doing both our deep personal psychological work as well as the mindful spiritual work of focused awareness.  Levine says this:  "When one level is fostered to the detriment of the other we develop a psychological limp or a spiritual swagger." Oh, how I have seen (and experienced) both!

For almost 15 years I've done deep personal work based on a Jungian psychology of archetypes and shadows.  I have gone away for a number of weekend experiential "initiations" and "trainings", that are really like intensive counseling sessions.  With skilled, loving leadership and facilitation I have uncovered many psychological keys to understanding my core psychological wounds, what behaviors continue to prevent my full expression of Self, and how to break through barriers and become more fully expressive of my own nature.  My twice monthly women's group continues to support and challenge me in this awareness, keeping me on track and reminded of where I came from and where I'm going.

I could go on and on and you are either right there with me now, or you've already tuned me out.  Suffice to say, I know myself pretty damned well and the whys and hows of my psyche's dance steps.  I still sometimes lose the beat, but more often these days, I get right back in the groove without too much anguish and sometimes with a fair amount of laughter at my 'backsliding' into a less aware state of being in the world.

But for a long while I was so focused on the psychological work, and "healing my wounded Self" that I walked with that psychological limp like a badge of courage, obvious to all.  I AM DOING MY WORK!  I HURT!  That eventually went away and my walk became whole again.   For others, I've seen them move into "wound worship", limping along on a constant path of "healing" that never seems to conclude, always seeking another training or workshop to be the "be all, end all" for their suffering.

And I've seen the opposite -- the spiritual swagger of those (me too, sometimes) who "transcend" the mundane woundedness of the human psyche and move right into assumed higher planes of existence by focusing on a constant "feel good" spiritual high, as if to say, "This incarnation of the human experience is full of pain...let's not go there."  Let's go instead to the Zafu or the mat or the ashram or the temple, church, or mountaintop where I can just be At One With the Cosmos and not have to muck around in figuring out why my earthly life is such a friggin' mess...why I'm lonely, or angry, or afraid a lot of the time.

There is such satisfaction and relief in the ah-ha moment of a psychological breakthrough.  There is such euphoria in spiritual transcendence.  But in my judgement, as Levine says, there is something incomplete in choosing the duality of one or the other.  Integration is key.

As I move more inevitably into my eldering years, with mortality on the horizon and more real, there are times I feel the terror of impending death.  I love this life and what I've made of it.  I want more of it; I am so curious about the future and what the world, and me in it, will be.

Yet, reality is that it is our nature to die.  Gotta do it.  So, the work of this age and stage is to get ready; to fully embrace what this human life has been, is, and will be, and to remove the obstacles to living it freely and without constraint of old patterns, wounds, and inner voices that hold me back and keep me down.  It is also a time to turn inward; yes, to sit in quiet contemplation in those places of calm and to connect with a consciousness greater than I am; to know that whenever the end comes, whatever awaits, I am ready to take that step without fear, with peace, with love.

At least, that's the view from here....©

A "HOODIE" DOES NOT A CRIMINAL MAKE...

Well.  I write having just committed a crime against nature.  I am ashamed.  I am humbled.  I am an idiot.

We have a gas boiler hot water radiator heat system in our house.  The boiler died last spring and we are just now getting around to replacing it, noticing the barely perceptible shift in light and temperature that signals fall...and chilly days and nights ahead.  I like heat.

This morning, Hub went down to the garage, where the old boiler is sitting after having been removed from the furnace room.  Pretty soon I heard him shouting, "Wow!  This is a HUGE spider!" and I went running to have a look.  I am not afraid of spiders.  I don't necessarily like them crawling on me, but I don't have the same freak-out fear that some people do.  In fact, I sort of find them fascinating.  I am loathe to kill spiders...I think they do more good than harm, so I am not their natural enemy.  I love August and September when they start to spin their webs outside my windows.   I watch them with awe as they weave their magic, and the morning dew catches on the intricate patterns making nature-art right at my door.

So I walked right up on the specimen Hub noticed on a cinder block in the garage.  It was really big!  And it had an interesting pattern and coloring, which I appreciated aesthetically.  We did decide, however, that it should be moved outside, so Hub carried the cinder block a distance from the house and I ran back inside to Google it, of course.

I found a really good site, telling how to identify venomous spiders, which of course I checked as a precaution.  I looked at a few photos and none matched our specimen, until.....

OHMYGOD!  There was one, the infamous Hobo Spider, looking exactly like the one currently stationed in my driveway!!!  Now it WAS time for me to have a freak-out moment.  That killer was just sitting there, waiting for us gullible humans to get close enough, then it would strike.  No doubt it would lay in wait for the most innocent of us, our little Angel, who is curious and fearless.  Surely it would attack her with vicious abandon at the least provocation!

I knew I had to KILL IT NOW!  I ran for the garden shovel and took a swipe.  My aim was off and it suddenly sprung from its perch on the cinderblock and took off, all eight legs running for its life.  There was nothing to it but for me to PURSUE it, striking over and over the ground around it with my shovel until finally I struck the fatal blow.  Whew!

Feeling the rush of adrenaline subsiding, pretty proud of my courage, I came back inside to find the website still open on my laptop.  As I reached to close it, I realized there was more to read after I had stopped at hobo spider, so I scrolled down.

Gulp.  Here is what I would have read, had I not panicked 10 minutes earlier:  "The giant house spider gets a horrible reputation and causes a lot of panic in Northwestern homes because it is easily mistaken for the hobo spider."

Easily, indeed.  

Much has been made of the tragic and terrible profiling of an African American teen who was killed by a man who judged this young man on little more than the clothing he was wearing (a sweatshirt with the hood pulled up over his head), assuming he was up to no good in a neighborhood where he "didn't belong".  I am no apologist for this man.  I am appalled that a jury acquitted him.   But I feel just as guilty in this case of the mistaken spider.  I made a snap judgement based on some similar coloring, not taking the time to investigate further, or look for other data that would have proven helpful in judging whether there really was call for alarm, in this case a huge discrepancy in size.

Fear can be a powerful motivator and often can save us.  Panic is different.  Panic is reactionary and irrational.  I panicked today.  Spidey, you taught your lesson well;  I won't forget.  And I'm sorry.

At least, that's the view from here....©