And then God got my attention. . .

Sometimes we are blind to that which we are called to do. And sometimes God has to smack us upside the head to get our attention. Sometimes it takes falling down time and time again before we finally find our "right" path and start putting one foot in front of the other to first walk and then run full speed ahead towards our calling, our purpose, what we were put here on earth to do. Over the past week or so, God has revealed something HUGE to me. He has revealed my purpose - my path - the one I'm supposed to walk. Now I have to figure out how to get on the path and start walking. For many years, I dreamed of losing tons of weight and then opening a wellness center for women. A place where struggling women could come to better themselves with the help of other women. Exercise classes, nutrition classes, massage therapy, pedicures, manicures, facials, a wonderful - magical - zen like - space where women could come and hang out with one another and get not only their body/mind nurtured, but also their spirit. This was what I dreamed. This was what I wanted. This was my goal. For years! I couldn't open such a spa because I was never good enough. I was never thin enough. I was never pretty enough. How could someone like me - fat, old, broken down, lethargic, blah - inspire others to find their inner beauty - their inner goddess? As I am, I foolishly thought, would make for some really bad advertising for my business. And the last thing I need in life is more failure! So I put it on hold. I put my dream on hold. Waiting. Waiting to be thin enough, good enough, pretty enough. Now I'm 51. If I wait much longer, I'll be dead! And then it happened. God showed me over and over and over again this past week that this spa idea of mine is NOT my earthly purpose. It's not why I'm here. It's close, but it's not 100% in line with God's plan. And that, I believe, is the reason I've been so torn these past 40 years. I haven't been living in accordance with God's plan - God's will. I've been fighting against Him and what He wants for my life. . . and I've been miserable. Because I've been miserable, I've created a miserable life for myself. Gambling and drugs and food and anything and everything I could think of to drive people away from me. Alienation. I created a life of alienation for myself. And it sucks! This life I've designed absolutely sucks! And now. . . I know. I know what I am to do. I am to share my pain - my misery - with other women. I am to rip off the mask - get real with myself and others - tell others about my pain - and just be me. As I am. By letting others know - by speaking the unspeakable - by saying my truth - I will make it safe for others to do the same. When they do that - they will free themselves making it possible to love self. When we love self, we accept self. When we accept self, we can love and accept others. And when we can do that, we can live. . . really live. . .an authentic life. . . the one we were meant to live.

On Wanting to be Stephenie Meyer

It's Saturday morning. I went to bed last night with the idea that I want to be Stephenie Meyer and I woke up this morning with the same idea consuming my mind. See, I heard yesterday that "Twilight", the book, came about because Stephenie Meyer, the author, dreamed it. Ok, ok, she didn't dream the entire book exactly; rather, she dreamed of a field where forbidden love existed in the hearts of two young people. When she woke from her dream, she decided to explore this idea further. Why was their love forbidden? Under what circumstances could love exist yet not be realized or acted upon? And "Twilight" was soon born. Wow! All of that (the four book series) from nothing more than a 30 second dream. Or maybe it was 60 seconds. Who knows. However long the dream lasted, it was but a fleeting thought or idea in the mind of a very creative woman who wouldn't let it go. So I went to bed last night and woke this morning wanting to "be" SM. As I think through what that means, I realize that I don't really want to "BE" her. . . I just want to live her experience. I want to dream. I want to write. I want millions to read my first novel and have millions more standing in line to get their hands on a copy of my second novel. I want to be caught up in the crazy wonderfulness of it all. Makes me wonder if it's possible. Are we all wired in such a way that any experience is possible for any of us at any given time? Or are we all so different - so unique - that "Twilight" was possible only through and by Stephenie Meyer? Free Will? Destiny? I think there's some philosophical question lurking in my mind. Too bad I suck at philosophy. Makes my head spin! At times, I like to think that free will is possible. . . for each and every one of us. I like to believe that we can all choose, create, make decisions that will bring about authentic living. I like to believe - sometimes - that this life of mine can be anything I want it to be. But! There's a whole lotta responsibility in that kinda thinking! So. . . there are an equal number of times that I find myself thinking just the opposite. I am not in control of anything. I have no say. Regardless of what decisions and choices I make for myself, my life - my being - is pre-destined, pre-planned and nothing I say or do will change it. Actually, there's some comfort in thinking that way. No matter how bad life gets, I can always choose to believe there's nothing I can do about it. I can blame it all on someone else. God! Heaven! The Universe! The Devil! Someone - something - bigger than myself. When life sucks, I can just kick back - take no responsibility - point the finger and say. . . "he did it." Ah. Yes. A way out. I leave myself a way out. When the going gets tough, I'm all over the pre-destined kinda thinking. But! On days like today, when I wake up wanting something more, I find myself standing - feet firmly planted - in the camp of free will thinkers. I wonder. I wonder if it's possible that life can be a little bit of both? Maybe some things are pre-destined. Like the day we are born or the day we die or the way in which we die or the number of children we have or who our mates shall be. Things like that. Big, big issues are decided for us. Out of our control. No choice. And maybe just maybe everything else - all the details in between - are left to us. While I clearly can't BE Stephenie Meyer because I'm Karen Kay Karnes Quinn, perhaps I can be like her. Perhaps I can write a book. Perhaps I can sell a million copies. Perhaps. Will I? Or will I just sit here waiting for God or the Universe or someone or something else to show me the path I am to travel.

I fly

She said, "you're good". She said, "if you don't take care of yourself, nobody will". She said, "you haven't given yourself time to grieve the loss of a love affair". She said, "you are not in control and you also are not responsible for other people". She said, "you have to let go. . . you have to say good-bye. . . you have to close the door". She said. . . Such a very smart lady. Well educated. Well lived. Well experienced. Oh, how I wish I could remember all her words of wisdom. . . "in the moment" when it counts - when it matters most. I have this very long "want" list. What I want my life to look like - how I want it to "be". I have another list - a list of what "is". These lists are polar opposites. I'm ready to burn list number one and implement list number two. Can I? Will I? How long will I lug this heavy - burdensome bag of crap. . . guilt. . .around with me? When can I finally put it down for good? Is the time now? Am I there? She thinks so. And! She is smart. So now I fly. In the face of fear. I fly.

Therapy. . .Again

Therapy tomorrow. Gees, where to begin. Get about an hour before the therapist will say, "well our time is up for today. . .can you come back this same time next week?" I've done this therapy thing before and I'm not sure it helped much. I don't know. Maybe it did - some - on some level. But it sure didn't fix things long term. I think I'm more fucked up today then I've ever been before. And I don't know why. Isn't that stupid? To be this fucked up and not know why. Senseless! If one is going to spend life - wasting away - amounting to nothing - contributing nothing - one ought to at least know why, don't ya think? But I don't. I'm clueless. Maybe that's an issue for therapy. Why am I so damned clueless? How on earth can one be fixed if they don't know what's wrong in the first place? I know all the symptoms to my fuckeduptiveness, but I don't know the root cause of it. Isn't there someone I can blame for all of this? Surely to God I can point to someone in my past and lay it all on them. Right? Isn't that the way to go? The blame game? Doesn't that give one a pass? Or some entitlement? You get to be this way or that way "because" someone else did this or that. OR. It's not your fault you are so fucked up. . .after all, look at what so and so did or didn't do. Yeah! That's the ticket! Blame it on someone else. Wait. Nope. I don't think that will work. I WANT to be WELL. How can I be well if I don't accept that I am who I am because of me? Because of my choices and decisions? Yeah, no, I think I gotta accept responsibility here. If I do that, then maybe, just maybe, wellness will be within reach. After all, if I made the mess, then I can fix the mess, right? Current existence amounts to this: Wake up in so much (physical) pain that I can barely put one foot on the floor - while knowing that every new day will bring more pain than the day before. Hobble over to my desk knowing full well that the day is coming where I won't be able to hobble. . .I'll have to roll or wheel my way over to the desk. Ugh! at the thought of that! Take my magical prescription medication - the shit that's causing all the pain in the first place - wait 30 minutes - then feel all good. All good in my head anyway. Turn off the pain receptors in the brain and the body forgets - momentarily anyway - that it's in pain. Step two. . . shower, shave and shine (sort of). Take on my day, which always includes eating copious amount of sugar! I don't know why - but there is definitely a connection between pain medication and sugar cravings. Anyway, eat and eat and eat and eat - anything where sugar is the first ingredient on the ingredient's list. Battle the sugar/pain medication crash all day by ingesting more of each as needed to remain awake and keep my body in an upright position - until bed time. Oh, and smoke like a freight train. Let's not forget that! About 2 cartons a week. How is that even possible??? I don't know, but since that's my current nicotine consumption, it is. That's all I know. It is. Sleep. Wake up. . . repeat. Sucks! That's it! That's my current existence. What the fuck? How did this happen? Jesus, this ain't living! This ain't life! This bullshit sucks! Have I already died? Am I already in hell? Maybe. If I'm in hell and I pinch myself, will I magically transport myself somewhere else? I doubt it. That's probably how hell works. You suspect you are there, you very much want to be somewhere else, you pinch yourself hoping against hope, and nothing. Notta! Zip, zero, zilch, nothing! Still in hell! There has just got to be a better way. I just gotta find it. Maybe this time therapy will be just the vehicle that will get me there. Maybe. Have hope. I have hope. Not sure where it came from really, but it's there just the same. Now for the life I want. . . Wake up, no pain, pleasant thoughts about the day and all that it might bring. Shower, shave and shine (for real!). Go through the day with a smile on my face and kind words for all who cross my path. Fully engaged. Fully alive! No sugar cravings. No nicotine cravings. Spending the $100 a week I now spend on cigarettes investing in a new hobby or new cause - anything that is positive and near and dear to my heart. Something that I can get excited about. Something that I can be proud to tell friends and family about. Something that sets me apart - makes me unique - in a positive way. I want to BE the person that others seek out - want to be with - want to talk with - want to share life with. I want to BE the person others look forward to seeing and miss when I'm gone. I do. I really, really do. I don't want to stand outside the circle anymore resenting those that make up the circle or are in the middle of the circle. I want to be an inspiration to others. I want to inspire. I want to fly. I want to live on life's high. All natural like John Denver used to sing about. Yeah. That's what I want. I want to go to sleep at night exhausted because of energy spent throughout the day living an authentic, positive, creative, fully-engaged life. Is it possible? Can I do it? Can I MAKE this my life? My reality? Hmm. Maybe I'll ask the therapist tomorrow. Who knows. Maybe she's got the roadmap. Maybe she knows how to get there. So maybe I'll just ask.

It's Raining Inside

So much anger. Where does it come from? Emotions wore out my sleeve. It’s now wrinkled and crinkled and tattered and torn. So easily offended. So easily I cry. So easily hurt. Hurt, hurt, hurt. What do I do? With all of this shit? Where do I put it? I can’t stuff it down. I can’t eat it all, not anymore. I can’t gamble it away. Not anymore. I can’t cover it up with a pill or some booze. Not anymore. Not anymore. I can’t, I can’t. Not anymore. So what do I do? Where does it go? The shelves are all full; there’s no place to go. I am confused. So lost. So unknown. I used to know. There once was a place for my heartache to go. But not anymore. I’m not sure what happened. I really don’t know. I woke up one day to a . . . life? I don’t know. I was lost. I was strange. I looked in the mirror, but I wasn’t me anymore. Scared I was. Scared I stayed. Feeling so lost. I felt raw and betrayed. But who had done this? Who was to blame? Just that girl in the mirror, the one without name. Bitch I dared call her and bitch she remained. Till I just couldn’t take it, not another day. So I covered it up, this monster inside. I ate and I ate and I gambled in shame. When that didn’t work, I took pills. All in vain. Bitch wouldn’t leave, she only remained. Actually, she grew and she grew until she owned even my name. Now here I sit - worse off then before. The monster inside owns all that I am. Is that really so bad? All that’s left is the mad. Maybe through madness, through all of the pain, I can fight my way out and reclaim my soulless name. I guess I will try. Nothing else to do. I’m all out of pills and food doesn’t taste like it used to. God, if you’re there, if you’re listenin’ to me, please give me strength. Without it, I’m doomed.

Today My Heart Sang and it was Lovely

This evening marks my second full day on Suboxone. Wow! I never knew normal could be so good - feel so good. Plenty of energy. Good mental attitude. No depression. No apathy. No sadness. No fatigue other than the physically induced kind. Was up at 6:30 a.m. Cleaned house for a bit, did the laundry, went antiquing with Shannon, shopped at Wal-Mart a bit, came home and made dinner, cleaned the kitchen and finished washing the bedding so we can climb into a clean bed tonight. So nice to be engaged - doing all the day-to-day things I wouldn't be able to do "normally". Shannon and I are getting along marvelously, which makes my heart sing. His too. He's told me several times what a nice weekend he's had. Me too. I just feel so good. Hope it lasts.

Me. . . Normal?

This is it. Day One. I started Suboxone this morning for treatment of my opioid addiction or dependence or whatever it might be. What is it anyway? Why do I love opioids? Why do I have to have them? Do I really have to have them or do I just want them? Hmm. There's the million dollar question. I need, or believe I need, opioids because they allow me to be someone I'm not without them. They ARE the perfect mask to the muck that lies beneath. Happy, engaged, interested in the world around me, content, funny, caring, energetic (yeah, ok, mornings only - but still - energetic at SOME point in the day), loving and kind = Karen ON opioids. Off opioids? I'm none of that. I'm depressed and sad and dull and apathetic (that's a biggie!), unmotivated, lethargic most of the time, loathsome, fearful, anxiety ridden and, at times, even suicidal. No, I have never attempted suicide, but I sure do think about it - a lot! Undoped, I desire drugged out Karen's existence - I long for it - I want it so badly, but I can't get it. Without opioids I simply cannot BE that person. And it sucks. It sucks so much. I sit and think about it - over and over and over again. It's on my mind every waking moment. The obsessive thinking snowballs. Then I find myself sitting around thinking. . . well, if you live so well ON dope, why not go get yourself some? Why not just live life every day fully drugged? If I have to live - which apparently I do because I'm not dead yet - why not live happy? I use that line of thinking. . . every single time. . . to relapse. I give myself permission to "go there" once again. Initially, it is wonderful. The euphoria I experience with the ingestion of that first little pill. . . oh my. . . it's like nothing I can explain. It's 1000% better than the best of orgasms! Really, it IS that good. Sadly, it doesn't last. After that first little pill, it's game over. And because all I want is to feel that good all the time, I start ingesting larger and larger quantities trying to get "it" - the feeling - back. It never works. I could eat 50 Vicodin and even that wouldn't create the high, happy feeling I experience after taking just 1 Vicodin after a 3-4-5-6 month hiatus. Because I've been on this roller coaster for years, my body/mind has built a tolerance to the shit and I just can't get high or high enough. And it is sooooooo frustrating! The more I take, the more my body rebels, which leads to thoughts of needing to get clean. So here I am. Getting clean. Or trying. Unlike the 100 times before, this time I'm doing it under the care of a doctor and a therapist. This time I'm taking Suboxone. And today is day one. I took my first dose at 6:15 a.m. Before taking it, I was in indescribable agony. The pain was so severe that I feared I wouldn't be able to roll out of my bed. I wanted to die. I did not want to face what awaited me emotionally because it's just too painful. I know from past experience. . .emotional pain is far worse than physical pain. I did not believe the Suboxone would treat that side of this hell. I thought. . . take some Suboxone. . . it will ease the pain. . . and then, in time, I'll see the therapist and maybe she'll have some magic potion or therapeutic exercise she can prescribe to kill my mental anguish. I'm happy to report, I was wrong. Within minutes, the Suboxone filled the opioid receptors in my brain and I felt. . . normal. Not high. Not depressed. Not apathetic. Not like drugged out Karen. Not like undrugged Karen. Something in between. I believe it's called normal. God, can this be true? Really? I have longed for this moment and now, here it is or so it would appear. Please Dear God, show me Grace. Let this be. Let normal be my new existence forever.

Tell Me Your Story. . . I So Want To Know

Can I write a book? Do I have the intellect, the knowledge, the ability, the creativity, the gift? Hmm. I don't rightly know. What I do know is that this idea - crazy as it might be - has been part of me for a good long while now. Just yesterday, a beloved friend reminded me of my dream. Seems I had forgotten about it or shelved the idea or set it aside because life got busy. But the moment she spoke the words, "when are you going to start writing your book", the idea of it came flooding back and filled me with all the warm, fuzzy feelings I long ago connected with the thought of it all. My idea is really quite simple. It involves people and stories and stringing the two together. Everyone has a story to tell. Everyone! All humans. . . rich or poor, black or white, male or female, old or young have a story. A memory. An event. Something that happened in their life that created or caused powerful emotion in them. Something that changed them for the better. . . or for the worse. A force so strong that it had a ripple effect throughout their family, their community, their country and even the world at large. I want to know those stories. I want the world to know. And what better way to share then a book? So here's what I propose I do. I shall buy a cheap, hand-held tape recorder (or whatever we call recording devices in this day and age) and I will then approach people one at a time. Friend or foe, stranger or acquaintance. I will ask them for 15 minutes. Give me 15 minutes and tell me your story. Everyone has one, won't you please tell me yours? Once I have collected enough material, the real journey will begin. Putting it altogether - finding the commonality, the themes, the similarities - the proof if you will - that we humans all share one thing. Emotions. Feelings. Thoughts. And those emotions, feelings and thoughts when put into action, create change that shapes the world. What a fascinating story this could be. Can I write it? Well, that's a whole other question. But I'm willing to try, and that's a start. So I'm off. . . getting ready to create a story of my own. . . one that will hopefully help shape and change the world. And even if it doesn't do all that, at least it will be a new journey in my life. I welcome the challenge.

On Loveliness

Are you lovely? Can you remember a time in your life when you were lovely? I read in a book recently that the poet Galway Kinnell wrote that "sometimes it is necessary to reteach a thing its loveliness." Honestly, I do not recall a time - not even one - in my life when lovely was a word I would use to describe myself. Sad, huh? That there are people in the world who consider themselves lovely actually comes as a surprise to me, which is even sadder I think. Pretty, beautiful, attractive, appealing, easy-on-the-eye, marvelous, fabulous . . . lovely are not, at least in my mind, synonymous with Karen. If I do not believe these things to be true about myself and never have, how then, I wonder, did Mr. Kinnell think someone like me could be retaught? Reteaching implies it was something once known. Something once known. Hmm. Did I know I was lovely at birth? Right out of the womb? A time I have no memory of. Perhaps I did. Or maybe I was one or two or three when I knew myself to be lovely. Again, all ages I have no memory of. So maybe Mr. Kinnell was correct in his assumption that all beings know themselves to be lovely at one time or another, and because of this, perhaps be can be retaught. So how I wonder can I be retaught my loveliness? Is there a class on this somewhere? Maybe the local university? Maybe church or a Buddhist temple or a mosque or synagogue? Maybe a book or magazine. I don't know and therein lies the problem. I long to be lovely. For if I was - if I truly viewed myself that way - how much better life would be. I've searched for happiness; I've longed for it. Real, genuine, everyday happiness - not that pretend, make-believe kind but the real mccoy. If only I could find a way to "be" lovely, all the issues that keep me unhappy would fade away or at least I chose to believe they would. So from this day forward, I shall vow to relearn my loveliness. Instead of seeking happiness, I shall seek loveliness.

One Worn Out Towel

Twenty-six years ago today, I met the person I thought I would spend the rest of my life with. Well, ok, I didn't think that (the "life" thing) right then - in that moment. But soon after meeting, I was convinced that we would spend eternity together. She was easy-going, fun, witty, smart, well liked, kind, hard working and the best cook I'd ever met. I think I gained 50 lbs that first year we were together. But it didn't matter. She didn't love me for my smoking hot body. Nope! She was many things, but never shallow or superficial. From the beginning, things were comfortable with her. I could truly just be myself. Nancy was not what I would call materialistic. The first time I spent the night at her apartment, I wanted to take a shower. I could find exactly one towel and it was an old Budweiser beach towel that was so worn out it had more holes in it then I could count. No, I'm not kidding. But it didn't matter. She was perfectly content with that one towel. She was happy. What she cared more about was living life, having fun, and smiling. It was that smile, that beautiful - gap-between-the-two-front-teeth - smile that I first fell in love with. Well that and her beautiful blue eyes. I think I was the first to say, "I love you." In fact, I know I was. But she followed right behind and soon we were moving in together. Neither of us had much to tell you the truth. I think I made the bigger paycheck - $11,900 a year and she made about $7.00 an hour. It was 1986. It was enough for the two of us to live on because we simply didn't have expensive needs. What we lacked in money and materialistic things, we made up for with love. We really, really loved one another. In the beginning, she worked the night shift and I worked days. I would stay up til midnight waiting for her to come home. And often we would then stay up til 3:00 a.m. just talking and laughing. Whenever we were apart, I missed her madly. Weekends were our "quality" time and they passed far too quickly. After that first year together, when we knew - really knew - that we'd be together forever, we - with the help of our parents - bought our first little house. . . our first little home. It was a small cottage really nestled in a beautiful wooded area. It was common for a family of deer to be standing in our backyard as the sun came up each day. We had bunnies and squirrels and fox and coon and possums and - did I mention deer? It was quaint. It was quiet. It was home. Soon our little family grew by two. Nikki, our golden retriever, came first followed very quickly by Kallie, our mutt who we suspected was a husky/german shepherd mix but looked very much like a wolf. All four of us - all 600 lbs of us - would sleep in this teeny, tiny double bed. It was toasty warm on cold winter nights and hotter than heck during the long summer months. But we were happy. After 10 years, our incomes grew, our tastes changed and we decided that we had simply outgrown our cute little cottage. So we did what many families do when they grow, we bought a new - bigger - home out in the suburbs. No more trees. No more woods. No more deer. As excited as we were about our new home, we were also very sad to be leaving our original one. The one where we fell more and more in love. The one where our babies first lived. The first year in our new home took some adjusting. Learning to live in all that extra space, learning to live in a neighborhood where the neighbors were too close for comfort, learning to drive all those extra miles to work - well, it all took some adjusting. And I'm not so sure that we ever did. It was about this time, that we started growing apart. There was a distance between us that just sort of appeared out of thin air. I'm not sure why it happened, it just did. She started doing her thing and I started doing mine. No longer were we excited to see one another at the end of the day. No longer were we willing to stay up half the night talking and laughing. No longer did we enjoy one another's company. We just sort of took each other for granted. Never, ever did I have a doubt that she would be there for me until the end of time. And I'm sure if you asked her, and if she was being honest, she would have said the same thing about me. But something in our relationship changed. For the worse. We became like strangers to one another. Her new best friend became the local bar and my new best friend because the casino. We became disrespectful toward one another. We each, in our own way, became disrespectful to ourselves. And we grew further and further apart. To the point of no return. There was just no getting back. Where had our love gone? Where had our respect for one another gone? Where had our common ground gone? It simply disappeared as if had never been. So sad. To spend all those years with someone, to create so many memories, and then wake up one morning and have it gone. Poof! All gone. I don't regret having met her. I don't regret having loved her. I don't regret the 24 years we had together. Those 24 years, that relationship, helped shape who I am today. In a way, it made me. She made me and I made her. We were just kids back in the day - the day we first met. In many ways, we grew up together. It saddens me greatly that it didn't last. That we couldn't overcome the distance that grew between us. That we couldn't find a way to salvage what we had and get back to our roots. They say you can never go back. And I guess that's probably true. You can't go back. But you can look back. You can try not to repeat the mistakes you made. You can remember the good times with fondness and you can remember the bad times for what they were - bad. You can work hard not to repeat the bad. As I write this, I can't help but wonder if we let material things destroy us. Literally, we had nothing when we first met. And we were happy. We had each other and that was all we needed. We traded in her beat up beach towel for a nice, new, fluffy set of matching towels and I do believe that, that was the beginning of the end. Should have kept the beach towel. While it would now be close to 30 years old, it likely survived. We did not. And if I'm being honest I have to say, that saddens me greatly. It makes my heart ache this horrible, horrible ache. And when I think of it all, I cry.

For My Friend. . .

Nothing is better than the love of a friend. A real, genuine, authentic friend. Not money or fame or fortune or employment or home ownership or vacation or theater or music or art or nature or new socks or a fire in the fire place or a good book or sex or parasailing or swimming with dolphins or playing guitar or singing or laughing or food or alcoholic beverages or a night out on the town or chocolate or shopping or the smell of freshly cut grass or gas prices falling beneath $3.00 a gallon or exercise or a walk in the park or an ice cream cone or flying or driving along side the ocean or a perfectly cooked steak or a new suit or sleeping in late on Sundays or meeting the president of the USA or even the pope. Nothing. Nothing beats the love of a friend. Everything else is temporary. It doesn't last. It's wonderful in the moment, but then it's gone again. A friend's love is constant. It's permanent. It's unchanging and predictable and steady and real. It's there for you when nothing else is. It's rock steady. It lifts you up when you are feeling down. It lifts you higher when you're already up. It helps make you all you can be and then some. It reminds you that there's nothing you can't do. It encourages you. The love of a friend allows you to be your real, genuine, authentic self. The love of a friend does not require you to be someone or something that you're not. Instead, it just lets you be you and celebrates you as you are. The love of a friend is priceless. It transcends time and space. When you fall on your ass, the love of a friend picks you up, dusts you off and gets you on your path again. The love of a friend sees you through even your darkest hour and when you come through on the other side, it's still right there cheering you on to new heights. The love of a friend can't be bought or sold. It just is. Thank God I have it. Thank God that He saw fit to give me the love of one really good, genuine, authentic, beautiful friend. Without her, I'd be lost. Without her, I just couldn't do what life requires of me. Without her, the sun might not rise tomorrow. But with her, I am empowered. I am energized. I am new again. She makes me know that I matter. Because of her, I know there's nothing I can't do. God bless and God speed my beautiful friend. Your love saves me, it really does.

Know thyself

Someone said that Aristotle said, "knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom." That sounds like some really smart thing to say, and from the little I know, Aristotle was a really smart cat. So I believe he probably did say it. But what the hell does it mean? What does "knowing yourself" mean? And even if you "know yourself" at some point in time, is it possible to not "know yourself" at other times? Based on personal experience, I have to say, "yes" it is entirely possible. Was there a time in my life when I thought I knew myself? You bet there was. When I was young and stupid, I thought I knew everything. Not only did I know myself, but I knew people in general and above all - I knew how the world worked. During that time in my life, what I knew - or thought I knew - about me was that I was sure footed, confident, organized, anal, focused, goal-driven, compassionate, empathetic, argumentative, aggressive, kind, generous, no nonsense, secure in the knowledge that I would never be a victim, a good friend, of average intelligence, a lover of music, a believer in God, a hard worker, a good negotiator, sharp tongued, a righter of wrongs and on and on. In addition to all of this, I knew - without a doubt - that I was a "fat girl with a pretty face" that a man would never love. A man could not love me because I was fat. It did not matter that I had a "pretty face". It did not matter that I had at least some positive qualities. It only mattered that I was fat. I knew that because I had been told that by my parents - good, loving, honest people who would never lie to me or steer me wrong. Then, somehow, the impossible happened. A man loved me. I loved him. We did what two people in love do. We got married. And then it happened. I stopped "knowing myself". It's as if I woke up one day and no longer recognized myself. I looked in the mirror and an image looked back at me. I did not recognize her; I did not know her. I seem to have lost the attributes that used to make me, me. I'm not confident. I'm not organized. Hell I can't even figure out how to sit down and get the bills paid. Bills I have been paying for year and suddenly I feel clueless about what to do or when to do it. I have no goals. My compassion, for the most part, has left me. I don't care if I'm a victim, I question everything knowing only that I know nothing . . . not really. Music no longer matters to me - I'd just as soon listen to talk radio. I seem to create more wrongs then I fix. I go to work, but I don't want to. And God has become this big question mark in my mind. I don't feel connected to anyone or anything. The mass which is my body just seems to take up space - wasting precious natural resources. But hey, I'm still fat! Didn't lose that. Didn't lose that knowledge. I wake up every morning and the first thought I have is. . . how fat am I today? How is it that the beginning of all wisdom. . . for me anyway. . . lies in the knowledge that I am fat? I don't know anything else - not anymore, but I know that one thing. That one fact. I am fat. That's what I know. That's the beginning of my wisdom. Ha! Fat people die young. Fat people miss out on so much life - so much living - because their bodies simply will not let them engage in physical activities - fun stuff that skinny people get to do on a regular basis. So thank you Aristotle for your wisdom. What I know at 51 is that I have a fat body. I am fat. I will die young and I won't get to have much fun along the way because carrying too much blubber around is too fucking hard. Is there any wonder I hate life?

Happy Mother's Day

On Sunday we will celebrate mothers all over the world. At least I hope they are celebrated all over the world and not just here in the United States. Mothers, regardless of where they live, deserve celebrating! They work so hard, sacrifice so much, taking care of those they love asking for little in return. So a day to honor Her is certainly in order. And that day has come again this year. My, my time passes quickly. Where did it all go? Seems like just yesterday, I lay in my tiny little bed plagued with the mumps while my own mommy did her very best to cure me, reassure me and love me. That was more than 40 years ago. And each and every year since I was old enough to know, I have tried to celebrate my mom on Her special day. . . Mother’s Day. This year I want to do things just a tad bit differently. Sadly, I will never experience childbirth. I will never hold an infant in my arms with the full realization that this unique little being was created by God, my husband and myself. I will never hear those special, magical words, “Mommy, I love you.” Is there a sadness in me because of this? You bet there is! But! As sad as I am that I will never have a child of my own, I’m full of joy with the knowledge that I have a mom - a mom who loves me unconditionally - a mom who loses sleep over me even after all these years - a mother who would lay down her very life if she thought it would save mine. Not only that, but I have an aunt who - in her own special way - has been my mommy too. I’m what you call doubly blessed! Whatever do I mean? As I sit here thinking about what a mother is, what a mother represents, I am full of ideas. Of course there’s the biology. Only one woman can give birth to her child. But does the sheer act of childbirth make a mother? Not in my view of things. A mother is so much more than biology. A mother is there smiling from ear to ear as her three year old asks her for the 25th time, “why” they can’t have another cookie before dinner. A mom is the person sitting on the toilet (patiently) while her little girl excitedly shares her school day and beams with pride as she demonstrates her new ability to spell E-L-E-P-H-A-N-T. A mom is the understanding ear that really listens as her pubescent daughter tells her all about Tommy, the boy who broke her heart by liking Lisa better than he likes her. A mom is the person who teaches her child to be kind and empathetic and patient and loving and respectful of others, while at the same time delivering a powerful blow of her own to any no-good who would dare to harm a hair on her child’s head. A mom is the person who cooks and cleans and works to provide for all her child’s needs and who would walk to the end of the earth to try and obtain even one of her child’s wants. A mom’s heart beats not only for herself, but also for her child. It just does. If her child’s heart hurts, then so does the mom’s. If a child’s heart skips a beat, then so does the mom’s. Whether pain or pleasure, a mom is the person standing right there letting her child know, always, that they never walk alone. A mom is, my mom is, . . . so many wonderful things. But. . . What about the woman who didn’t give birth to you, but mothered you just the same? What about her? I have such a woman in my life. See. . . told you. . . I’m doubly blessed! She, the woman of which I speak, is My Aunt Fern. I say, “My”, with a capital “M” to try and emphasize the ownership I feel towards her. She is so wonderful, I want to keep her all to myself. Don’t want to have to share even though my mama taught me better. Truthfully, there’s nothing to worry about. My Aunt Fern is just the sort of woman who has enough motherly love to go around. In other words, sharing never really feels like sharing. She has a way of making each and every one of us feel special - as if we’re the only one. My beautiful Aunt Fern used to gently and patiently comb through my long hair - getting out all the rats - without ever pulling - without ever causing my tender head an ounce of pain. She was also the there the day I became a young lady. Oh how embarrassed I was, but somehow she knew and somehow she made it all ok. Just like my own mama would have. She made summers fun for me too. I couldn’t wait for school to let out so I could go to her farm and play and play and play the days away. . . waiting for her to come home from work and play with me some more. Whether it was a trip down the old gravel road to the local Dairy “B” for an ice cream. . . or two, whether it was a trip to the lake for an early evening swim or whether it was a fun filled night at the baseball diamond watching The Queen and her Court or Donkey-ball, she always found time. . . she always made time. . . to show her love. She sacrificed for me, just like my own mother did. And when I became an adult, that didn’t change a bit. For 51 years now, she has loved me as if I were her own. . . unconditionally. Life has a way of coming full circle. I mentioned earlier that I’d never know the joy of holding my own baby in my arms. While that is true, it is also true that the moms in my life will never know the joy of a mother’s love. Not like I know it anyway. Sure they had a mother. She was the “biology” kind. She gave them birth. And for that, I will always be grateful. But she didn’t do right by them. She didn’t love them the way a mother should. Unlike me, she had the opportunity to hold her babies and squeeze them and love them and rock them gently to sleep, but she threw it all away. For reasons we will never know, she didn’t mother her children the way they had a right to be mothered. And though my moms didn’t know the love - the real love of a mother - they both excelled at being moms - to me, to my brother and to my cousins, John, Paul Eddie and Nancy Jean. So I can’t be too heartbroken about not having a baby of my own. While I’ll never have a child sit in my lap and whisper in my ear, “I love you mommy”, I am blessed that I have two moms that would let me sit in their laps any day of any week and whisper, “I Love You Mama”. On this Mother’s Day, may you both feel the joy - the real joy - that true motherhood brings. If life ever gets you down, I want you to think back on this day and all the days before and remember - you gave all the children in your life. . . especially this child . . . the most precious gift of all. . . your unconditional, undying love. You did it right. Every single bit of it. With all the love and affection my human heart is capable of holding. . . Happy, Happy Mother’s Day.

New Experiences. . . Meditation, A Friend and My Spirit

Yesterday I attended my first ever meditation retreat. The retreat was scheduled from 10:00 a.m. until 4:00 p.m. I hung in there until 2:30 p.m., which was very good I thought for someone who's never meditated longer then about 10 minutes at one time. I had a little difficulty following the rules - like the "no talking" rule and the "donation recommendation of $95.00 - $35.00" rule and the "don't look at anyone else" rule and the "don't leave early but if you do let the instructor know so she won't worry about you" rule - but other than that, I think I stayed in bounds most of the day. Oh, one more thing. Though this wasn't on the official rule list, it probably should have been and had it been, I would have broken one more. The "don't steal" rule. Yeah, I know - lame, right? I couldn't help myself. There were these really beautiful rocks lining the church flower gardens that I spotted on my first walking meditation, and I just had to have one. Ok, make that two. Wouldn't have happened had I not been following the "keep your eyes down" rule, cause I wouldn't have seen them otherwise. So it's really the rule maker's fault that I was tempted in the first place! They (the rocks) just called out to me. "Hey you, Ms. Meditation Girl, I'd make a really nice souvenir". So I brought them home with me and set them on my dresser. Wonder if I'll ever pick them up or even notice them in the future? Hmm. Maybe I shouldn't have stolen the rocks. I probably just caused myself a lot of bad karma. And for what? Rocks that will do nothing more than collect dust on my dresser. Yeah, probably a bad idea. Note to self: if you ever go back to the Unity Temple, return the stolen rocks! So what did I get out of this experience? I went for two reasons: 1st because a friend asked me to go and 2nd because I was hoping to find or connect with my spirit. For those of you who haven't read my earlier blog entries, I'm on this mission of sorts - to find my spirit and not let thoughts control my life. Anyway, I was really hoping to get plugged in - connected - to spirit. Sadly, I must confess that it didn't happen. It wasn't because I didn't try. I did! I tried my heart out! I did sitting meditations. I did walking meditations (that's when I stole the rocks). I did eating meditation. I did moving meditation (which was really lame by the way, because the leader just made shit up as she went along and got me all off balance). And last but not least, I did guided meditations. While I didn't find my spirit (which is really a disappointment to me), I'm glad I went because of reason number 1. My friend invited me. I showed up. I accepted an invitation and then I followed through. I didn't find 50 reasons to cancel at the last minute, which is progress for me. I didn't allow my negative thoughts to talk me out of going at the very last minute. Oh sure, they were there (though not as loud as usual), but I didn't let them control me. And I'm so glad I didn't. I enjoyed being with my friend and her husband. We had coffee together in the morning, I did my walking meditation with my friend (that's when we broke the "no talking" rule). We ate lunch together (in silence - wink/wink). And they drove me back to my car when the three of us skipped out early (breaking yet another rule). This shared experience with a (new) friend was simple enough, but it was so powerful at the same time. I can't say why exactly. It just was. She felt it too. She told me - more than once - that she was so glad I came. And I told her that we needed to do more activities together. She agreed! I've spent so many years lonely because I have a difficult time connecting with people. I've always just assumed that folks wouldn't like me if they got to know me very well. Because of that, I've spent way too much time by myself. . . lonely. But this new person in my life seems to like me just fine. She hung out with me for more than a minute and she didn't run away. She seems to enjoy my company and I know I enjoy hers. Hey. Wait a damn minute. Maybe spirit did reveal itself to me. Maybe I just didn't realize it in the moment. Maybe me connecting with spirit wasn't in the meditation. Maybe, just maybe, it was about my friend. Maybe I connected with my own spirit as I spent time with a friend bonding. It was in my time with her that I felt "whole". Don't get me wrong. The meditation was nice for what it was - relaxing. I didn't feel enlightened or anything. But the time spent with my friend - just hanging out - just being with one another - was when I felt most alive. Yeah, maybe spirit did reveal itself to me. And now that I've seen it, felt it, I know I like it and want more of it. It was a good day. Thank you spirit. Thank you for being there and for showing up, even if I wasn't paying attention. . . in the moment.

Memories

What did I do on May 15, 1966 or August 28, 1971 or October 2, 1976 or January 11, 1983 or March 1, 1989 or April 20, 1994 or June 9, 1999 or July 19, 2006 or yesterday for that matter? Heck if I know. Seriously. I have no idea what happened on most days of my life. When I think back, very few dates and the associated events of those dates are present in my memory bank. Sure I have memories - both long and short term - but I can't really put an event with a date unless it was some monumental something - like the day I was born. February 12, 1961. The date of my birth. Actually, I don't remember my birth at all. I'm told that's the day I was born. So, actually, I don't remember what I was doing on February 12, 1961, I just remember what my parents told me I was doing that day. . . getting birthed. Driving down the road today, I heard an interview with Marilu Henner. Remember her? Actress who played in the television sitcom, Taxi. Do I remember the dates that Taxi aired? Heck no! But Marilu does. The interview she gave today was all about this rare condition she has called "Superior Autobiographical Memory". The condition enables her to remember what she did on every single day of her life. I didn't hear the interview from the beginning, so perhaps she can't remember every single day - like the first 1460 (that's the first 4 years of her life for those of you who don't have a calculator). But other than that, other then the first few years of her life, you give her a date - any date at all - and she can tell you exactly where she was and what she was doing. Amazing! As I listened to the interview, I thought back over my own life and I tried to remember dates of really important stuff - like where I was when I turned 16, what day of the week it was the day I turned 21, what date I graduated from high school, what day I voted for the very first time, what day my husband proposed to me, etc. Sadly, I couldn't. I couldn't remember any of it. I wished someone had told me when I was 5 to start writing everything down. Make a note of every day of your life. Record where you were and what you did. It's your life! What could be more important than that? If you weren't blessed with Superior Autobiographical Memory, like Marilu was, there is no other way that I am aware of to remember every day of your life. What better way to realize the value of your life then to be able to remember it - all of it. As I reflect back on my life, I remember lots of really good stuff. I remember my little brother not being there one day and suddenly appearing - like magic the next. He was my baby. Oh how I loved that lil bundle of joy. Don't recall the day he came home from the hospital, but I sure remember the feeling I felt. I remember the perceived pain of losing my first baby tooth. Can't recall how old I was, but I remember the fear. I was scared to death that losing that tooth would be the equivalent of losing an entire leg or arm. I don't remember losing my other baby teeth. . . probably because the pain of the first wasn't nearly as bad as I had convinced myself it would be. I remember having the mumps. Ouch! Now that was painful. Thought I had big ol' globs of oatmeal stuck in my throat. I don't know what day it started or what day it ended. I don't remember how old I was. But I sure remember the feeling, and more than that, I remember the love of my mother as she tried to comfort me. I remember my kindergarden teacher, Mrs. See. She was born in Japan and I thought she was the most beautiful non-white person I had ever laid my eyes on. And she was super cool! She brought a tadpole to our classroom one day and promised us all that it would soon become a frog. We checked the little tadpole's makeshift pond every day until finally one day it happened. The tadpole was gone and in its place was a feisty lil frog. Sure wish I could remember the date that happened. My first experience with nature; at least the first I can recall. I remember kissing a boy for the very first time. Lee. Oh my he was handsome, or so my seven year old mind believed. I had quite the crush. I tricked him into joining me down in the cellar one afternoon after school. And there we were - just me and him - sitting in that dark, damp, private place. The anticipation was almost more then I could stand. And then I did it. I reached right over and planted a big ol' sloppy kiss right on his beautiful lips. He was so shocked he bolted - ran up the stairs and right out the door. Like the wind. Here one minute, gone the next. Don't remember the date, but I'll never forget the anticipation of that first kiss or my embarrassment afterwards. Square dancing for the very first time is something else I'll never forget. I was in the 7th grade. I loved it! All my classmates seemed to hate it so I had to pretend I hated it too. Couldn't have my judgmental classmates thinking me so nerdy as to love something as "gross" as square dancing. After all, girls and boys had to touch in order to do the dance. And who in the 7th grade can admit to wanting to touch a member of the opposite sex, right? Right! So I pretended I hated it when all the while I loved it. Loved everything about it. The music, the funny looking costumes, the caller, the dose doing, but most of all. . . the boys! Gosh, how I now wish I could remember the day I experienced square dancing for the very first time. It's when I became a girl I think. When I fully realized for perhaps the very first time that boys and girls were not alike. What a happy day it was sitting on my Auntie Pearl's lap and learning the hand movements to "this is the church and this is the steeple and open the door and there's all the people". Oh how I loved my Auntie Pearl. She made every moment fun, but more than that, she showed me what unconditional love was. I'm so sorry Auntie Pearl that I don't remember the date you taught me about church and steeples and people. More than that, I'm sorry I don't remember the day you passed away. The day you died was the day I felt the pain of loss for the very first time. I can't remember if it was a Monday or Tuesday or Saturday or Sunday. I don't know if it was in March or July or August or December. Was it summer or spring? I really don't know. Oh how I wish I had written it down. You mattered to me more than any other person ever did. And I didn't write it down. I didn't take the time. I'm so sorry. I just didn't realize. So many things - good and bad - happened to me after my Auntie Pearl passed away. Most events I can recall, I think, but I don't know what day they happened. In most instances, I can't even tell you what month or year it was. My beautiful husband married me on April 22, 2011, one of the happiest days of my life. Will I ever forget that day? It was Good Friday 2011 at 1:30 p.m. at the Platte County Courthouse. Our closest friends and family joined us as we exchanged our vows and promised to love one another forever. It is unconceivable to me that I could ever forget a day full of so much love. . . so much emotion. But as I sit here looking back at my life and realize just how many important dates I have forgotten, I fear that it could happen. So I have done the only thing I (now) know to do. I've written it down. Forever, I can look back at this blog entry and forever I can know exactly what day and time I married my very best friend.

Who Wants to be Exceptional? I do, I do!

How do I get from "here", my marginal life, to "there", my exceptional life? Don't we humans have all the same stuff? Muscles, bones, organs, blood, body, mind, spirit? If so, then why is it that some folks live a really exceptional life while others - like me - live a marginal one? What sets us apart? Is my chemistry, my essence, the stuff of which I'm made, all that different from say a Queen Noor, Sandra Day O'Connor, Gloria Steinem, Ann Richards, Michelle Obama, NeNe Leakes, Mother Teresa, Oprah Winfrey, Michael Moore, Albert Einstein, Warren Buffett, Abe Lincoln, Martin Luther King, Jr., John Grisham, Bethenny Frankel, Rosa Parks, Annie Leibovitz, Harper Lee, Billy Graham, Gandhi or even the Pope? Why did these folks and so many others like them reach their full potential, their individual exceptional life, and why can't I? Or maybe I should ask, since I ain't dead yet, "why haven't I"? What sets us apart? What do they have that I don't have? Anything? Under a microscope, would a scientist be able to see any difference between one of these folks and me? Probably not. Strip it all down and we're - every single one of us - just a bunch of cells, right? So what got them there - what was the wind beneath their wings - what motivated them, what propelled them, what made them know they could? Was it fear? Did fear of failure give them the strength they needed to get "there"? Was it desire? Would they rather have died trying than never to have tried at all? Was it fate? Would they have reached their exceptional lives regardless of what they did or did not do? Hmm. I can't believe it was fear. Fear does not produce desirable outcomes - it keeps us frozen - unable to move toward our goals. As for desire? Yeah, I don't really buy that one either. Desire is the type of thing that comes and goes and loses its appeal after awhile. How 'bout fate? Was Michelle Obama fated to be the first African American First Lady while Jane Doe was fated to be a high school drop out standing in a welfare line because not even the local McDonald's would hire her? Sorry. I just can't buy into that one either. I also refuse to believe it was chemistry. While the human cell might vary slightly from person to person giving some of us blue eyes and others brown, I refuse to believe that they can vary to such a degree that Warren Buffett can live in a palace (solely because he has good chemistry) while John Doe lives in a tent along side the banks of the Missouri River (because his molecular structure is flawed somehow). So if it's not fear or desire or fate or bones, blood, organs and muscles, what is it? What's left? Mind? Spirit? That's it. Has to be. There is nothing more. Right? Body, mind, spirit, nothing more, nothing less. Basic recipe for all humans. So what is it about my mind and spirit that keeps me marginal - keeps me from exceptional? I don't have all the answers. Heck, I don't even have a few answers. But, after careful consideration and much reflection, here's what I've come up with. My spirit - my driving force - is lost to me. I have an awareness of my spirit, but I'm not really plugged in - connected. We've all heard that phrase, "let the spirit move you", but mine doesn't or I won't allow it to - I'm really not sure which. So the first thing I gotta do is find my spirit. If I can do this, then I think I'll easily be able to identify what it is I want from this life. What is "it" that will get me to my exceptional life? When I look back over my list of folks who have - in my mind anyway - lived an exceptional life, the common thread, the common denominator, seems to be spirit. They are - or in some cases were - filled with and lead by spirit. So I have to find a way. I have to find the path that will lead me to spirit. That has to be first. Just has to be. How will I find spirit? Now there's the million dollar question! If I knew that, I probably wouldn't be blogging about this subject. The truth is I just don't know. I've looked for spirit at church, but I didn't find it. I've looked for spirit in books, but I didn't find it there either. I've looked for spirit in prayer, but it was still lost to me. I've looked for spirit in movies and songs and paintings and dance, but all I could ever find was the spirit of others. I never found mine. This coming Saturday I'm attending a meditation retreat with a friend down at the Unity Temple. It's a 6 hour retreat. God, I hope they won't make me meditate for 6 whole hours! I can't even get a good 6 minutes in till I'm ready to throw in the towel. But anyway, I digress a bit. Sorry. The point is I'm going to this thing because I'm hopeful that I'll find my spirit. And if I do, then I fully intend to keep it. It shall become the biggest, brightest, best part of me. And surely then I'll be on my way. Leaving marginal Karen behind while I run full steam ahead toward my exceptional self. . . my exceptional life. Then there's mind. What is mind anyway? I know what a brain is - I've seen one. I saw it while visiting a cadaver lab over at Cleveland Chiropractic College several years back when I was a student at the Midwest Institute of Natural Healing. Anyway, it was gross. How would I describe what I saw that day? Hmm. Well, it was this nasty looking blob of a thing that appeared to be composed of spaghetti noodles or worms. It looked like the kind of thing one could easily squish if stepped on. What it did not look like was power. When I think of the human brain, I think of power. Think about it for a minute. How strong must the human brain be to do all its business? Doesn't it tell the lungs to breathe? Doesn't it tell the heart to beat? Doesn't it make our muscles fire just right so we can move through life without even thinking about it? Even when we are asleep, the brain keeps right on working. Work, work, work. It never gets a day off. So that lil bugger just has to be strong. But it sure didn't look strong the day I saw it sitting there on that cold, icy, stainless steel, lab table. Nope, it looked like some overgrown bug that I could easily scrape off the bottom of my shoe if ever I were to step on one. But the question I have about how to get to my exceptional life is not so much about brain as it is about the function of the brain. The function of the brain - or at least one of its functions - is to think. Thought. Where do thoughts come from? Why are some thoughts positive and some negative? Why are some thoughts so good that we want to experience them over and over again while others are so horrible that we wished we'd never had them in the first place? I wonder if Mother Teresa ever thought about killing someone. Seriously! She was human - just like me. I have never killed anyone but I sure have thought about it. So maybe she did to. But she didn't - kill anyone that is. That's just it. No matter how negative Mother Teresa's thoughts might have been, they never kept her from living her exceptional life. From this, I am convinced that I don't have to stop my thought processes. I can live with negative thoughts; I just can't act on them. To live my exceptional life, I have to find a way to use my brain's function - thought - for the good. I have to use thoughts to get me where I want to be. More than that, I have to find a way not to let negative thoughts keep me from where I want to go. My exceptional life awaits me. This I firmly believe. I just have to find my spirit, connect and let it move me while at the same time not allow negative thoughts to stop me from getting where I want to be.

When In Doubt. . . Read This!

I was up way past my bedtime last night watching OWN. . . Oprah Winfrey Network. Every time I turn that station on, she is there - Oprah that is. Does she ever sleep? Does she spend all of her time filming programs to be aired on her station? Sure seems that way. I don't know how she does it, I really don't. But thank Jesus that she does! For if she didn't, I wouldn't have seen the show I saw last night when worry and dread and mental pain consumed me - robbing me of precious sleep. Don't ask me the name of the program cause I don't have a clue. I tuned in a tad bit late, so I didn't catch the name. Doesn't matter one wit. What matters is that I saw the program. Got the message. Saw the light. Received light where only dark had been. It gave hope. Hell, it was just down right cool. Deepak Chopra was Oprah's invited guest. They talked about Karma, which is really the same thing as "The Golden Rule". "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you". "We reap what we sow". "Every action generates a force of energy that returns to us in like kind". Basically, what we have in our life right now is present because of something we did a minute ago, an hour ago, a day ago, two days ago, a week ago, a year ago and so on. I can change my karma by changing what I'm thinking which leads to what I'm doing. . . right this minute! And if that's not enough of an eye opener, try this one on for size. . . close your eyes. . . see the moon in your mind's eye. . . now see an oak tree along the muddy river bank. . . now see a red triangle. . . now . . . open your eyes. Do you see how easily you let a thought - a thing - a vision - into your mind? More importantly, do you see how easily you let the thing, the vision, the thought go? The message? YOU ARE NOT YOUR THOUGHTS! They are not permanent. Your mind has the ability to think any thought - ANY thought at all. And! It has the ability to let the thought go! Because? It is NOT you!!! I am NOT it!!! My thoughts are not me. They are not the essence of me. They are thoughts - nothing more - nothing less. They don't matter one wit. And, I have absolute power over them. I can change them into anything I want with nothing more than an imaginary switch. Moon? Tree on the river? Red triangle? When a thought comes in that I don't like - one that is dark - one that disturbs me - one that is upsetting or negative or hurtful in any way. . . S T O P! Let it go. Think. . . Moon. Think. . . Oak Tree. Think. . . Red Triangle. Just stop. Take a breath. Let it go. Think a new thought. One that is more pleasing. One that is more positive. One that is better suited to me and my needs in the moment. Just stop, breathe and change the channel. When you change the channel, you change the thought. When you change your thoughts, you change your actions. When you change your actions, you change your karma. Don't like what you have? Change it. It all starts in the mind. Pretty f***ing cool if you ask me!

Someone, Please Turn On The Light

A thought comes in. If it's dark, it's all encompassing, all consuming, like a weed, it takes over until it owns me. If it's not dark, it doesn't last long, it doesn't prevail, it doesn't conquer. It is there but a minute and then it's gone again. Where did it go? Why oh why can't I get it back? The darkness I can fight against all day and all night, which only causes it to grow deeper roots and me to become completely exhausted. It's as if the fight is water mixed with the proper amount of miracle grow - just makes the darkness stronger - harder to kill. Damn it! Why does this happen? Why can't I stop it? What is so wrong with me? Do I not have education? Do I not have good life experience? Do I not have opportunity? Do I not have light within? What? What? What is wrong? Darkness loves me. Light eludes me. It hates me. It refuses to plant itself and take up residency - something I really long for. What possible reason is there to go on? To wake another day? To breathe another breath? Why? So that darkness can breed making itself more prevalent, more life consuming, more soul sucking? Breath for me is like gasoline on a fire. It spreads evil, wicked, torment, black, it feeds the demon within. Happiness, joy, love, light, laughter I cannot have. Not for more than a second or two. And those seconds grow farther and farther apart it seems. I can't remember the last time they were here with me. So long ago. I have a memory of them, but my memories grow weaker and weaker and the good gets harder to recall. Will the day come when I won't know them at all? As if they never existed? If dark has its way, that is exactly what shall become of me. Walking death. No life. No love. No happiness or joy. Only dark. Only pain. Only sorrow. I don't want that. I don't want my life to become that. Is it better to die then to go on living and letting dark have its way with me? I believe it might be. I can't find a reason to live for this - for darkness. It has stolen most of my life now. Little is left. It won't be happy until it has all of me and I can't be happy with any of it. I don't know what tools, if any, will destroy it. For if I did, I would buy a truckload and get to work. Dig, pick, pull - do whatever necessary to get it out or die trying. I'd buy tools for friends and family too and let them have a go at the life sucking demon. Does the world need people like me in order to know the good - the happiness - the joy it has? Is that my purpose here? To make life better for others? If that is so, then there must be others like me - carrying more than their fair share of darkness. I can't help but wonder whether they too have written a blog about the pain they face on a near daily basis. I wonder if they have sat in their rooms considering whether someone like me existed. Maybe we should all get together and share war stories - to see whether we can "one up" each other in the darkness department. Ha! I can visualize the party invites in my mind now. "Hey. . . does your life absolutely suck? If so, join others just like you and compare life horror stories. Yeah, come one, come all, make a new friend - someone else who can let you down on a regular basis since there's absolutely no room for happiness in that dark, fucked up life of yours. No need to RSVP (the hostess doesn't need yet another let down when your sorry ass doesn't show up) just come on over if you don't kill your worthless self first." Hmm. Maybe not. I don't see how any good could come from that sort of a party, or should I say gathering? "Party" just somehow doesn't capture the spirit of the thing. So if I can't fight the fight on my own and if there are no tools in the toolshed to kill the demons within and if a gathering of other dark-minded folks won't work, whatever should I do? Is 51 too young to die? I don't really know. Since I don't really know, maybe I should wait until I find another possible solution. In the meantime, perhaps I'll take another pill and see if I can't numb myself to the darkness. Pretend it doesn't have power. Hide from it. Fake happiness for the good of others. It's 10:30 now. If I ingest now, happiness or some fabricated form of it, should come knocking on my dark mind in about an hour.

To My Daughter

As sure as my name is Karen, I'm sure that I want me a baby girl. I just do. Think I've always wanted this - clear back as far as I can remember. When I was 12, I busied myself thinking up names for all the many children I would have one day. I believe there were eight total. Eight children! I can't even imagine it now, but at the ripe old age of 12 - when I knew everything there was to know about life and living and grown up responsibilities - I wanted 8 youngins. Summer, Tara, Heidi, Annie, Barbie, Rene, Maria, Tiffany, Jennifer, Samantha, Joshua and Michael. See why I want a baby girl? I had so many perfect names for all my many daughters, but struggled to come up with even two names for my sons. So I want a baby girl. Wanted her then and want her now. While my name selection has changed from the childlike "Summer", to a wiser, more mature list including Abigail, Betsy, Elizabeth, Jessica, Katherine, Laura, Lanie, Mallory and Scout (yes, as in To Kill a Mockingbird), not much else has changed. The idea that I would be a wonderful mother is, on most days, first and foremost in my mind. The older I get, the more I think about what I have given up. . . my ability to have a child. My body has now passed the baby-making stage and moved into the stage where I'm better suited (at least physically) to be a grandma. Ick! How I hate the thought of that. I don't want to be a grandma. I want to be a mom. A mother, a mommy, a mama, a mom, a ma. It's not natural to be a grandmother without ever having been a mom. It's just not. Least not for me it's not. If I were a mom what would I do? Above all, I would love my child unconditionally. I would let her (or him) know each and every day how much they are loved. Not only would I tell my child that I loved her, I would show her every opportunity I was given. I would "show up" when showing up meant something. To all the things that were important to her - I'd be there. I'd be the parent she could always count on no matter what. I would sing to her and play with her and dress her up in fancy clothes and play make-up. I would curl her hair and take her shopping and bake cookies with her every Sunday morning. I would set a time aside every single week that would be our "girl" time. Just she and I. We'd have a special activity that the two of us would do each and every week. I can think of at least 100 things I would enjoy doing with my daughter. But that's selfish of me, so I think I'd wait til she was old enough and then let her pick our special activity. Whatever was fun for her, then that's what we'd do. Not only would I love my child unconditionally and plan activities for the two of us, I would expose her all the religions of the world. Help her get in touch with her spiritual side. We would go to a new church or temple or synagogue or mosque every month until we found something that resonated with her. I've come to realize that spirituality is so very important. Without it, humans are like robots. I wouldn't want my child to go through life all mechanical and stiff like. I would want her to live a full, spiritual life, and I would help her discover and then embrace that part of herself. Culture is important too, I believe, to live a complete and balanced life. For this reason, my daughter and I would spend time together learning about different world cultures. We'd spend time in libraries and museums and theaters. We'd go to concerts together - everything from classical to celtic to blues and reggae. If we could afford to travel the world, then we would. Otherwise, we'd spend time learning about the four corners of the earth on a computer in the comfort of our living room. We'd wear our PJ's, snack on popcorn and read all about Bangladesh one night and Peru the next. So many things I'd love to do - to share - with my daughter. Above all, I'd consider it a privilege to get to know her. The real her. Who she is on the inside. What she loves and what she fears. What goals she has, what dreams she dreams. Who she wants to be and how she wants to get there. Above all, I'd teach my child that she is perfect - just as she is. She'd never have to apologize for what she feels or thinks or says. In my world, she would be free to be who and what she is. I'd love her unconditionally and I'd teach her - from the day of her birth - to love herself. . . unconditionally. So to my little Scout, mommy loves you madly and can't wait to get to heaven to meet you. Until then, look inside when you want to be with me, cause I'm right there. . . in your heart. . . and always will be.

A Man and His Dog at Home

Today is April 17, 2012. While driving down the road yesterday, I saw a homeless man and his little dog sitting on the side of the road. The man held a sign asking passerbys for help. The dog just sat there - hoping someone would stop to help his master. Homeless people and their signs have become so common place that I wonder how many non-homeless folks even see them. Do we look right through them? Do we turn and look away so we don't have to see them? Have we all become so callused that we can easily pretend like homeless men, women, children and their pets don't exist? Is it that we are callused or is it really a matter of fear? Maybe we - the non-homeless population - are afraid that if we look at a homeless person - really take the time to see them - that their homelessness - their dirtiness - their shame - their poverty - will rub off on us. Like homelessness is a disease one catches or something. Or maybe we are afraid that if we see the homeless, we'll be forced to do something about it. . . or worse. . .admit we can't. If I pretend you don't exist, then I'm not required to do anything, right? Yes, I believe this is the more likely scenario. People look away - refusing to see the homeless - because they fear having to do something about it. The fear, I think, is more about not knowing what to do then it is about having to do something. What is the solution? How do we as a society "fix" homelessness? Politicians, church leaders, social workers, advocates - many, many knowledgable - trained - people - have tried to find a solution, and failed. And if they can't fix the problem, how on earth can I? So I look away. I don't have an answer. I don't have a solution. I don't like to be reminded of my shortcomings, so I refuse to see you, Mr. Homeless Person. I want to sleep well at night in my big comfy bed in my toasty warm house - without guilt. And how can I do that if I see you? Hey! Homeless People! You hit a nerve in me! But not because I am afraid of you. I'm not. I'm afraid of failure. I'm afraid of my inability to find a solution. I'm afraid of not having control. I'm afraid of the unknown. It's easier to look away - pretend you don't exist - then it is to face my own fears. I fear I have failed you, Mr. Homeless Person. In fact, I know I have. I am so incredibly sorry. What can I do to fix this wrong? Maybe a place to start is on the curb, by your side, like your little dog. . . fully seeing you.

Like Jesus Did

Jesus, the way I understand him, was a really cool cat. The coolest really. Long haired, hippy freak type who probably would have voted to legalize marijuana, legalize gay marriage, open up the borders, abolish the death penalty, increase the minimum wage, and encourage educators to teach world religion and evolution in the same classroom. He lived for inclusion. He lived for relationship with others. Relationship, connectedness with people, was like air or water for him - a necessity. But not for himself. No, he was a truly selfless human. He sought out others for them for their needs. He wanted the best for others. Never was he judgmental. Any advice he gave about thoughts or feelings or behaviors, was for the benefit of others and not for himself. He met folks wherever they happened to be in their life and loved them just as they were. He didn't say, "change this, change that and then I'll love you". Nope. He just loved unconditionally. That's really hard to do by the way. Don't we all have expectations or requirements where others are concerned? Don't we all have preconceived notions or ideas about how others should look or dress or act or think? And when folks don't live up to those expectations, don't we dismiss them, walk away or let them be? All the while thinking. . . I can't, I won't love you. You just don't measure up! You're just not what I need in my life the way you are. Not Jesus. He wasn't that way. Not in the least. He sought out the sickest, the wicked, the evil, the lost and broken and said, "hey, friend, yeah you, you are special, you are unique, you are one of a kind and I need relationship with you". Can you imagine? Can you imagine someone needing you. . . just the way you are. . . all the good and all the bad. . . not asking you to conform or change in any way? Just be you and let me love you as you are. Pure, real, unconditional lover of souls - all souls. That's who Jesus was. That's who Jesus is. He was and is love. A little scary, huh? This man loved us - all of us - without condition - and then he laid down his life for us. It's hard to accept that we can receive pure love - no strings attached - because our human (fallible) minds convince us that we aren't worthy. Our human-ness stands in the way. Our flawed thinking convinces us that the world isn't capable of giving or receiving such an unassuming, amazing love. Only God - the one perfect being - is capable of such a love. Or so we tell ourselves. But human Jesus was capable. And if he was capable, then why aren't we? Or are we? Maybe if we all seek relationship with others for others - putting their needs ahead of our own - we could learn to love a pure and selfless love. . . like Jesus did.

Cling to the Good

"Cling to what is good". I read that on the back of a baptist church "love" card. So what's a baptist church "love" card? They are these business-style cards that have Bible quotes and other special messages printed on them instead of your standard name, title, address, phone number, e-mail address and whatnot. Really a very "good" idea if you ask me. An inexpensive, simple way for the church to get God's message out to the general public. While many folks might be reluctant to sit down and read big ol' chunks of the Bible, they might be open to the idea of accepting a small business card and then reading the message printed upon it. I was anyway, and that's how I happened to come across "cling to what is good." So what is "good" exactly? I suppose it is a relative term when you really get right down to it. Good for me might not be good for the guy next door, right? I mean cashews and walnuts might taste yummy, satiate my body, smell heavenly and feel like the perfect sized food in the palm of my hand, but they might kill by best friend who happens to suffer from a nut allergy. Yeah, so "good" in the particular really must be a relative term or idea. But what about in a broader sense? What if I said, "food is good" instead of "walnuts are good"? I'd probably be hard pressed to find someone who would disagree with the categorization that food is good. So in a broad, general sense, what is "good"? Babies, puppies and kittens, and the sun and the moon and the stars, and the rain and the wind and the air that we breathe, and books and movies and songs, and new clothes and hair-cuts and a night on the town, and dancing and playing and love-making, and creativity and thinking and communicating, and a joke and a job and ______. You fill in the blank. Go ahead. I'm sure you can think of a thing or two or ten or twenty that I've failed to mention. But more than that - more than all the things I've listed or the things you may have added - love and family and friends and connectedness and belonging and safety and stability and relationship and compassion and understanding and feeling whole and complete and fulfilled - that's good. Cling to that! Cling to yourself. Cling to others. Cling to the God of your understanding. Cling to that which makes you feel and believe and know that you are good. Because you are! We all are! There is goodness in each and every one of us. While we might not always do good things, say good things, think good thoughts, or feel good feelings, we are still - at our very core - good. I believe God made us "good", because He is incapable of imperfection. Robbers, rapists, murderers, child molesters, yes, even Hitler, did horrific things. They sat God's "good" aside in order to do evil. That does not mean, however, that they - as flesh and bone - were not good. It just means they got lost. Some for an instant, others for much longer. If humanity as a whole could work toward finding the good - in ourselves as well as others - we could cling to it and eradicate that which is not good: poverty, war, homelessness, ignorance, selfishness, hatred, hunger, disease, greed and _____. You fill in the blank. Go ahead. Think on it. Sleep on it. And when you are ready, fill in the blank. Strive then, daily, to cling to the good, which will eliminate the _____. Peace.

Barbie and Me and the Grain Elevators

Walking down the hall at work today, a young "20-something" with the body of a Barbie Doll who was wearing a short, swishy but ass-hugging skirt held a door open for me and urged me to pass through. As she held the door and I walked through, I couldn't help but notice, mostly because of the mouth-watering appetite-producing aroma, the plate of food she held in her free hand. Piled on top of her 1/2 lb. cheeseburger with the works, were the yummiest looking salty, greasy golden brown french fries I've seen in some time. At my age, I really don't eat many french fries these day cause they have a way of becoming a permanent part of my stomach, ass, thighs and arms. Anyway, the fries looked and smelled better then any food has a right to. As I passed by Anorexic Annie, who was posing as Bulimic Betty - or maybe I have that wrong - maybe she was Bulimic Betty posing as Anorexic Annie - I couldn't help but wonder if she saw me as old. Was she holding that door open for me because she was respecting her elders? Did she view me as so broken down and decrepit that she believed me incapable of holding my own door open? After all, both my hands were free. Shouldn't it have been me who held the door for her? She did have her hands - or at least one of her hands - full of food, so it would have seemed more appropriate for me to hold the door for her. But that didn't happen and I can't help but to wonder why. In my head, I'm "20-something" too. Always have been, always will be. But my body must be some other age. Technically, I think it's 51 - or so I'm told. Doesn't happen often, but ever once in awhile I have this thought about age. Usually prompted by something someone else does or says. Today was one of those days. The action of another person made me have a thought. A thought that I'm not immortal. I am aging. My days on this planet are limited - more so now then ever before. Even as I write this, I've lost time and am closer to death then I was a second ago. Ugh. I remember starting with my company 25 years ago. Young and alive with no sense of time or age at all. Well at least not where I was concerned. I saw age only in others - people older then myself. And I still do that. Many of the folks who worked for my company the day I started are still there. And they are still older then me. So most of the time, I see age only when I'm in the company of one of them. Now it's happening. There are more "20-somethings" then there are "50-somethings" in my office, and it's causing me to become more and more aware that time is not on my side. My boobs are sagging, my skin is losing elasticity, I'm developing a turkey neck, the color of my eyes are dulling, I have age spots on my hands that darken with each passing year, my bladder is weaker causing me to have to pee all the time, I don't sleep soundly at night - I'm typically up 2 or 3 times a night, my bones are starting to pain me on a regular - frequent - basis, my memory is starting to fail me, and now, for the first time ever, I question who I am. I don't really know. How strange. If you had asked me at 21 who I was, I could have told you in a heartbeat! And now at 51, I really don't know. I don't know from where I came and I don't know where I'm going. And most of the time, I don't know what I'm doing or why. Ugh! Driving home from work tonight, I saw it. Something I never thought I'd see. They - whoever "they" are - have started tearing down my childhood. Ok, ok, not my childhood exactly - but something from my childhood. I was born in the quaint lil town of North Kansas City in a small area hospital. Just down the street were grain elevators. Each time I pass through North Kansas City, I see those grain elevators and they bring back all kinds of memories. Some sad, but most are good. They are memories mostly of my youth - fun times, good times - back in the day when I played and laughed and grew boobs and knew exactly who I was and where I was going. And today on my way home, the grain elevators were gone. Demolished. Torn down. Fallen into a big ol’ heap of rubble. I almost cried. As goes the grain elevators, so go I. Maybe not today, but soon.

Comforting Moon

I remember the tiny little bed in an attic I believe. Lying there that night, looking out the window at the big, shiny moon and wondering where you were. Where was my mama? Where was my papa? Who were these people that owned the bed in the attic that had a window that had a moon? Had you given me away? Didn't you love me anymore? Why? What had I done? What hadn't I done? Wasn't I good? Didn't I behave? I tried really hard. Wasn't my hard good enough? Would I ever see you again? Did you miss me too? Would the sun rise tomorrow or was this the end of time? These and so many more were questions that plauged my mind that night. I was three. One of my earliest memories. Being alone. All alone. And not knowing why. No understanding. One day I was happy at home with my mama and daddy. The next I was in a strange place with strange people thinking strange thoughts that had never occurred to me before. Like all children, I'm sure, my mother and father were my rock, my foundation, my life. They were the people I turned to for everything. They had all the answers. They kept me safe. Nothing bad could ever happen so long as they were there. No monsters in the closet. No boogie man under the bed. Then it happened. They were gone. I didn't know where they were. I didn't know why they left - or left me. I didn't know if they were coming back. And for the first time in my short life, I came to understand that I wasn't safe. I was alone. It was just me in the world. I couldn't trust or depend on anyone if I couldn't trust and depend on my mother and father. What would I do? Where would I go? What would become of me? These questions kept me up that night as I lay in that bed looking at that big ol moon. Fear. I felt it. It was real. It was consuming. It was terrorizing. But somehow the moon saved me. It gave me comfort. I had seen it before. It was familiar in that place of strange. It got me through the night. And to this day, when I look at the moon, there is a peace that fills me with a knowing that everything is gonna be ok. . . somehow.