Same As It Ever Was

Sarah Blackhorn was one I never met, but I heard about her at bubble bath time.  He would lean back in the tub and tell me tales from his youth, their summer camp experiences.  She had long blond curls. He would look at me after being lost in a reverie of this sort and say, "You had those blond curls then, didn't you?"  Suddenly I had morphed into the Sarah Blackhorn of those humid, childhood July days.  When I looked into his eyes they sought reassurance of my identity, my identity as Sarah.  The same happened to a lesser degree with Beauty in, "Beauty and the Beast."  And with the ceratops dinosaur in the CD he liked to listen to, "Far, Far Away." Everywhere we went in his inner world it was glorious, it was shining and golden similar to the childhood I had had-- and could reclaim through his reveries. The Zyprexa he took tamped down his desires, the excessive ones, but not the ramblings I was privy to.  As the Zyprexa entered his system his posture would change, he would bend at the knees and lean forward, making his balance precarious. He is now receiving physical therapy for this side effect in balance.  Then as now he would put his face inches from mine and sing a Disney princess song, or high school musical, he had all of them memorized.  I was fresh meat, his mother candidly said, and I could agree, as he belted the lyrics out inches from my face.  The swing out back was another one of his spots.  He pumped his legs, went high then low and back again.  Sometimes his hands would blister from clutching the chains but more often now his palms just calloused up all the more. His face was tanned from hours and hours of swinging in the sun and the wind.  Never in the rain but any other weather condition and you could find him there.

He is 29 now.  He almost died 5 years ago or so.  An abusive staff hitting on him when no one knew and he did not tell.  His appetite became depressed, his capacity to engage and express.  He became explosive and tried to dive out of a moving car.  At the psych hospital they gave  him a boatload of meds to halt his destructive behavior. It halted--everything. He next was crawling on the floor, had regressed to a person he had never been.  It took years of the right staff with good food, encouragement and a loving family to bring him back. The right meds, not too many but the right ones properly prescribed. The father had shouted, "My son is not to be a science experiment!" It was a dark time, as he became skinnier and skinnier, with some frantic, flicking movements and restlessness that has now all but disappeared.

Days, months, years passed.  I thought about him often but was afraid to call. Frankly, I was afraid he was dead.  Finally, I called, around Easter, the beginning of spring.  His mother answered, said he was fine, had fully recovered. He was now supported by Judevine and all was truly going well.  She invited me to his home.

When I came in the front door, he was asking staff for dinner seconds. His appetite had clearly returned.  Then he turned and, recognizing me, said, "Sarah!  Where have you been? " and before I could answer, he was belting out Disney songs inches from my face. Same as it ever was.            

Stabat Mater Dolorosa

It all started over a decade ago.  I didn't understand what mental illness is.  How it dips and dives and screeches back into hiding under the guise of normality.  I learned about it first and foremost through one woman. She was large-boned, had an impressive voice that reverberated in the house's walls.  Don't get me wrong, there were harmonious scenes of domesticity.  One day she would ask for pancakes, another for an omelette.  Support staff would wheel her up to the breakfast table. Yet nothing would stay steady for long.  With no warning she'd fall into a funk and yell insults at her housemates.  The room would clear. Some nights she'd call your name in her insomnia hallucinations.  She had other illnesses which complicated her health: diabetes 2, arthritis, congestive heart failure.  But  nothing as random nor as vindictive as these mood swings, sometimes spilling over into "psychotic episodes." Once, an experienced staff said the night had gone something like out of the movie "The Exorcist," various husky voices and head spinning?  I didn't ask. So into the psych hospital she'd go.  And out again, with yet another regime of medications to settle things.  What is it about this beast of mental illness, coming at her like a bull might a young 11 year old girl in a country field, without warning, on a gorgeous May Spring day? And then there is the underbelly of this beast.  It was said among staff who knew her from long ago,  that her mother, still a devout Catholic, drank heavily in her youth.  And when she was pregnant she drank.  So was her mother's indulgences the source of her compromised state?  Or was that mere rumor.  I don't know.  Yet, when I knew her she had periods of enjoying manicures, meals in restaurants, joking with another young woman who bantered with her about desire and handsome men. She flattered me when she genuinely raved about my salads. But I'll never forget the first time of many times she relapsed, that her meds dropped suddenly below the horizon and she was left with this beast.  I cried at her bedside as the hours passed and the hospital took her off her meds, only to rebuild her during the following days.  I had yet to understand how a phoenix could rise from the ashes, repeatedly, as she inevitably did.  One precious moment stands out in my mind, however.  We were in her van, going somewhere, and she was singing along to a popular tune.  For the moment her singing voice conveyed she knew exactly what the song meant, what the world still mute could not know or say about her. It was airy, it was pure; she had entirely risen above her body's plight.  Ironic, then or blessed as some would say, that she died quietly in her sleep one night, with nothing foreboding predicting her departure.            

On an Airplane Headed to Nashville by Kathryn Grundy

Dr. Chmiel
I am wordless. I finally finished your book. In one sitting, on an airplane headed to Nashville. I can’t believe I didn’t read it sooner. I wish I was more like Tanya, but I don’t always know how to be. Clinging to academics is my safety net, even when I thought I was leaving it behind, I find myself in law school forgetting why I chose a different path and once again allowing myself to pursue the comfort and madness of perfect grades and honors, which mindlessly gauge “where I should be”…whatever that means. I don’t mean to talk about myself; I’m just so sorry I didn’t read this sooner, and at the same time I’m so happy to have found it tonight. It was so beautiful. And it made me feel, and feel alive, like I haven’t in felt in a long time. I feel disponibilidade. This is some of the best writing, the best poetry. The depth and soul of your writing soars in this form… I mean this is seriously page-turning and profound. I know I will read it many more times. I just want to say thank you so much for bringing this into the world. You’ve given me a lot to think about.

–Text from Kathryn Grundy, law student at Vanderbilt

Kathryn was a student of mine at SLU in 2010.

1/31/16 from a writing of 1/18/16 in response to TNH/Christ and Buddhism

Always I have been struck, like whacked in the forehead, hard, by the gospel of Thomas.  It is so direct, so simply confounding enigmatic, full of lines of beauty and no-nonsense.  We are called on to be  WHO WE ARE.  We become not be listening to the words spoken from a pulpit, not by listening to someone else's interpretations, but by coming to be in ourselves.

But it does NOT sound sweet - it sounds daunting: 'when he seeks, he finds, and when he finds he shall be amazed and will come to transcend all things.'

I have been curious as to what it would be like to know 'my original face'.  It would be both troubling and amazing and I can only imagine that it could be found through meditation, stillness and being present.  And it would lead to transcendence - because I believe from my small experience in finding myself, I could find others also.  I would see how we are all one, all creation being one from the stars to the smallest amoeba, composed of the same elements.  Now I only know that with my head -  if I knew my 'original face' I would know it conclusively and with my whole being.

If you skip the synoptic gospels and go to the gnostic gospels, the feel is entirely different.  And who picked one over the other and why?  The gnostic gospels seem more related to Buddhism (to my understanding of Buddhism at any rate) the ideas found in both concerning knowing yourself and finding yourself within.  The kingdom of heaven is within you, not in the myriad rules and regulations of Catholicism or Judism.  Christ came to do away with the old law and instead 'they' took his 'unlaws' and made mountains of books upon books of new laws which have nothing to do with what I see as true Christianity which is compassion and care for others.  How did we get from the Sermon on the Mount to the Inquisition, to the Roman Curia?

My atheist friend would say - greed and power.  The fine hairs split finer and finer, a ritual performed in a language no one understood, the matter of mortal sin and hell.  I understand that Gurdjieff said that with our level of consciousness, we aren't even candidates for hell!We are not that conscious enough for that capacity of evil.

But then, (ah ha!!) might I make the wrong decision?  throw the baby out with the bathwater?  But I don't believe so.  My education leaves me too guilt-ridden for that to occur!

Affirmation

My affirmation will be over a student that I have known since I was young but now have gotten closer to this semester. Alex Waggoner and me used to wrestle on the same team back in middle school. My dad coached him for a few matches and he showed promise as a good wrestler. Now after watching him through high school and his college matches I finally see how hard of a worker Alex is. I see him come home do all his homework non stop until it's all done. He is a nose to the grindstone kind of guy and I am inspired by his work ethic. He is a very home oriented person, he definitely loves his family and loves to be back in Desoto. This makes me want to be closer to my family because seeing that I'm not the only one who misses home. I Alex came to Maryville with two intentions, wrestle the best he can and get an education. He is a no nonsense guy and that is a hard quality to find these days, he will do whatever it takes to get the job done and I am happy to know a guy like Alex.

Giving Back

After experiencing the USEM I chose at the beginning of the semester I have learned and realized that I need to contribute to society. Back at my Highschool I always thought get through school get a job and get your life going. But now I realize that to be a true member of society, I need to help a fellow person. I need to experience charity and love and help other experience the same. I listened to Kristi talk about her trips to Haiti and her donations that she gives an it made me realize I need to do the same I need to help someone. Because that's part of life and the world will be such a better place if we all helped each other out.

Spring 2016

It's hard to believe that the Spring 2016 semester starts on this Tuesday the 19th. I can't believe that winter break is almost over. It always amazes me how fast time seems to fly by during break. It really doesn't feel like I was on break for almost 5 weeks. It seems like it was only a week or so ago when I came home from school after my last day of finals. I was looking forward to a little more than a month off from school. Now I'm trying to get everything packed and ready for school next week.

       It seems to me that time flies by during school as well. Last semester went by really fast for me. It really doesn't seem like I was in school for the better part of 4 months, but I was. I was busy last semester, so I would say that's why it went by so fast. I'm sure the spring semester will fly by as well.
I've heard that time goes by faster and faster the older you get, and I’ve witnessed this happening the last several years. I remember being in eighth grade and thinking about going into high school. I thought about what my high school graduation wold be like, and it all seemed so far away. Now I'm thinking about this as a freshman in college, wondering where the time went.

      I also remember my junior and senior  year of high school quite vividly. I was stressed about the ACT and college applications during my junior year, and my senior year I took some challenging college classes. I’m only a freshmen in college, so it might seem strange for me to talk about my junior and senior year of high school feeling like it wasn't that long ago, because it really wasn’t, but it does seem like it all went by so fast.

Effects[edit]

Nations customarily measure the 'costs of war' in dollars, lost production, or the soldiers killed or wounded. Rarely do military establishments attempt to measure the costs of war in terms of individual human suffering. Psychiatric breakdown remains one of the most costly items of war when expressed in human terms.

— No More Heroes, Richard Gabriel^{[29] Wikipedia}

So there it was, March 20, 2003,  President Bush declared war on Iraq.

Everyone seemed jubilant.  Not me.

Like the newly blinded in my once familiar home
I fingered the wallpaper ripped by cat scratching
the swollen door from recent rains now ill-fit for the door jamb.
The pitch of the roof askew as if by recent earth shifts imagined but real and irreversible.

I walked down the short path to the car port.
I walked back.  I felt sick to my stomach because I knew young people would die.
I picked up the phone and cancelled an important job interview
with a bewildered interviewer.
He clearly didn't get it.

So then it started.  Thank you for your service.
Thank you for

I couldn't say it then, I can't now. So I threw up.

There was the student who disappeared
during the Gulf War.  He said he always knew he was a warrior.
There was the young mother at the CSUSB Victorville campus
her husband overseas, she writing sterling essays about
I can't recall.  I fantasized about moving in with her until
if he returned.

Later it got worse.  Or better. Many military returned
cashing in their educational benefits.  Invisible scars
still there, they told of exotic places, funny now-not-then tales.
There was the sweet one with the TBI and the fleshy white scar on his brow;
the young mother at the pool removing both prosthetic legs
now, a water strider, she floated right along with her two kids.

I wait for it to end for the cortisol to stop churning in my gut
For all collectively en masse to IMAGINE
as one famous musician so valiantly put forth
a different alternative.

Meanwhile the "saber rattling" continues.
I wonder what Gandhi or Martin Luther King, Jr.
would say to this madness.
The military who are lucky enough to return stand tall
on the shoulders of an invisible population.
"Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori."
Can it keep churning out of control like this.
Can I find a way to thank you for
thank you            for?            thank
you?       thank....    
----- think for ourselves at last.      

Sitting with the Old Ones

Winter comes, harsh and searing
Nevertheless 
With a fierce beauty.

I see that ridge along their
Backs a mule, a dachshund.
No amount of roasted chicken for one
And expensive grain and additives for the other
Will camouflage the diminishing flesh
As their back spines rise with age but defiance.

"Look here! These spines carried wonder while
Rooting in the earth and riders to and fro
Pursuing their dreams. " 

I hear their defense.

Slowly my hand behind me fingers my
Back. Startled? Relieved 
My flesh
pulls back, too, as if to hoist forward
My aging, brilliant self.