tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-40001978255482421272024-02-07T02:16:59.336-08:00Leslie's IllusionsHealing from child abuse is like the scariest roller coaster you ever saw. Come sit with me, and we'll scream together! Raise your hands, here we go!!!Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897067084988651970noreply@blogger.comBlogger190125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4000197825548242127.post-89950517315491334692013-04-11T15:14:00.001-07:002013-04-11T15:14:58.759-07:00Growing Pains aka Today is Moving Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnDsm5Ge7GpI5XkcBZlPcdkTUWDFCxceiGGyz6m_srKWSsm2oJBkrNMN39D5wNeixhfH5eCG6rbpQhfH8Qcue2ejFK9XRtyXkRy1_RI6zcvd8oFQrttOmWS5k-_En6IZAEQBslNPoLeq8/s1600/johnny+dodd+pdp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnDsm5Ge7GpI5XkcBZlPcdkTUWDFCxceiGGyz6m_srKWSsm2oJBkrNMN39D5wNeixhfH5eCG6rbpQhfH8Qcue2ejFK9XRtyXkRy1_RI6zcvd8oFQrttOmWS5k-_En6IZAEQBslNPoLeq8/s320/johnny+dodd+pdp.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Today is a big day! <br />
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I've moved the blog. It was scary and exciting at the same time. Blogger has been my blog home for several years now, and it has been great. I would still recommend blogger to someone new to blogging.<br />
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But it's time to spread my wings, so to speak.<br />
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You can read future posts....and the old posts too (everything was moved, even the comments! Phew, I did it!...it wasn't really a big deal, but I didn't know that until I did it!) at....<br />
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http://lesliegnelson.com<br />
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Heh, heh, yes...my own name...it's part of my platform building for my book...so wish me luck! or break a leg or something! :)<br />
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Come on over, and check out the new "digs". If you get updates by mail, you can do that at the new site also. If you read it in a reader, then you will need to change the addy in your reader. I will still post updates at facebook and google plus! I don't want anyone to get left behind, so come on over!!!Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897067084988651970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4000197825548242127.post-7048195706206191302013-04-08T04:55:00.000-07:002013-04-08T04:55:32.764-07:00Monday Mitzvahs: Little Things Mean a Lot<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt75yNpLbor4y2yfoSz6ll3bQbYFY3rSVwevKgn6exv6zjqWEOGriuyEZGKkm9_WBDDiyUKxFi-n9nLktc8TR1Da5pb6TTNLyuDk186cCP3ex2w1kC6Cd1O_FKzRYNXDuqoPuEUoMjoZA/s1600/verakratochvil.pdp1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt75yNpLbor4y2yfoSz6ll3bQbYFY3rSVwevKgn6exv6zjqWEOGriuyEZGKkm9_WBDDiyUKxFi-n9nLktc8TR1Da5pb6TTNLyuDk186cCP3ex2w1kC6Cd1O_FKzRYNXDuqoPuEUoMjoZA/s320/verakratochvil.pdp1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vera Kratochvil</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Years ago, I worked for one of the Sheraton resorts during a
time when they were working on getting their “fifth star” (a prestigious hotel rating). They had a motto, “little things mean a lot”. As a hotel operator, it mean going the extra
mile, being as polite as possible, and smiling.
They say you can hear a smile through the phone (do you think that is
true?).<br />
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Honestly, that was one of my favorite jobs, I really enjoyed
it. The phrase “little things mean a lot”
has stuck with me over the years because it is so true…for individuals as well
as resorts. Recently, I posted about how
inspired I was by Linda Cohen’s experience and book 1,000 Mitzvahs. She challenged others to try it…1,000 acts of
service. I decided to take up her
challenge and invited you to join me.
Some of you did, thank you! For
you this blog post is a reminder. Some
of you haven’t taken the challenge yet and I imagine that it is because you are
thinking that you don’t have enough time to take on one more thing. If that is the case, then I have good news
for you…acts of kindness do not have to be big, or time consuming to bless
lives (YOURS and the person you help!)
This challenge is particularly for my fellow survivors, it may be hard
to believe now, but doing small acts of kindness is healing. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The hardest thing for me so far is asking myself, can I
really count that? I have a journal
where I am keeping track of my Mitzvahs…simply to keep track so I will know
when I have reached 1000…and to keep me from forgetting my goal. The latter being the more important!</div>
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Here is an example. I
have decided it counts. Linda talks
about debating with her husband about whether changing a roll of toilet paper in
a public bathroom counted, and they decided it did! You can read about it in her book. Here’s my “roll of toilet paper” moment.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My daughter and I went to the store, and we got a cart
because we planned to pick up several things.
Our first stop was looking at some fabric. While we were trying to decide, an older
gentleman, with his arms full of items stopped and said, “Hey can I have this
cart you aren’t using?” <o:p></o:p></div>
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My first thought was, “I AM going to use it.” But then I smiled and said, “Of course, I was
just saving it for you.” Later as my
daughter and I were walking to the register with OUR arms full, I told her, “I
should have kept the cart and told him ‘Go away, we don’t talk to strangers!’”….she
gave me that “you’re weird Mom” look that teenagers are well known for because she knew I didn't mean it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The truth of it is giving that gentleman my cart (that I did
in fact need myself) gave me such a great feeling. It was a little thing for me to do…a really
little thing, but it made me feel good. Give it a try. Today
try and do a <s>small </s>tiny act of kindness for someone else. Something so small you wonder if it really
even counts, and see if it doesn’t bring a smile to your face!<br />
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_________________________________<br />
Photo attribution: <a href="http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=11830&picture=hearts-on-pebbles">Vera Kratochvil</a><br />
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Monday Mitzvahs was inspired by Linda Cohen and her book <i>1000 Mitzvahs</i>. You can learn more about her <a href="https://www.facebook.com/1000mitzvahs">here</a> on facebook. Or read her book!</div>
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Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897067084988651970noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4000197825548242127.post-85842599933009894242013-03-31T05:30:00.000-07:002013-03-31T06:14:00.000-07:00Easter: He knows our Shame<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMSJ-n46jrY34wdwUxXP-OkrG2hZOqNHvuULoFAtnBLxBR-0c0nr32rafQpP4an6An2FDbE2HEAXF1b0O4WN75hJFJAJ4t0HSJ4GUT105qwpr65ZizQLLlTJKoH7ohO2tiTR0buL26iYY/s1600/Lucy+Toner+pdp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMSJ-n46jrY34wdwUxXP-OkrG2hZOqNHvuULoFAtnBLxBR-0c0nr32rafQpP4an6An2FDbE2HEAXF1b0O4WN75hJFJAJ4t0HSJ4GUT105qwpr65ZizQLLlTJKoH7ohO2tiTR0buL26iYY/s400/Lucy+Toner+pdp.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lucy Toner</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
One of the many difficult things survivors deal with is an overwhelming sense of shame. I remember well how it crept into my life, like a horrible disease that begins with symptoms that are almost unnoticeable, then grows in severity until it becomes crippling.<br />
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I fought it. Know that I did. I didn't go down without a fight, but while my logical and surface part of my mind told me "what happened was not your fault", my emotional and much deeper rooted belief was that it was. It happened because I was bad.<br />
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One day I was asked to substitute in one of the children's classes at church, the 4 yr olds. I panicked. I felt too unclean, too ashamed to be with those sweet little children and talk to them about the things of God. I felt I had no right to speak of such things. I was startled by this, but powerless to overcome it. <br />
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Then I was asked to give a prayer in a meeting...something I had previously enjoyed. I couldn't do it. I was embarrassed to say no, but I would have been even more ashamed if I had said yes. How could I speak to God on behalf of the group? I couldn't.<br />
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I stopped sharing comments in classes. I had previously loved teaching, or giving a talk, but I could do none of them anymore. What felt like the greatest blow was when I went to <a href="http://www.ldschurchtemples.com/about/">the temple</a>. The temple had always been a place of peace and comfort to me, but no more. While I was in the temple, I felt miserable, ashamed, unworthy. The pain was terrible. I tried again another time with the same result. My peace was taken from me.<br />
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I am doing better now. I have begun to pray in church again, and well who knows...perhaps soon I will feel ready to speak or teach again. I am thinking of going to the temple soon...it has been a few years, maybe it is time. I hope it is.<br />
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The reason I am sharing this today...of all days...Easter...is for my fellow survivors. I know your shame and your pain. I know that telling you it is not your fault will not be enough to make it go away. But I want you to know, that the Savior understands our shame. He can help us, and we can turn to Him because He knows.<br />
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Philosophers throughout the ages have asked "why does God allow bad things to happen to good people". I have asked that question myself, as a deeply personal question, not a philosophical one. I don't know the answer, but I find comfort in knowing that Christ suffered too, so that He could help us with our pain.<br />
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He chose to come to earth during the time of the Roman rule. He chose to be born in poor circumstances. He chose to associate with people who were outcasts, the lepers, the sinners, the tax collectors. And when it was time for His death, He allowed Himself to be killed in the most shameful way the Romans could think of.<br />
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The usual Jewish form of capitol punishment was stoning. Pilate seems to have given them permission to do this, and yet that would not appease them. They sought for crucifixion precisely because it was shameful. Even the Romans did not use it for their "good" citizens. It was reserved for slaves, and the most base criminals.<br />
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They always chose to do crucifixions in public areas, like well traveled roads, so that people would see those who were being crucified, see them there naked. Romans disrobed the people being crucified and attached them to crosses like animals, intentionally, they wanted the experience to be dehumanizing. And all this in addition to the physical horrors. No one deserves that sort of death, but especially not Christ, who had spent his life serving others, teaching, healing and uplifting, and yet there He was. Innocent and treated with shame. We, survivors, are too often weighed down by a shame we don't deserve. Christ understands. He has conquered death, and overcome shame. He can help us do the same.<br />
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Photo Attribution: <a href="http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=33574&picture=three-crosses-on-a-hill">Lucy Toner</a>Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897067084988651970noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4000197825548242127.post-75967424554797198262013-03-28T10:48:00.000-07:002013-03-28T17:25:35.834-07:00Letter to the Editor: "...could not cope"Marilyn VanDerbur, author of Miss America By Day, is one of my heroes. She is an incest survivor, and she encourages other survivors to speak up and write letters to magazines and newspapers about this issue particularly when things are said that are incorrect or hurtful. I am taking her advice to heart and learning to speak up in a new way. Another survivor friend, suggested that I share this on my blog because people besides the Editors could benefit from it. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsgQtAZCFJJSZXCTCn6loFyBXJfDGpdd1lrgGFtlUGNW1wJjCglNzE5qz3_Imm26SxhM5Ja0dOCPszyau0ba4A-aMhqTOsR5ho9pR0S6cybU0QL91DCRhccwi_sAwHC7A3HgZRU7eV280/s1600/petr+kratochvil+pdp3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsgQtAZCFJJSZXCTCn6loFyBXJfDGpdd1lrgGFtlUGNW1wJjCglNzE5qz3_Imm26SxhM5Ja0dOCPszyau0ba4A-aMhqTOsR5ho9pR0S6cybU0QL91DCRhccwi_sAwHC7A3HgZRU7eV280/s320/petr+kratochvil+pdp3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Petr Kratochvil</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Dear Editors,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm writing to you because of something I read in the (magazine name redacted) that troubled me. I understand that it was not the intention of the author to give offense, nor of the editors. However, words can sometimes speak what is in our hearts, more than we had intended. It is my hope that discussing this will help avoid this sort of painful error in the future.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Recently, I opened the current issue and saw an article on the Atonement. I am currently working to heal from the impact of childhood abuse, and so with high hopes I started reading that article first. I was felt as if I had been slapped when I read the author's' words: "As a child she had often been abused, and this had led to years of therapy—and at times institutionalization—because she could not cope." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The dictionary defines cope as "deal effectively with something difficult." The implication appears to be that if someone cannot cope, it is because they are weak, or deficient. I considered that I was being overly sensitive and so asked a group of friends to fill in the blank, "He _______ because he could not cope." The answers were things like: self-medicated, drank, quit and prayed. As you can see, three of the four are negative coping mechanisms, which seems consistent with a negative connotation of the phrase "could not cope." Or in other words, supports the inference that the Survivor mentioned in the article was weak and deficient in some way. It is very common for survivors of childhood abuse to suffer from anxiety, depression, self-harm and suicidal ideation, which may led to years of therapy, and sometimes institutionalization. This is not because they are weak, or cannot cope. It is because the damage of abuse during ones formative years, and the pain of healing is so great. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It may seem at first that survivors of childhood abuse are overly sensitive and writing for or about them is a veritable minefield. Yet, I believe that if two things are understood, much pain and misunderstanding could be avoided. Those two things are: survivors need their pain validated, and they need to know that people care. For example, in the article, "could not cope" could have been worded, "because she suffered a great deal of pain". The later validates the pain, and gives a feeling of empathy from the writer.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Also potentially hurtful, are messages that emphasize forgiveness as the solution for the pain. Certainly forgiveness is important. However, before a survivor can forgive there is a lot of grieving and healing work that needs to be done. Cheiko Okasaki discussed this in her powerful talk, <i>Healing From Sexual Abuse</i>. Therefore, telling someone who is still healing to forgive is the equivalent to suggesting someone pray away cancer. It is just not that simple. Some survivors feel invalidated by the forgiveness message, and may also feel shamed by it. Shame is a very difficult thing for survivors to overcome, and being told to forgive may reinforce their idea that they are somehow inherently flawed as in, "If I had more faith I could forgive, so this proves I am bad and deserve this pain."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Thank you for your time and consideration. Survivors can heal with the Atonement, but it is a difficult journey and we need validation and support..</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Sincerely. . .</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">NOTE: I removed the names of the magazine, article and the author's name because I felt it appropriate to speak with them directly about the matter (a copy of this has been sent). But because some newspapers, and magazines print letters to the editor, I felt it would be appropriate to share here to help others understand this important issue. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">UPDATE: I received a response from the editor. I was not expecting one, so that was a pleasant surprise. The response was very kind and thoughtful. It was personal, not a form letter. It was very appreciated!!!</span></div>
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<a name='more'></a>Photo Attribution: <a href="http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=2028&picture=brown-egg-shell">Petr Kratochvil</a></div>
Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897067084988651970noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4000197825548242127.post-17177589135198834122013-03-12T19:20:00.002-07:002013-03-12T19:50:05.278-07:00Centering Prayer: Sabbath for the Mind<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbd2vHD4C5yCQ4sv_Oyp16e_Lx5WchyphenhyphenS8IImZ_LFK1a6w1Yoo2UxXAqEBVEaUhxnB99c1NlrH6ZWc8Nt6JiTCHl2MMG4evHTRRknsPwypkDJ6ExKG-F5nJLzXVYAb0CT0YCOMIzFs1kAw/s1600/verakratochvil.pdp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbd2vHD4C5yCQ4sv_Oyp16e_Lx5WchyphenhyphenS8IImZ_LFK1a6w1Yoo2UxXAqEBVEaUhxnB99c1NlrH6ZWc8Nt6JiTCHl2MMG4evHTRRknsPwypkDJ6ExKG-F5nJLzXVYAb0CT0YCOMIzFs1kAw/s320/verakratochvil.pdp.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vera Kratochvil</td></tr>
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It's been a month since I last posted about my foray into <a href="http://lesliesillusions.blogspot.com/2013/02/coming-home-through-centering-prayer.html">meditation and centering prayer</a>. Time to check in and report. <br />
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Yes, I am still doing it and yes, I still love it. I wish I could tell you it has gotten easier, but so far that is not the case. I try to spend some time meditating before I sleep and again when I wake up. <br />
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Meditating when I wake up can be tricky because I'm not a a morning person, so I'm often pushing "snooze" to many times and getting up late. But when I wake up and make time for Centering Prayer it is a wonderful way to start the day. It feels grounding, seriously like I am pushing my roots deep into the earth while simultaneously turning my face up to the sun...or The Son. It's lovely. <br />
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Meditating before I go to sleep is different. Usually my mind is churning and not necessarily with worry or concerns, but ideas and inspirations, questions, ponderings....trying to quiet it feels like standing in the eye of a tornado and asking the wind to stop. Part of the problem is sometimes I want to think about the inspirations instead of being quiet. During one such a time, I was trying to reassure myself that the "great ideas" would still be there later and would be better for having given my mind a rest (which, in hindsight, has proven to be true). It was then that I realized that meditating is like Sabbath for the mind. Resting your mind does help you feel renewed and refreshed later.<br />
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Grounding, and resting are wonderful, and if they were the only fruits of meditation, that would be enough to continue...but that is not all--no that is not all! (said in my best Dr. Seuss voice) The greatest benefit I have experienced so far is a partial realization of the hope that I mentioned in my last blog post about Centering Prayer...that feeling of coming home.<br />
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One of the hardest things for me in this journey of healing from abuse is the separation I have felt from God...its the <a href="http://lesliesillusions.blogspot.com/2013/02/the-jaws-of-hell.html">Jaws of Hell</a>, I tell you! There are many reasons for those jaws gapping after me--which I won't get into now--the point is that after practicing meditation I feel that gap closing. <br />
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Of course, I considered if I could be certain it is the meditation that is making this difference, or perhaps it was something else that I did...perhaps that something else was also inspired by the meditation. . . The conclusion is that I can't really say for sure, but I believe Centering Prayer is helping me Come Home again. I had forgotten how wonderful "home" feels.<br />
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Photo attribution <a href="http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=6295&picture=magnolia-flower">Vera Kratochvil</a>Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897067084988651970noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4000197825548242127.post-6537351477436593632013-03-04T06:53:00.000-08:002013-03-05T06:08:37.583-08:00The Mitzvah Challenge<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdNRu7fEZ_9fg7yp5HvU6kT5pOtUsoufC8F9yeEojOi_cVnmZ70jEo5bplJSpHH2QkXc9Ac8f2lZf84Hv5xCKizPIwRzE4J2M4nI7i5lf9tcXJnc7UZ4ZFy-PnbRP6O1S5n7XZS0ZgWbg/s1600/Petr+Kratochvil+pdp2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdNRu7fEZ_9fg7yp5HvU6kT5pOtUsoufC8F9yeEojOi_cVnmZ70jEo5bplJSpHH2QkXc9Ac8f2lZf84Hv5xCKizPIwRzE4J2M4nI7i5lf9tcXJnc7UZ4ZFy-PnbRP6O1S5n7XZS0ZgWbg/s320/Petr+Kratochvil+pdp2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo credit Petr Kratochvil</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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I have found that something really helpful for me is finding things that give me a sense of childlike wonder. I didn't get to experience that as much as I should have as a child, but I can experience it now. And it is very healing.<br />
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I experienced it recently at a Yo-yo contest that an acquaintence had told me about. Wowzer! They do some amazing things with yo-yo's these days. I sat there with my 6 yr old on my lap and whispered in his ear, "Look at that! It's like magic!" <br />
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From this experience, I decided that I wanted to be watchful for other events that might give me that sense of awe and childlike wonder. So I started looking on an "events calendar" on line. I discovered that this weekend Seattle University will be hosting a Book Festival on the Search for Meaning. Forty plus authors will be there, all authors of books related in some way to spirituality and religion. And it's free! <br />
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I knew immediately that this was something I wanted to do, and started browsing the speaker/author list. That is how I came across Linda Cohen and her wonderful book <u>1,000 Mitzvahs:How Small Acts of Kindness Can Heal, Inspire, and Change Your Life</u>.<br />
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When Linda Cohen's father died, she took a "spiritual sabbatical" from her home-based business. She decided to take some time to grieve and heal. Somewhere along the way, she decided to honor her father's memory by doing 1,000 Mitvahs. Her husband suggested she create a blog and write about it to help keep track. It took her two and half years, but she did it! The blog and the experience turned into a book. You can learn more about Linda, her blog, and her book at <a href="http://1000mitzvahs.org/">http://1000mitzvahs.org/</a><br />
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Immediately, I loved her idea of doing acts of kindness as part of her healing. Remember I mentioned in a previous blog post that one of my heroes is Admiral James Stockdale. He was a POW in Vietnam, and one of the things that so amazes me about him was how even as a POW he looked for ways to strengthen and uplift his fellow prisoners. I decided that if he could do that in his situation, then I could find ways to serve also even in the depths of my pain. I have tried to do that, and it does help.<br />
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So when I read in Linda's book (and heard in her TED talk) that she would love for this idea to catch on, for other people to "copy" it. I said, Ok. I'll do it! <br />
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I'm taking the challenge to do 1,000 Mitzvahs--acts of kindness, small or large. In the book, Linda shares a funny story about changing a roll of toilet paper in a public bathroom and a philosophical discussion that followed with her husband about whether or not that counted for the challenge. Her final Mitzvah was to help a local food bank by asking for 1,000 bags of food. They accomplished well over her goal. She was/is a busy mom. All of us are busy too...but if we count small acts of kindness like changing a roll of toilet paper, we can all find time to feel the joy that comes from helping others. <br />
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So what do you think? I have a journal that I am going to record my Mitzvahs in, but I'll update here periodically too. Who's with me?<br />
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Photo attribution/credit <a href="http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=20344&picture=water-drop-on-a-leaf">HERE</a>Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897067084988651970noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4000197825548242127.post-51721126562105903292013-02-22T18:01:00.000-08:002013-02-22T18:06:30.963-08:00True Confessions IIUh oh! There was no school this week, yay! But being away from my normal schedule (and weathering a bout of nasty stomach bug that plowed through my family. . .) I almost forgot to blog this week! Yikes, we can't have that! So I'm pulling a busy blogger trick and presenting you something from the archives...but to assuage my guilt (yes, I have guilt about everything), I will add something new.<br />
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You've heard stories about harried parents leaving a child behind right? I think we have all heard those and swore to ourselves that we would never do that--until we do. Well, I confess I have done it a couple times, sigh. It was usually just a matter of leaving one behind at a friend's house while loading up the others...but once, horror of horrors, I actually left my daughter at a stranger's house!<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTAw1qNxYLgJV_NMVFu1IvQeV4ZhKbqx9T4EEXWqZMmREkt0uwNOOX_nuSJ-OIuWj8tYmwmWolhh9D_6g32ogS-RYPGd5UYfMhppKTQ3s0h0fVRfFpcFr8Ye3KzNb3RYZUOsVZxAP3NYM/s1600/war+paint.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTAw1qNxYLgJV_NMVFu1IvQeV4ZhKbqx9T4EEXWqZMmREkt0uwNOOX_nuSJ-OIuWj8tYmwmWolhh9D_6g32ogS-RYPGd5UYfMhppKTQ3s0h0fVRfFpcFr8Ye3KzNb3RYZUOsVZxAP3NYM/s320/war+paint.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A post about "confessions" needs a fun picture. Isn't she adorable?</td></tr>
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That needs explanation, right? Here's what happened. She was 13, and had plans to spend some time with a girl, whose family our family was well acquainted with. The father was/is my husband's dentist. I knew the mom and other some of the children from our homeschool co-op. My daughter, Vienna, and my teenage boys were friends with the girl, Vienna was going to hang out with. So I felt very comfortable with Vienna spending time there.<br />
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The trouble resulted because neither Vienna or I had ever been to their house. Vienna googled their address, and I drove her over. I work graveyard shift and it was my bedtime, so I just drove her up to the house and waited while she went to the door and knocked. She was invited in and I drove away.<br />
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The battery on my cell phone was low so I turned it off to save energy for emergencies (like if I was in an accident and needed to call 911.) Meanwhile, Vienna had been invited into the house and told by the dad that "the girls are outside swimming". So Vienna went outside and found the girls...trouble was, she didn't know any of them! There was a misunderstanding, and she was at the wrong house. When she told them who she was trying to see, they said they got the same mix up with mail and packages all the time. <br />
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So she borrowed their phone and called me on my cell, which of course was turned off--for emergencies. Oh my. When I got home, my son met me in the driveway and told me that Vienna had called and explained the situation. I was mortified. I got the phone number and headed back to pick her up...a 15 minute drive. I was scared to death, and yet I was exhausted too. <br />
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Someday when I am on my death bed, Vienna will probably still tease me about our phone conversation. I asked her if she was alright, was she scared? I assured her I was on my way and then said, "I am so tired." <br />
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She says, "I was stranded at a stranger's house and your response is you're tired?!" <br />
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What can I say? One of my less stellar parenting moments all the way around!<br />
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Now, for my other confessions...I hope they bring you a smile...<br />
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I have gone to Dairy Queen, right after working out at the gym (I know, I know)<br />
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I love Jane Eyre but I'm bored by Jane Austen.<br />
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I would give a stranger the shirt off my back, but I wouldn't give my last piece of chocolate to my own child...<br />
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I have a thing for rogues...I particularly love Captain Jack.<br />
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I hate the color orange. My Bishop has an orange tie and everytime I see him sitting in front of the congregation wearing it, I just want to have Dart Practice!<br />
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Sometimes I listen to my music louder than my teenagers do. They are very embarassed by this...they say it wouldn't be so bad if I didn't do it while driving a mini-van...<br />
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Don't leave me hanging...share one of your embarrassing moments, or a confession. You'll feel better!Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897067084988651970noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4000197825548242127.post-5742412933464920902013-02-12T11:18:00.001-08:002013-02-12T11:22:47.487-08:00The Jaws of HellIt recently occured to me that of all the things I have talked about on my blog, during this healing journey, one thing I have not really talked about is how it has affected me spiritually. I have alluded to it a couple times, but never really discusseed it. I don't know why. It's not that I was intentionally holding back. Maybe it is just an unspoken feeling I have that one's relationship with God is a deeply personal thing. <br />
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Yes, that is likely what prevented me. It's kind of like this....a great piece of advice I received when I got married was: when you are upset with your spouse, don't talk to other people about it. The rational being that later his awesomeness (as you see it) later makes you inclined to forgive him, but your mother (or friend...), who doesn't see him as quite so adorable is less likely to forgive him. I guess in that same light, it was hard for me to talk about the difficulty I have been having with God, because I don't want to pass on my frustration to anyone else, and then have them not 'bounce back' when I do.<br />
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Fortunately though, my relationship with God was strong before all this healing stuff started, and though the relationship has been rocky, I am mending the wounds. In fairness, to myself, I must say, that DID has played a big part in the seperation I have felt from God. <br />
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I don't really want to get into that right now, suffice it to say, that some how, some part of me decided that the Spiritual aspect of myself was much too precious and too pure to be subjected to all the filth that was about to come forth. So the Spiritual One was whisked away to a far, far room of my Haunted Mind. It took me a long time to understand what had happened and why. Then to develop some inner co-operation to bring her back. I know that probably sounds really strange, but rather than thinking of it as strange, I hope you can see that it is actually a testament to the amazing power of the mind. <br />
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Perhaps, I will write more about that another day, but today it feels like a side-trip, so back to my main point. Even though I haven't really talked about the spiritual aspects of my healing here on the blog, I am writing a book about it. The book I have wished for to help me, but couldn't find. Good grief, as I write that it sounds maybe a bit egotistical, but here's hoping you know me better than that.<br />
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My intent is to help others navigate this rocky path any way that I can. That's all. So, the first chapter of the book is about the spiritual divide that has been part of the process for me and why it happened (aside from DID). The rest of the book is about healing that divide. The first chapter is tenatively called, "The Jaws of Hell" from Doctrine and Covenants section 122...". . .if even the jaws of Hell should gape after thee. . . (paraphrased because I am too impatient to look it up right now). <br />
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As I pondered and later researched "the jaws of Hell", I learned that the phrase has been used at least since medeival times, likely longer. It was very common in their art. I just have to show you a picture I found. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZaqqXI2QKnU36jOqD-vAk1SzZJNk8tELsTJ-1VLKsXvug-BYzgkQwwxJCeC9Lsv07adiXicjhJ1iNPUDCQF3DYb6yvUETpqkldAUIF4mzcxrSBmk7rS31pZaD6nowzVEFTGn1L31M8Y_-/s1600/TaymouthHoursHellmouth.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZaqqXI2QKnU36jOqD-vAk1SzZJNk8tELsTJ-1VLKsXvug-BYzgkQwwxJCeC9Lsv07adiXicjhJ1iNPUDCQF3DYb6yvUETpqkldAUIF4mzcxrSBmk7rS31pZaD6nowzVEFTGn1L31M8Y_-/s640/TaymouthHoursHellmouth.PNG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo Attribution: <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZaqqXI2QKnU36jOqD-vAk1SzZJNk8tELsTJ-1VLKsXvug-BYzgkQwwxJCeC9Lsv07adiXicjhJ1iNPUDCQF3DYb6yvUETpqkldAUIF4mzcxrSBmk7rS31pZaD6nowzVEFTGn1L31M8Y_-/s1600/TaymouthHoursHellmouth.PNG">HERE</a></td></tr>
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Isn't this picture great? I showed it to my daughter, Vienna, but she didn't share my enthusiasm. I don't get it. And yes, in case you were wondering, this whole blog post IS just so I could share this picture. I think it is perfect and I am wondering if I can get permission to put it in my book!<br />
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So can any of you reading this relate? If you would like to tell me about your "jaws of Hell" experience (meaning that you felt separated from God due to anger, shame, DID, or another reason). I would love to hear YOUR story. As always you can share here, or privately by sending me a PM to lesliesillusions at gmail.<br />
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Oh, and have I told you lately...thanks for reading and sharing this journey with me.Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897067084988651970noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4000197825548242127.post-19605620716852897112013-02-04T03:44:00.000-08:002013-02-04T04:52:47.384-08:00Coming Home through Centering Prayer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDCSrPPPiqTqnfgQUL5qo7OwBtAMlN6eGFlse0A6V-wp5MJP2_K2DI2pK7GwHV4ofiGhnNKSbc7rbohnCqOrCb7sSziD4s8bJ3lrqgOtNTft34PJiLLD43K78SKL1E2grEbNDGk-F1iO4/s1600/GeorgeHodan5pdp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDCSrPPPiqTqnfgQUL5qo7OwBtAMlN6eGFlse0A6V-wp5MJP2_K2DI2pK7GwHV4ofiGhnNKSbc7rbohnCqOrCb7sSziD4s8bJ3lrqgOtNTft34PJiLLD43K78SKL1E2grEbNDGk-F1iO4/s320/GeorgeHodan5pdp.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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The other day on the radio, I heard a country song-- STOP-- Side Bar -- my daughter is going through a brief country music phase (let's hope it's brief). So I blame her for my few moments of listening to a country music station. Bleh. Something good did come out of it though. <br />
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So, I heard a song about a woman visiting her childhood home. Some strangers now inhabited it, but she talked about the bedroom upstairs in the back where she did homework and learned to play the guitar, and her favorite dog that was buried under the big tree in the backyard. She expressed the need to come "home" because perhaps that would help heal the brokeness that had occured since she had left. I was touched by it. I thought it would be nice if I had a place I could go to, somewhere before I was "broken". <br />
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Yes, I still feel broken in so many ways. There is hope though. I had a really great month which included Christmas. Since my oldest son is 18 and looking forward to leaving home this summer, this was our last Christmas "as a family." I am grateful for that reprieve. The drawback, and I suppose in comparison it is a small price to pay, is the disappointment I felt at coming back to the pain. Still it did give me hope in a future where there is less pain and sorrow than this place I'm in now.<br />
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While I can't go "home" to some physical place with healing memories, I have found a few things that give me "coming home moments".<br />
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The first is contemplative or centering prayer. I'm LDS/Mormon so this has really not been a part of my faith tradition, but I see no conflict with it. Centering Prayer is a form of meditation with the goal of bringing oneself closer to God. I think of it as the "listening" portion of prayer. It is a mantra-based meditation. I'm really new to it, so likely not the best person to explain it, but I'll try anyway. If it peaks your interest, I'll share a couple resources at the end of this post.<br />
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First, I want to clarify, when I say "meditation", I don't mean deep thinking, I mean meditation in the Eastern sense of attemptling to clear your mind of thoughts and be still. I start with a short "traditional" prayer. Much like the way we begin church meetings with prayer. Then I sit quietly and focus on my breath and repeat with my breaths a "sacred word" that I have chosen. The "sacred word" is whatever you chose. At first I used, Atonement, because I wanted to emphasize being one with God again. Later another idea came to me and I am using that now. I want to keep my new word sacred, something that I only share with God, but you get the idea.<br />
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During Centering Prayer you try to keep your mind quiet. As you can imagine, that is difficult to do as thoughts creep in and before you know it, you are in the middle of a "mental paragaph" before you remember that you were meditating and return to focusing on your breath, and your sacred word. That's ok. I heard a story of a woman who went to a retreat for Centering Prayer. After one of the sessions, she approached the leader and expressed her feeling that she had failed because she got distracted about 80 times. He said, "How wonderful, 80 times of returning to God." <br />
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Father Thomas Keating who has taught and written books about Contemplative Prayer recommends two sessions a day, 20 minutes each. I have not been able to make that much time in my day yet. And in fact I don't dare. It is hard for me to sit quietly. Quite frankly, I am afraid of the repressed emotions that will use that time to come forward. This is not unique to me, Fr. Keating talks about this sort of thing happening in his seminar "Contemplative Prayer" (available on CDs). My therapist is encouraging of my meditation practice. He says if I can only start with 5 minutes at a time, that is fine. It's a start. And so I do.<br />
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So far, I have found it to be amazingly refreshing and soothing. So much so that when I am in public and I start to feel stress or anxiety, I will take a couple deep breaths and repeat the sacred word to myself and it helps. It is powerful, and it is more than relaxation. I have used relaxation techniques before that were helpful, but didn't affect me in this same way. It's hard to explain how it works, different people have different ideas about this. I will just share how I understand it. I believe that I lived with God before I came to earth, I don't remember it, but my Spirit does. When I meditate, I believe it is a way to connect with my Spirit, that part of me that remembers God. It is like reaching towards the Divine within myself and at the same time reaching toward Heavenly Father. <br />
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Another way I have found to come home is another form of meditation called Mindfullness. I feel even less adequate to explain it, except to say that we live much of our lives either thinking about the past, or the future, mindfulness is about being in the moment we are in. And again in a way that is difficult to fully explain, I find it very healing as well. Though I had been introduced to the idea before, my interest really began with a book by Geneen Roth called <u>Women, Food and God</u>. It has really been influential for me. Another proponent of this form of meditation is Jon Kabat-Zinn. He has a PhD and works with patients, teaching them mindfulness to help with chronic pain and stress reduction.<br />
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<u>Women, Food and God</u> is about compulsive eating, and Jon Kabat-Zinn uses it to help people with chronic pain. The Buddists and some Christians (myself included) use it as part of their spiritual practice. And so I wonder, is there any part of our lives meditation doesn't affect in postive ways? My experience so far is no. It is truly a form of coming home and working to heal the brokeness. <br />
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Here are some resources if you would like to learn more:<br />
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<u>Women, Food and God</u> by Geneen Roth I love this book. I found it immensely helpful and healing.<br />
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<u>Mormon Matters: The Kingdom of God is Within You</u>--http://mormonmatters.org/2012/12/17/144-145-the-kingdom-of-god-is-within-you-believing-it-trusting-it-accessing-it/ In this podcast Dan Wotherspoon interviews two LDS men who have a meditative practice. This podcast and Geneen Roth's book both resonated with me, partially because what they talk about is similar to things I have learned/experienced through therapy. <br />
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<u>Contemplative Prayer</u> by Thomas Keating is available on CD (I borrowed it from the library) It is an a recording of a Seminar he gave on the topic.<br />
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<u>Centering Prayer and Inner Awakening</u> by Cynthia Bourgeault I am reading this now, I haven't finished, but I am enjoying it so far.<br />
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Jon Kabat Zinn-- He has written so many books on Mindfulness it is hard to know where to begin, but he is next on my list of "must reads".<br />
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Photo Attribution: George Hodan again. I love his work. See more of it <a href="http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=29627&picture=home-energy">here</a>.Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897067084988651970noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4000197825548242127.post-32938895352590680442013-01-28T03:19:00.006-08:002013-01-28T03:19:54.194-08:00Living Outside the Bubble
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib1Vb1UQbkHRtNRfnCM_kae8ogu0zf6ixljWYHpVaLR0l1DOxGK0jJNhx9HGkVZWy58-EQcxoTttB5JbPxojE8MhveFHzdTUo-5avuvwJaJsTSfz-59It1bPAfCuaQ6z9P03PONZaueDg/s1600/georgeHodan+bubble+pdp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib1Vb1UQbkHRtNRfnCM_kae8ogu0zf6ixljWYHpVaLR0l1DOxGK0jJNhx9HGkVZWy58-EQcxoTttB5JbPxojE8MhveFHzdTUo-5avuvwJaJsTSfz-59It1bPAfCuaQ6z9P03PONZaueDg/s320/georgeHodan+bubble+pdp.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">George Hodan</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Once upon a
time, a friend of mine (it’s always a friend, right?) related this story to
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will tell it in her words as if,
you know, as if they were my own, but of course they aren't. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe this sister lives in your ward. . .</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">When Church
Hurts</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">On Sunday, I
went to Relief Society.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Something I do
tentatively because it is often painful for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I went because I wanted to feel like a “part of things”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Part of a larger group, you know?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During the lesson they talked about the
scripture, “mourning with those who mourn, and comforting those who stand in
need of comfort.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They shared stories of
how they had helped and been helped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I sat in the
back all alone and thought, “Wow, that sounds amazing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You are all so lucky to belong to a church
like that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wish I did.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The odd
thing is, we belong to the same church.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The last few years have been the most difficult of my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have mourned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have hurt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And I have never felt more alone.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I tried to
tell myself that it is just that they didn’t know…surely if they knew, things
would change.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I told them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told people personally and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wrote on my blog a few times
about how to help when you don’t know what to say. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And yet
nothing changed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still feel utterly
alone. In Relief Society, they still shared the same stories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They talked about how sometimes it is hard to know what to say or do…but
also talked about a situation where they had overcome that and done—something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">People tell
me, “we do care about you [Leslie’s anonymous friend], we just don’t know what
to say.”</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Well I don’t
know what to say either except--I don’t believe you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> For a couple years, I have said</span>, “I
just need to know that someone cares.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
want people to look me in the eye and say, ‘How are you?’ as if they were
really willing to listen.” </span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I have said
this over and over…and yet nothing changes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>So…yeah, sorry, I don’t believe you.</span></span></div>
<div style="border-color: currentColor currentColor windowtext; border-style: none none solid; border-width: medium medium 1pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0in 0in 1pt;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: currentColor; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">You’ve heard the saying, If a tree falls in the forest and no
one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And I wonder, if you say you care, but do nothing to show it, do you
really care?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: currentColor; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">My friend is
looking for a new church to attend….somewhere that won’t be so painful because
living outside the bubble hurts.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo attribution...this photo like many I share on my blog is from George Hodan. You can see more of his work here: </span><a href="http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=27578&picture=bubbles&large=1"><span style="font-size: x-small;">George Hodan</span></a></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897067084988651970noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4000197825548242127.post-15342809406430364902013-01-22T10:54:00.002-08:002013-01-22T11:22:52.642-08:00Betrayal of the Mind--OR--Embarassing Moments with Art Therapy<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIEcTkQjaw_hozHWdOhkbYWvDV-14pq59iqKAKFMrx2s2-P1Q47OSSh53qE5qlUUIUXLexLrU5MPw8kmJLnMQFTOZrILmVZ4QPl3sxG7cVbl1YmuApkAVzNOMWH2PU1Qtjh8eufMuCjF8/s1600/Snapshot_20130122.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIEcTkQjaw_hozHWdOhkbYWvDV-14pq59iqKAKFMrx2s2-P1Q47OSSh53qE5qlUUIUXLexLrU5MPw8kmJLnMQFTOZrILmVZ4QPl3sxG7cVbl1YmuApkAVzNOMWH2PU1Qtjh8eufMuCjF8/s320/Snapshot_20130122.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Very Basic Notan...to see something better check out the google link below</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Awhile back, when my therapist was going to be on vacation for a week, which at the time felt like forever, I decided to give myself some homework. I got some books from the library on art therapy. I've been doing it on and off ever since.<br />
<br />
ON--I do it because it helps bring things from my unconscious mind forward, and can be helpful in therapy. Kind of like dreams.<br />
<br />
OFF--sometimes I don't do it because it helps bring things from my unconscious mind forward, and I don't always like that. Kind of like dreams.<br />
<br />
In my on again, off again way, I have filled about 7 sketch pads with my randomness, some of it revealing, some mysterious, some dull. Each sketch pad is more personal than a journal simply because I have more control over what I say in a journal. <br />
<br />
If you haven't tried art therapy, that may seem like an odd thing to say. But I will give you an example of a time art therapy took me by surprise. Part of the problem was that I had not intended to do art therapy at that moment, but the subconscious doesn't care about little things like proper timing.<br />
<br />
So, I was in my son's Kindergarten Art Class. They were learning Notan. It is a form of art that uses contrasting colors and paper cutting to make designs. Some notan is really intricate and beautiful. You can see some google images of notan <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=notan&hl=en&safe=active&tbo=d&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ei=xsz-UJeTJq2JiwL-_YE4&ved=0CAcQ_AUoAA&biw=1024&bih=483">HERE</a><br />
<br />
As I often did in that class, I helped my son with his project and then I made my own. (I had so much fun in that class!) After we all finished our pictures, the teacher had us hold them up (parents too) and show them to each other. So I held mine up for this class of Kindergarteners and three or four other moms. Then we sat them on the table and started on a second one. <br />
<br />
That is when I looked down at mine, blushed furiously and turned it over so no one could see it. This happened on a therapy day, so I took it to therapy. My therapist burst out laughing when he saw it. Then said, "Can I take a picture of it for your file?"<br />
<br />
"A picture? You can have the horrid thing. I don't want it!" I said.<br />
<br />
He just smiled, took a picture with his cell phone and told me he would email it to me. Much later, I was glad that he did. But it has taken me a year to overcome my embarrassment enough to post it here on the blog. I'm sharing it to show you the power of the mind, and of art therapy.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGHA7X8dkqC2g9-zqOQLTA-05y1KjGyDcqvUz5cTxaX42Xuh73lsbDZUgLDqAQ0TNWDI7LlpwtVgZufPH63rRbCinjRyVqSzlPG3OZsYwJHbdxOBw0zCfD1gxHOeULTE9APQGS5MCO4g0/s1600/nano.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGHA7X8dkqC2g9-zqOQLTA-05y1KjGyDcqvUz5cTxaX42Xuh73lsbDZUgLDqAQ0TNWDI7LlpwtVgZufPH63rRbCinjRyVqSzlPG3OZsYwJHbdxOBw0zCfD1gxHOeULTE9APQGS5MCO4g0/s320/nano.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
So....what were we talking about? The weather...how about that fog we've been experiencing in the Seattle area. . .Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897067084988651970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4000197825548242127.post-42797518027152193992013-01-14T14:19:00.004-08:002013-01-14T14:19:49.606-08:00Book Review: Miss America By Day by Marilyn Van Derbur<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wcH9Ye99dOM/UPSC0bRuHKI/AAAAAAAAAbA/1_0BnRSEUd4/s1600/reading-an-old-book.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wcH9Ye99dOM/UPSC0bRuHKI/AAAAAAAAAbA/1_0BnRSEUd4/s320/reading-an-old-book.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Talia Felix</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Ok perhaps you are thinking, " Leslie, <u>Miss America By Day</u> doesn't sound like your kind of book." And you would be right. I don't think it sounds like my kind of book either. I think this book is mis-named. I never would have picked it up on my own, but it was recommended to me. And I LOVE it. <br />
<br />
The reason I don't like the title is that I feel it is misleading. It makes it sound like a girly-girl book. Since I am not a girly-girl, it's not the kind of book I would normally pick up. But the author Marilyn Van Derbur says she's not a girly-girl; she's a tom-boy. And a very competitive one at that, which is how she somehow ended up in the Miss America contest, and won. <br />
<br />
What the book is really about is in the subtitle: A guide for parenting. . .resource for professionals. . .handbook for survivors of sexual abuse. . .love story. It truly is all these things. The first part of the book is a memoir. Don't worry there is nothing graphic about the abuse. Survivors may find it triggering though. She talked about things I have felt, talked about and written about here on the blog. It was so validating! Here is an example:<br />
<br />
(note-Larry is her wonderful husband, and Jennifer, her daughter that she shares a close relationship with.)<br />
<br />
"A dear friend stopped by one day. She couldn't have been more loving but her words cut me to the bone. 'Lynn, its a beautiful day. You have Larry, Jennifer, this wonderful home, an increidble career, you need to let this go now and move on with your life.' Not one word had been said with malice. She had always been supportive of me byt her words were so hurtful. If only she knew how desperately I wanted to move on. The feelings and emotions had become more than I could suppress or control anymore. The recovery process has nothing to do wtih willpower or choice.<br />
<br />
"I wish I had known that many--if not most--adults sexually violated as children, are in their 40's before they begin to deal with their childhoods. Just knowing that this is 'normal" for many survivors would have helped me cope with friends and family members who were saying, 'This happened a long time ago. Just move on with your life."<br />
<br />
I didn't realize 40 is a common age either, and yes, I have gotten the "move on" message from well-meaning friends. <br />
<br />
The second "half" of the book is a "guide". I thought I knew a lot about this topic--not only from living it, but from my study and work. But I learned a lot of new things from this portion of her book. Chapters titles in this portion include: How Common is Forgetting; Do Babies and Toddlers Remember?, Seven Things You Should Never Say, Why Don't Children Tell? etc. There is some wonderful information about protecting your children that will enlighten and empower you.<br />
<br />
I want to fill this post with tons and tons of quotes, because I love her book so much. But, you know, they have copyright laws about that sort of thing. So I will limit myself to one more that I feel highlights my favorite thing about her book. She is so very encouraging and positive. She gives me hope.<br />
<br />
"The good news is that the pain can end. The bad news is that recovery is an indescribably agonizing process." In another part of the book she says the pain can end, but you have to do the hard work.<br />
<br />
I think anyone: survivor, friend of survivor, parent etc could benefit from this book. Read it! You won't be disappointed. That is a money-back guarantee (money back that you spent on this blog post-- that is!)<br />
<br />
When I "grow up", I want to be just like Marilyn. <br />
<br />
Photo Attribution: <a href="http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=18363&picture=reading-an-old-book">Talia Felix</a> <br />
<br />
<br />Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897067084988651970noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4000197825548242127.post-35450457103252053752012-12-26T19:14:00.000-08:002012-12-26T19:14:48.971-08:00Your Turn...*whispers*....come close. No closer, I want to tell you a secret...<br />
<br />
Just between you and me, I don't what to write this week...I'm trying (and succeeding) to distance myself from my past. It is not something I can do for very long, but hey it's Christmas, so you can't blame me for trying. <br />
<br />
Dissociation is great for this. Sometimes I can feel and act normal for short periods. But then...what to write for my blog about healing from child abuse? I could repost an older post. Or I could tell you about Les Miserables. I loved it, but I'll leave it at that.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDwht7ThYXlDZ_TvH_lkRPSqRQcFnQn4nGc2q15KnlIXnDs1HQeOlnsNqvZh8KLN40icdluC55BMFD5FveFGIjuzklhvsrtMqzMoq1wFpzxwQCbwrCAiu-dYk2bx7N67_Gr5r_oOPllus/s1600/Larisa+Koshkina.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDwht7ThYXlDZ_TvH_lkRPSqRQcFnQn4nGc2q15KnlIXnDs1HQeOlnsNqvZh8KLN40icdluC55BMFD5FveFGIjuzklhvsrtMqzMoq1wFpzxwQCbwrCAiu-dYk2bx7N67_Gr5r_oOPllus/s320/Larisa+Koshkina.jpg" width="278" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Larisa Koshkina</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Ok...here's what's really on my mind. Since my repressed memories started to surface, along with the grief, pain, shame, and anger...came a crisis of faith. I have alluded to it here on the blog, but not fully discussed it. Why is it that the things that pain us the most deeply are the hardest to talk about?<br />
<br />
I'm ready to talk about that faith crisis and how I am getting through it. (I wish I could say it is in the past, but it isn't.) This time though, I don't mean blogging about it, I mean that I intend to write a book. I've already started it.<br />
<br />
This is where "Your Turn" comes in. One day I went to a church bookstore, searching for a book that could help with the pain, I didn't find one. I told my son, who was with me, "I will have to write the book I need--for someone else." <br />
<br />
So tell me--what would you be looking for in THAT book? I know my own story, but I also know there are other stories. Perhaps there are questions that others have asked that I haven't thought of. Perhaps there are answers that others have found that are still hidden to me. So I need your help. What came to your mind as you read this post? What would you like a book like this to cover? What questions are you still searching? What answers would you like to share? <br />
<br />
The questions are for friends/family and loved ones of survivors too. What are your questions? <br />
<br />
I welcome your responses, here, on facebook or in email. You can email me at lesliesillusions at gmail. <br />
<br />
Photo attribution: <a href="http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=21578&picture=postcard-with-a-roll-of-paper">Postcard With A Roll Of Paper</a> by Larisa Koshkina">Larisa Koshkina</a>Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897067084988651970noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4000197825548242127.post-79930322754686378162012-12-15T04:03:00.002-08:002012-12-15T04:05:12.158-08:00What I will tell my children about the Newtown Massacre<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf671TuvL83sy15Lje9TolSDkBr2f6xCnj0NRE6XlBGowFP1RuFZfstvF-zmQwBOpqD5FR4jKfVVGfnhf3BiQQMRPal073PZj6DIXfk68b6i6i7UnNcomUkMBFVz_3HeFsGWcTY_GMbmo/s1600/natsakunworarat+pdp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf671TuvL83sy15Lje9TolSDkBr2f6xCnj0NRE6XlBGowFP1RuFZfstvF-zmQwBOpqD5FR4jKfVVGfnhf3BiQQMRPal073PZj6DIXfk68b6i6i7UnNcomUkMBFVz_3HeFsGWcTY_GMbmo/s400/natsakunworarat+pdp.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nat Sakunworarat</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">My readers, my friends, on this day after tragedy, if I
could I would just sit with you and listen and validate your feelings about
what has happened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since I can’t be
there with each of you, I will share my thoughts, and hope that perhaps they
will be helpful to someone in need.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Because of my past, I struggle with the concept of “safety”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think I stopped believing in that idea long
before I stopped believing in Santa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“No
safe places,” is a mantra from long ago and deep within.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">So when I received emails from my school district, with suggestions on how to
talk to children about the tragedy, and the first item on the list was “assure
the children that schools are safe.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
balked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Big time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How in the world can I tell them, in the
light of today’s events, that schools are safe?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I would feel like a hypocrite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
mentioned to my co-worker what a ridiculous idea I thought that was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He said the idea is to reassure them and not….here
he launched into what is best described as an imitation of Chicken Little.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only in his version the sky was not falling,
but schools were not safe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All right,
point taken, however, I still can’t tell my children schools are safe because I
don’t believe in safe places.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So what
should I tell them--and myself?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I wish I could tell them God will protect you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But clearly God does not prevent these kinds
of tragedies from happening, so a simple “God will protect” you is not
enough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As an adult, it comforts me to
think of Jesus with Mary and Martha after Lazarus died.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even though he knew that in a moment He would
raise Lazarus from the dead, He still felt their pain and wept with them. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I believe He weeps with us now, after today’s
events.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That comforts me, but I don’t
think that would help the children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
sure doesn’t feel like enough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> So w</span>hat
then?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Sometimes inspiration comes from the strangest places, and
for me it came from a quote being passed around Facebook.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is from Fred Rogers:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news,
my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You will always find people who are helping.’
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"To this day, especially in times of ‘disaster’,
I remember my mother’s words and I am always comforted by realizing that there
are still so many helpers—so many caring people in this world.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Look for the helpers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Yes! I love that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In today’s
tragedy there were teachers, and police men and swat teams that knew what to do
and took action quickly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> One of those helpers was a teacher, Kaitlin Roig. She acted quickly, closing her classroom door and ushering all the children into the class bathroom and blocked the door. Roig said:</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">"If they started crying, I would take their face and tell them, 'It's going to be OK,. . .I told the kids I love them and I was so happy they were my students... I said anyone who believed in the power of the prayer, we need to pray and those who don't believe in prayer think happy thoughts." Article attribution<a href="http://gma.yahoo.com/childrens-terror-newtown-massacre-192100426--abc-news-topstories.html"> here</a></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">In hurricanes, and
earthquakes, there are always helpers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That is something I can feel comfortable telling my children, “God can’t
always prevent tragedies, but He will send someone to help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When bad things happen, look for the helpers.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">One of my favorite books, The Hiding Place, reaffirms
this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Corrie Ten Boom said that she wrote the book to show
that “there is no pit so deep that He is not deeper still.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Corrie Ten Boom and her family were
Christians living in Holland during Hitler’s reign.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were part of a sort of underground railroad that
helped 100’s of Jewish people escape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>However, they got caught and Corrie, her father and her sister were sent
to a concentration camp.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her sister and
father died there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still Corrie shares
in her book, many times throughout her tragedy where there were little miracles…helpers,
if you will.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I can also tell my children that the children who died are in the arms of the Savior now. They are not afraid anymore. They are not hurting. But what can I tell myself about the parents of those children? </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I have never lost a child, and I pray I never have to know
that pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope that perhaps those who have
can find comfort from God who allowed His only Begotten to suffer and die for
us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Another tragedy that He could not prevent.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I don’t think that I
will ever believe in safe places, but I do believe in a God who weeps with us, and sends “helpers”, maybe even
angels and miracles to see us through the dark hours.</span></div>
<br />
Photo Attribution: <a href="http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=14475&picture=power-of-light">Nat Sakunworarat</a>Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897067084988651970noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4000197825548242127.post-82438024987490365662012-12-04T14:05:00.004-08:002012-12-04T14:08:09.580-08:00Whatever Happened to Wailing?<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWG7qzvJt5m-ZIqkPU0LMiYWtRHGrLGXDiTYFVROmsOl1Y5ou4XCATmTfpB1qIlePnxL70CGDLwB4T_2It74aA5gGDN6nkVbZ7fLjXraFiEkfQFe8iyN9gfy_Z9tmzFm8YGllipTi9y0M/s1600/GeorgeHodan2pdp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWG7qzvJt5m-ZIqkPU0LMiYWtRHGrLGXDiTYFVROmsOl1Y5ou4XCATmTfpB1qIlePnxL70CGDLwB4T_2It74aA5gGDN6nkVbZ7fLjXraFiEkfQFe8iyN9gfy_Z9tmzFm8YGllipTi9y0M/s320/GeorgeHodan2pdp.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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Wailing: a long, loud high pitched cry as of grief or pain. <br />
<br />
It is my understanding that wailing at funerals used to be common among many cultures throughout the world. It still occurs in some places, but seems to be an endangered tradition. I think that is a shame. I remember when I first learned about the custom, probably as a teenager, I thought it was very strange. Now, with a little more life experience under my belt, I think it is beautiful. <br />
<br />
Imagine with me for a moment the last funeral you attended...very quiet, right? There likely was some crying, but most people these days are ashamed to cry and try to hide their grief even at a funeral. Well-meaning friends and family, tell the bereaved things like: "He's in a better place." Or "at least she went quickly." The goal seems to be to cheer the person and help them not cry. I wonder though, is this cultural tradition of hiding our emotions healthy?<br />
<br />
I have been thinking a lot lately about the New Testament story of Lazarus' death. When Jesus arrived he found Mary and Martha grieving, probably wailing. He didn't offer them platitudes. Even though he knew that in a few moments he would raise Lazarus from the dead, he didn't try to comfort them. He felt their grief and wept with them. I am so touched by that. I think of wailing in much the same way---the bereaved joined by family and friends, sharing their pain together instead of hiding it and dealing with it alone. <br />
<br />
Of course, I am not just thinking about funerals, but how we share one another's grief at any time. I would like to share something from <u>The God Who Weeps</u> by Terryl and Fiona Givens. They were discussing Job. <br />
<br />
You will recall that Job was suffering some great difficulties, including an illness so severe and disfiguring, that when his friends came to help, they did not recognize him. When they did realize who he was, they sat with him for seven days and nights without saying a word. Of this Terryl and Fiona Givens say:<br />
<br />
"For a full week Job's friends do what genuine friends are called to do: their actions seem simple enough but they are sublimely great. They 'suffer with' they participate in Job's anguish. This human capacity to suffer at the anguish of a loved one is an imperfect shadow of the grief a perfect being feels when His creations put themselves beyond His healing embrace."<br />
<br />
There is so much in that short story and short quote that I love. Job's friends actions were "sublimely great" they didn't try to solve his problems or cheer him up, they just sat with him and suffered with him. Beautiful. And then when the Givens make the comparison that God feels an even greater pain when we turn away from Him...does He grieve when I turn away from Him, not from sin, but from my anguish? The Givens seem to be suggesting that He does. I can't think of more healing words.<br />
<br />
I wish that in our culture we could put away the platitudes and the advice, and relearn the art of "suffering with". I even think, I wouldn't mind if my friends wailed with me a bit. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=25923&picture=scary">Photo attribution: George Hodan</a>Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897067084988651970noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4000197825548242127.post-54565308437959453932012-11-24T11:25:00.000-08:002012-11-24T15:51:08.605-08:00A Lesson from my Heroes: Hold On<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVvvxCHzCzaY-VX_hr_QMnHQYCCf9TG_Vf9TT-Oh4noqM__CTFkoiBqNpw0lfeAFWYzi_JWMgBj44cSykimwVW9mgdnOH9ZSl4LhBbMy5ppQ2fjD3_cu5LU3HzcF4mIUxH9yCAkkLMHNs/s1600/GeorgeHodanpdp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVvvxCHzCzaY-VX_hr_QMnHQYCCf9TG_Vf9TT-Oh4noqM__CTFkoiBqNpw0lfeAFWYzi_JWMgBj44cSykimwVW9mgdnOH9ZSl4LhBbMy5ppQ2fjD3_cu5LU3HzcF4mIUxH9yCAkkLMHNs/s400/GeorgeHodanpdp.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">George Hodan</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">As I search for comfort and guidance in my healing journey,
I have found some of my greatest help comes from the examples of other
survivors of trauma.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would
like to “introduce” you to two of my heroes: Marilyn Van Derbur and James Stockdale. </span><br />
<br />
Marilyn, the self-proclaimed “quintessential tomboy” became Miss America in 1958, her sophomore year of college.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was also a survivor of childhood abuse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the time she won the pagent,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>she was unaware of her past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like so many of us, she had repressed the memories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> In her book, <u>Miss America By Day</u>, she wrote</span>,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I wish I had known that many--if not most—adults, sexually violated as children, are in their 40’s before they begin to deal with their childhoods.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just knowing that this is “normal” for many survivors would have helped me cope with friends and family members who were saying, ‘This happened a long time ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just move on with your life.’”<br />
<br />
Like other survivors, Marilyn's well-meaning friends and loved ones, counseled her to "let go and move on." In another part of the book she explained <em>why </em>that is not possible. <span style="font-family: inherit;">“During this time of recovery, I wasn’t remembering the memories and feelings, I was living them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When memories and feelings are split off and stuffed deeply within the body, it is necessary to disgorge them and feel them as if they are happening in real time. This was not a voluntary decision.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When memories are triggered. . .the memories and feelings are instantly felt and no amount of willing them away or decision to ”-just get over it,” will work.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">That is exactly how it is for me as well. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Reading her memoir was so validating. And because I knew she understood, I believed her and felt encouraged when she said there is hope: the pain ends, but you have to do the hard work." </span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">James Stockdale and The Stockdale Paradox<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
V</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">ice Admiral James Stockdale, a Navy Pilot, was shot down
in Vietnam and held in the Hoa Lo prison for seven years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> He served part of that time</span> in solitary confinement and was
routinely tortured and beaten.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Admiral Stockdale was later interviewed about his experiences
by James C. Collins, for the business book, Good to Great (which I am told is a
classic).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During
the interview, when asked about how he survived Admiral Stockdale said:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">‘I never lost faith in the end of the story, I never doubted
not only that I would get out, but also that I would prevail in the end and
turn the experience into the defining event of my life, which, in retrospect, I
would not trade.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">When Collins asked who didn’t make it out of Vietnam
Stockdale replied:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Oh, that’s easy, the optimists.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, they were the ones who said, 'We’re going
to be out by Christmas.’ And Christmas would come, and Christmas would go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then they’d say, 'We’re going to be out by
Easter.’ And Easter would come, and Easter would go. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then Thanksgiving, and then it would be
Christmas again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And they died of a
broken heart.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">“This is a very important lesson.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You must never confuse faith that you will
prevail in the end—which you can never afford to lose—with the discipline to
confront the most brutal facts of your current<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>reality, whatever they might be.”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Collins calls this philosophy the Stockdale Paradox. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
When I am holding on, trying to deal with one hour at a time--sometimes one day at a time is too much--I remember Marilyn and Admiral Stockdale. Marilyn promises that is will get better, but I have to be willing to do the hard work. Admiral Stockdale said the same in a different way (if I may repeat):</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
“You must never confuse faith that you will prevail in the end—which you can never afford to lose—with the discipline to confront the most brutal facts of your current reality, whatever they might be.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Sometimes there is wisdom in letting go, but a</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">s Admiral Stockdale and Marilyn Van Derbur teach us
sometimes the best course is quite the opposite. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is holding on to faith in a brighter future, and
fighting through the darkness until the Light comes.</span></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
Photo Attribution: <a href="http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=25600&picture=red-rose">Red Rose</a> by George Hodan">George Hodan</a></div>
Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897067084988651970noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4000197825548242127.post-34017102526570359402012-11-16T15:56:00.000-08:002012-11-24T15:52:29.374-08:00Five Things NOT to Say to Abuse Survivors<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh236Jzx46HsL0zH1ydkp7lduM2CRaz6KjeZi-kSAzkYasIQ4fLi4UFtjWxmz6q-pERt0RL3ws1UjGLkhzyf64isregM0NJTNQgPtq_BY4hnxNbzoZFqE4bvk9RGRzbMMtdhqLkgiZGcSw/s1600/BobbiJonesJonespdp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="322" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh236Jzx46HsL0zH1ydkp7lduM2CRaz6KjeZi-kSAzkYasIQ4fLi4UFtjWxmz6q-pERt0RL3ws1UjGLkhzyf64isregM0NJTNQgPtq_BY4hnxNbzoZFqE4bvk9RGRzbMMtdhqLkgiZGcSw/s400/BobbiJonesJonespdp.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This swan is warning you to Stand Back!<br />
Bobbi Jones Jones</td></tr>
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<br />
<br />
<br />
Dear friends, I have had a really difficult week. I had a nightmare that will likely forever be in the Top Ten of Worst Nightmares. Therapy was intense...thus, as you might imagine, I'm not in a great mood. That makes this a perfect time to tell you: Things NOT to say to an Abuse Survivor<br />
<br />
1. Forgive<br />
<br />
Forgiveness is not a one-size-fits-all principle. What is right for one person may not be right for another. For example, if you have a squabble with your mother, then forgive and reconcile your relationship is good advice. But for a survivor of abuse, if the offender is not repentant i.e. could still be dangerous, reconciliation is not remotely a good idea.<br />
<br />
And please even if you are a survivor and you think you are helping...do NOT tell another survivor to forgive. There are so many factors involved for example the severity of the abuse (one time, or lasting for years), and who did it (a neighbor or a parent)...so many different factors that what helps one survivor may not be a good solution for another.<br />
<br />
2. Let it Go - <br />
<br />
All I can say to that is I wish I could. If someone will make the nightmares stop, and the PTSD go away...then I will be happy to let it go. The thing is I can't let it go any more than someone could simply let go of cancer. When someone loses a loved one, is it ever appropriate to tell them to "let it go", I don't think so. There are times when "let it go" is good advice. I say those three little words to myself regularly over little things...like when some well meaning person tells me to forgive. <br />
<br />
3. Don't assume I am depressed. Listen to me I am NOT depressed. I have emotional pain--there is a difference.<br />
<br />
When you go to the doctor, and tell him you have a pain, you will be asked what is the pain like? Is it dull? Is it sharp? Throbbing? Sudden Onset? So then why do we throw all emotional pain into the "depression" category? I have been depressed, and I am telling you what I feel now, is something different. It bothers me when people assume I am depressed because there are certain assumptions and stigmas about depression that I also feel do not apply to my situation.<br />
<br />
4. Don't try to fix it<br />
<br />
You can't fix me in one conversation, even my therapist does not attempt that. What a survivor needs from you is a listening ear, validating words, perhaps a shoulder to cry on....no advice.<br />
<br />
5. Don't ignore me<br />
<br />
I am not a china doll. I won't shatter if you say the wrong thing. Ignoring me hurts worse than mis-spoken words.<br />
<br />
There is a theme underlying most of these cautions--it is invalidating pain. When you tell a survivor to forgive, let go, try to fix them, or ignore them you are basically saying, "Your pain does not matter. It is not real or significant." And that hurts. So please don't do it.<br />
<br />
I know people who say these things just want to help...please believe me the best way to help is just to listen and validate. I will give you an example of some wonderful validation I received today. I was talking to my wonderful primary care doctor. I mentioned my horrific nightmare to her. She asked me if I wanted to talk about it, or not. Because we have a relationship of trust, I did want to share it with her. I told her about the dream and some other related things that happened this week. <br />
<br />
She said, "I think I am going to have a nightmare now, but thank you for sharing that with me."<br />
<br />
That was wonderful to me because by saying that, she validated my pain. She said in essence "you have experienced something terrible." I felt heard and understood. It was wonderful. <br />
<br />
Listening and validation...that really is the best thing you can do.<br />
<br />
Photo attribution: <a href="http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=22081&picture=stand-back">Stand Back</a> by Bobbi Jones Jones">Bobbi Jones Jones</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897067084988651970noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4000197825548242127.post-23020120826513027152012-11-08T19:47:00.000-08:002012-11-08T19:47:28.197-08:00Anatomy of a Repressed Memory OR What is THAT smell?Ok, my friends, in the past I have wanted to explain how repressed memories come to the surface, but I was unable to do so because of the nature of my memories. However, it turns out that I repressed good memories too. I just rediscovered one of them, at least a piece of it. Yay! So I can tell you about that. Are you ready?<br />
<br />
One day I was at home with my family and we were all relaxing. Out of the blue, I started to smell something amazing. Generally speaking my sense of smell is terrible. I can smell a few really strong scents, for example if I can smell your perfume, you put it on way too much. The smell of rain? No way, are you kidding, rain has a smell? I can't imagine it. Of the smells that I am accostumed to most of them are<span style="color: black;"> noxious</span> so I was surprised by this good smell. It was not just good; it was delightful. Instant joy!<br />
<br />
"What is that wonderful smell?" I asked.<br />
<br />
My family just looked at me blankly. "What smell?"<br />
<br />
This has happened before. I smell things, usually bad smells like burned rubber* that no one else smells. I was so disappointed when I realized that my family could not smell this wonderful aroma because that meant it was psychosomatic...created by my mind (this is an overly simple definition). Realizing it was mine alone, the smell went away, and I was so disappointed.<br />
<br />
The smell left me, but I could not stop thinking about it and the great feeling that it caused. Even a couple days later. So I decided I would draw something to help me remember the moment. Keep in mind, I am not an artist, but I have found drawing and doodling very theraputic. <br />
<br />
But how to draw that smell? What was it? Christmas? No, cotton candy. Yes, that's it cotton candy. Wait, what does that have to do with Christmas? Nevermind.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi70Al2RuQFYE7DtTo_-MKqBWON8W0T6qYYgkglAiHs_h55gsL3rF0GGvpdrXpO-LGFkCEAxhhTn4i69o_kra2bVnwIXjAGORZgNmlQ67VwQ_SE7uJ3suPEy4vq5sefMd42jSVnhR9iQLI/s1600/carolinesteinhauerpdp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi70Al2RuQFYE7DtTo_-MKqBWON8W0T6qYYgkglAiHs_h55gsL3rF0GGvpdrXpO-LGFkCEAxhhTn4i69o_kra2bVnwIXjAGORZgNmlQ67VwQ_SE7uJ3suPEy4vq5sefMd42jSVnhR9iQLI/s320/carolinesteinhauerpdp.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Caroline Steinhauer</td></tr>
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<br />
<br />
I drew cotton candy, it was more like a Kindergartener version of clouds. Then the idea came to me to blacken the area surrounding the cotton candy and and write the words, "cotton candy chasing away the darkness." <br />
<br />
The next day was therapy. I was still thinking about the cotton candy moment. Obsessive? Perhaps so, but that is how it is with my memories, they don't let go of me. I showed my little sketch to my therapist who seemed very interested in it and asked me a lot of questions. I was both pleased and confused by his interest.<br />
<br />
As he asked me questions, a picture began to come together in my mind. For example, I had told him that I thought it was related to a memory (since this has happened before, only with bad memories). He asked if I knew what the memory was about. I said, "No, well, I keep thinking of my Grandmother. I think it has something to do with her." <br />
<br />
He asked me a few more questions and then suddenly it hit me! The smell was not cotton candy, but divinity. Divinity is a Christmas candy. Like cotton candy it has a way of "melting" in your mouth. My Grandmother used to use food coloring to make it pink...just like cotton candy!<br />
<br />
It was very clear to me in that moment that what I had smelled was a memory of making divinity with my Grandmother, and the very delightful feeling associated with the smell, was the way I felt as a child when I had that experience.<br />
<br />
As I looked at the cotton candy sketch again, it was bittersweet. I had thought of the smell and feeling as chasing away the present darkness. Now I could feel and remember that "pushing away the darkness" was also related to the past. That moment of joy with my Grandmother, temporarily pushed away the darkness of my life.<br />
<br />
Why did I bury such a sweet memory? I had to, because I am not the one that holds it. The little boy of my mind does. He also holds very difficult memories (don't ask me what they are, I really don't know). His memories are so awful that I get a migraine type headache when I try to approach him in therapy...the headache recedes when I step away from him. Yet, he is pleading with me to help him. What can I do?<br />
<br />
This sweet (no pun intended) memory is a great example of how my bad memories work. Sometimes it is a picture that comes into my mind, while I am awake, or asleep, it doesn't matter. Or maybe a dream, but whatever form it takes, it grabs hold of me and demands my attention. Everyone has had the experience of getting a song "stuck" in your mind. The images cling to me even more deeply than a song, and cannot be ignored. <br />
<br />
Right now, the divinity memory is just a smell and a feeling that brings a smile to my face even as I write this, and a "knowing" that it is about making divinity with my grandma. If this memory works like the others, in time more and more pieces of it will come to me. I might remember Grandma's apron (if she had one) or the music that was playing, perhaps something she said. That is how it happens with the other memories. Only this time, I will be happy to see the other pieces.<br />
<br />
Photo attribution: <a href="http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=14751&picture=cotton-candy">Cotton Candy</a> by caroline steinhauer">Caroline Steinhauer</a>Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897067084988651970noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4000197825548242127.post-56196930443783583552012-10-31T22:33:00.000-07:002012-11-01T09:28:21.117-07:00Embracing Fear and Conquering with DID<span style="background-color: white;">I have a severe phobia of the dentist. I mean severe. It's the chair. Yes, not the shot, or the drill, it's the chair. Lying in the chair represents submission, and as you can imagine that terrifies me. You sit back in that chair and open your mouth, and then trust. </span><br />
<br />
Trust is a big issue for survivors of childhood abuse. It is really a struggle for me.<br />
<br />
My fear started when I got the reminder call about the appointment. It increased as the time approached. I was emotional and distracted. The day of the appointment I was a basketcase, I couldn't concentrate. I wish I was exaggerating, but I am really not. <br />
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As I sat in the lobby filling out the new patient paperwork, I knew that as soon as I started walking toward the chair I would become, emotionally a child. I would be paralyzed by fear and unable to speak up or advocate for myself. I know this because it happens everytime I go to the dentist. So I wrote a note to my new dentist and explained my situation. The dentist, bless him, read my note and then came out to the lobby and sat and chatted with me for a moment to put me more at ease. That was wonderful, but still when he said, "Come on back." It happened. The paralysis set in. I was like a helpless child.<br />
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I sat in the dreaded chair, and the hygienist began the cleaning. That's when it hit me. I forgot to ask for laughing gas for the cleaning. I hate metal touching my teeth, and what do they do in a cleaning but scrape your teeth with metal...argh! As an adult, I would just put up my hand to stop him and ask for laughing gas, but I was not an adult at that moment. I was a helpless child at the hands of an "authority figure". I could not make requests I could only wait helplessly until it was over.<br />
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My body tensed, and my heart rate increased as my panic grew. How could I get myself through this situation. Desperately, and with frustration, I thought, "Why can't I dissociate myself out of <em><strong>this</strong></em>?" Then a glimmer of hope came to me, "Why can't I? Where should I go?"<br />
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I was ready to mentally transport myself somewhere else. I figured I have been doing it unconsciously since childhood, so this time I would do it consciously. That was my only goal. As I considered where to go...it would have to be somewhere I felt comfortable, and somewhere well-established. Some how I felt that I would not have the "strength" to go to a new place, I needed to go to a comfortable place in my mind I had been to before.<br />
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I chose my DID Landscape. This is a common thing among people with DID, to have an organized space in one's mind for all one's parts. I don't want to give too many details about my DID landscape, but suffice it to say that even though there are parts there that have painful memories, and one part in particular that I am avoiding, it is still a beautiful place that I created for traumtized parts to heal. So I went there myself as I have many times before in therapy.<br />
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I stood at the entrance and thought, "Now what?" Then, an idea came to me to go to the part of me that holds the memory that causes most of my dentist phobia. That part is a young girl, 4 yrs old (she has a name, but I am not comfortable sharing that). <br />
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I approached her and took her in my arms, lovingly. I rocked her and stroked her hair. I spoke to her quietly, "I am so sorry for what happened to you. So, so sorry. I know you are scared, but what is happening now is different. Feel what the body feels right now, and see that this is different. I promise, I will never let anyone hurt you again."<br />
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Something amazing happened, the terror I felt eased, a very peaceful, healing feeling replaced it. I felt so good. I marveled at it.<br />
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At that moment, the hygenist (who was very gentle) slipped and that sharp metal hook hit my lip. I thought, "Buster, if you do that again we are done." And I meant it. If that happened again, I would raise my hand and simply say, "I'm done. I can't do any more today." No explanation needed, it's my body and if I say stop, it stops. That is when I realized, I was back in adult mode!!! I can't express how incredible that felt. I was no longer a terrified child helplessly submitting to whatever the "authority figures of the moment" subjected me too. I was an adult that could speak up for my needs and defend my boundaries. I was exhilarated. I could hardly believe it.<br />
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When the cleaning was done, I glanced at the clock on the wall. I was stunned. How could I have been at the dentist for an hour? It literally felt like 15 minutes. As I got up from the chair, my leg muscles, knees and ankles were so stiff and painful that it was difficult to get up (I hadn't had pain when I came in) but emotionally and mentally I felt like I could fly. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFBglKNx7izYcFmqQmzc3EBc0lfwz8KmZOEHIZTTwavUQYxyvNjAkWlNuBUrwJfm6aGEk2XZqPo2y0X6qmFSK-MASe8_rUuGvXC29tXSz7-VyjLe5ddW8OfBJXtO4ZTlUOol-GqylHPpc/s1600/anthonymaragou.pdp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFBglKNx7izYcFmqQmzc3EBc0lfwz8KmZOEHIZTTwavUQYxyvNjAkWlNuBUrwJfm6aGEk2XZqPo2y0X6qmFSK-MASe8_rUuGvXC29tXSz7-VyjLe5ddW8OfBJXtO4ZTlUOol-GqylHPpc/s400/anthonymaragou.pdp.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anthony Maragou<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Photo Attribution: <a href="http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=1905&picture=seagull-flying">Seagull Flying</a> by Anthony Maragou">Anthony Maragou</a>Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897067084988651970noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4000197825548242127.post-4258033046163753482012-10-23T10:24:00.003-07:002013-03-05T06:10:52.781-08:00Beneath the Mask: Dissociative Identity DisorderI've been thinking about writing about this for some time. I have even hinted at it, some might say I did more than hint. Anyway, I did not think I had said it directly, so here it is...<br />
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I have Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID).<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghu0W5_MhVZ7pihqDF3pnGU5F_-5rxMqhrBQr2J1N4EB8BHDHDryiDhlbJXJpErxJsJXemssgM8lUBDIRaDlTmvE4Zgm2q41c4NAD8kwNj9TUuLutE33Ac-IoqKpHOzdfMmhhxFSHyhZ8/s1600/michaeldrummond.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghu0W5_MhVZ7pihqDF3pnGU5F_-5rxMqhrBQr2J1N4EB8BHDHDryiDhlbJXJpErxJsJXemssgM8lUBDIRaDlTmvE4Zgm2q41c4NAD8kwNj9TUuLutE33Ac-IoqKpHOzdfMmhhxFSHyhZ8/s400/michaeldrummond.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Michael Drummond </td></tr>
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My 16 yr old son asked me the other day, "Mom is DID the same thing as Multiple Personality Disorder (MPD)?"<br />
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I had told my teenage children quite awhile ago that I have DID, but I guess he didn't make the connection. I explained that yes they are the same. He then had more questions. Can the parts really be different sexes? Yes. And have different medical issues? Yes. Different ages? Yes. <br />
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I could be wrong but I sensed a bit of "Wait a minute, you didn't tell me it was like THAT." My point here is that even though he lives with me, he didn't realize. DID is NOT obvious. People with DID have families, hold down jobs, get college degrees...all the things that "singletons" do. (Yes, we call you guys singletons.) The only difference is that our divided mind helps us be able to take care of all these day-to-day things while the skeletons rattle in the closet. <br />
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So the first thing I want you to understand about DID, is that you could know someone, even live with them and not realize they have it. It is not obvious, it is not like it is portrayed by Hollywood.<br />
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Before I tell you a little more about how I experience DID, I need to make a disclaimer that I do not speak for everyone that deals with this disorder. It is much more common than you would think; I have met others with DID, in real life and on line. There are forums and hospitals and therapy groups for people dealing with this. What I have learned from sharing with other "multiples" is that while we have much in common, there are also many differences.<br />
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I hope that by explaining a little of why I believe my "system" works the way it does, will help you understand why two people with DID can experience it so differently. First we need to consider how it begins. DID is commonly believed to begin in childhood as a result of severe, and often repeated trauma. I think of it as a God-given gift to help child survive and cope. A child's mind does not have the experience, the coping skills etc to deal with such trauma, so the mind resorts to chronic dissociation.<br />
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Remember I explained before that dissociation is something that everyone does. Daydreaming or highway hypnosis (when you drive somewhere and then feel startled when you realize you remember very little about the drive...you were on "auto-pilot"). This sort of dissociation is normal. But when a traumatized child uses dissociation over and over as an escape to the point that it becomes chronic, then it crosses in to the disorder side of the spectrum. Because the abuse each person suffers is different, the severity of dissociation can vary as well. <br />
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The way the "system" is set up varies greatly as well. When I say the system, I mean the parts or alters. Remember <a href="http://lesliesillusions.blogspot.com/2011/01/haunted-mind.html">My Haunted Mind</a>, where in each room there is someone that holds some memory or memories of my past. What I didn't mention in that post is how real those "people" in the rooms feel to me. <br />
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I want to tell you that I know they are not real and yet I can't...and let me tell you why. This is a conversation that I have had with my therapist more than once. I will mention to him the name of a part and say, "I know I need to help _____________ . She's crying and upset and so alone, but I can't."<br />
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You have to understand that <em>helping</em> her means <em>remembering</em> what she knows, <em>feeling</em> the pain she feels, the pain she has held for me all these years. The pain, emotional and physical, of rape. Can you understand why I don't want to help? It is not a matter of just giving her a hug, it's hearing what she has to say and <em>feeling</em> it. So I tell myself and my therapist, "I don't have to help her. She is not real. She's part of me and therefore I can ignore her and keep that part of myself buried if I want to."<br />
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Doesn't that sound like a good solution? I wish it worked. But it doesn't. Whenever I say or think that, the walls in the Haunted Mind start to melt and all the pain held by all those children in my mind comes rushing to me at once. I fear that the pain will separate me from my tenuous hold on sanity. I wonder, "Is this what a nervous breakdown feels like?"<br />
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To stop the pain, to stop the melting walls, I surrender. "Ok, ok," I say to myself. "She's real." Not in a physical sense, of course, but in my mind she is real. She has a name, and her own personality. I can picture her in my mind's eye...and most of the time when I see her she is crying. How can I then not go to her? There in is my dilema. I must help her. What kind of monster would I be if I didn't? And yet helping her terrifies me.<br />
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I believe that at one point in my childhood, I thought if I was a boy then the abuse would not happen. It didn't work, and now there is a little boy part with memories of his own. I don't know his name, and really I don't want to know anything about him...and yet, I know in time, I will have to accept him too.<br />
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Another time I must have wished for a teenage brother to protect me. . .and so it goes. <br />
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The goal of therapy is either integration or co-operation between the parts. I say "or" because some multiples do not wish to integrate. They feel they will lose something in the process. For me, I do aim for integration. I think of it as my parts coming together, holding hands, sharing the pain equally, but also sharing joy equally. We are not there yet, but someday. . .<br />
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I know I am taking a huge risk in sharing this with you. I already feel that sharing that I was abused makes me INVISIBLE or an Emotional Leper and this because people don't know what to say so they don't say anything. So why in the world would I tell you something that is going to make you look at me like I am some sort of Circus Side Show (my apologies to my friends with DID...that is certainly not how I feel, just how I fear others may see this).<br />
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I'm sharing for two reasons. First I hope you will see that DID/MPD is really not "freaky" or "crazy". Some of you that read this blog know me in real life and can say, "I never knew." That is the point. The whole reason for the dissociation is to hide things. To hide the pain and the abuse from everyone including me. AND then to hide the dissociation. I may have younger parts of myself that feel absolutely real to me, but the rest of the "system" keeps them hidden from the outside world to protect them. I want people to see that this is not "crazy", not what it is portrayed in the media as, but rather a creative way to deal with trauma no child should ever have to deal with. Not all survivors have DID, but many do...it is much more common than you realize. (I know I said this before, I'm repeating it for emphasis.)<br />
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Second, I share because I hope that if you understand the serious and life-long consequences of abuse, you will be more willing to take action to prevent it. In our culture, we are far to likely to try and protect the abuser than the victim. Case in point, I read an <a href="http://abcnews.go.com/US/sandusky-victim-reveals-identity-justice-long/story?id=17511612">article from ABC News</a> about Victim 1 in the Sandusky case. When he and his mother approached the principal and the school counselor about the abuse they were told: "Jerry has a heart of gold and that he wouldn't do those type of things," And then they were told to go home and think about it.<br />
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<em>Where was the concern for the victim???</em> This is the kind of thing I am talking about. This has got to stop. <br />
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The principal and the counselor told the boy's mother NOT to call the police, they would handle it. Again at this point they were more concerned about "the nice guy" than the victim. Fortunately, they were required by law to report it to the Child Protection Services so they did. It was three more years before Sandusky was arrested (how many more violations occured during that time???) Because the authorities said they needed more witnesses...after all we can't prosecute this "nice guy".<br />
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We have to stop the denial, stop worrying about the perpetrators and start protecting victims. The more we understand, as a culture, the effects of abuse, the more likely we will be to help the victims. Or even better to work on prevention. At least that is my hope. And I'm putting myself on the line to help make it happen.<br />
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<em><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: x-small;">If you have any questions about DID, feel free to ask, I will answer them the best I can based on my onw experience and research, but remember I don't speak for everyone.</span></em><br />
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Photo Attribution: <a href="http://www.blogger.com/%3Ca%20href=%22http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=5162&picture=face-mask">Face Mask</a> by Michael Drummond">Michael Drummond</a><br />
<br />Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897067084988651970noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4000197825548242127.post-41373242051675415782012-10-18T12:27:00.000-07:002012-10-18T13:49:15.333-07:00Are Werewolves Monsters? Is Sandusky a Monster?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHW6SYsgKkEnu-id6T4E3VYRb9FNBnAtfcCmUomzAAf4k3cdD6hSp-5wNFcgwjeQgynniZlEeIbB76G8QJh5QB8eMhpn-VKFIaObYSI6FTwBy1-e4OGJfNN0T_r6TPFT_vy2VJzNN5FLg/s1600/werewolf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHW6SYsgKkEnu-id6T4E3VYRb9FNBnAtfcCmUomzAAf4k3cdD6hSp-5wNFcgwjeQgynniZlEeIbB76G8QJh5QB8eMhpn-VKFIaObYSI6FTwBy1-e4OGJfNN0T_r6TPFT_vy2VJzNN5FLg/s320/werewolf.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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Looking at this picture, the question, "Are werewolves monsters?" seems like a silly question. Yes, that is definately a monster. But what if I posted another picture of "him" in his human form?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLi6lU0PZrEs4WqgE2-gxWF8NGem1o0W5x00B2qES2kIlZwYohGbIFVNPKPaGF-5eJI5UrJfVVbg-Bwd1URnWE6jezBmVegOQQdoGzECyGga5r8o4FURECZPecBbDR1bCbFKecbd8mEGY/s1600/Usnationalarchives.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLi6lU0PZrEs4WqgE2-gxWF8NGem1o0W5x00B2qES2kIlZwYohGbIFVNPKPaGF-5eJI5UrJfVVbg-Bwd1URnWE6jezBmVegOQQdoGzECyGga5r8o4FURECZPecBbDR1bCbFKecbd8mEGY/s320/Usnationalarchives.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">US National Archives</td></tr>
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Now we see just a "nice old man", not a monster, right? This could be your neighbor, your Uncle Stuart, or your child's soccer coach.<br />
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I recently read an <a href="http://www.gazettenet.com/home/2305938-95/abuse-adults-sandusky-sexual#.UHwAdAkv4gk.twitter">editoral</a> that talked about this very problem. It said that almost all adults say that they would speak up if they thought a child was being harmed And yet statistics show that they don't. Why is that?<br />
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They said it is because too often, particularly when we are thinking about abuse, we think in black and white, good and evil, and we are reluctant to switch Uncle Stuart from good to evil. So we make excuses and we do nothing. The article suggested that it would help if we change our thinking to recognize that sometimes "good people" can do bad things.<br />
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I think this editorial was spot on, because how many times have you heard it on the news...someone is arrested for whatever reason, and the new station interviews the neighbors who say, without fail, "I don't believe it. He is such a nice guy."<br />
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Well, sometimes "nice guys" do bad things.<br />
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Sometimes "bad guys" are teenagers. The average age most offenders start molesting is 14 yrs. <br />
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I work with teenage sex offenders, and they are not monsters. (I work graveyard, I don't actually do any kind of "therapy" with them, as you can imagine that would be quite impossible for me right now.) I wake them up for school, I joke with them, and I am genuinely pleased when they do well in the program. They are "offenders" for certain, but they are not monsters.<br />
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Most offenses are committed by someone the victim knows. So imagine that you notice that cousin Stuart is exhibting suspicious behavior...wanting to shower with your child, or spend time alone, sleep in the same bed...what should you do?<br />
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You don't have to move Cousin Stuart to the "evil" catagory. You can tell yourself that he is a good guy with a problem if that helps. But then you must act to help the child and to help Cousin Stuart...or Uncle Stuart, Grandpa Stuart or Coach Stuart....whomever it is. <br />
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<ol>
<li>First we must protect his potential victims. Did you know the average "coach offender" molests 100's of boys? Stop and take a moment to think about that...100's of lives damaged. Hundred's of boys going through the same kinds of things you have read here on my blog. We have to say something. </li>
<li>You will be helping "Stuart" by bring attention to his actions. If he is truly innocent, then he needs to stop exhibitng risky behavior. If he is offending he needs to stop. Christians are sometimes reluctant to pursue prosecution because they want to be "forgiving". To them I say "mercy cannot rob justice". It would be better for him to be stopped from sinning, and deal with the consequences here, than in the next life...</li>
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I can't stress this enough. There were people that saw "red flags" with Sandusky and yet did nothing. And because he was not stopped many more lives were damaged. You know the quote, "The only thing necessary for evil to flourish is for good men to say nothing." <br />
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I hope you will stand up and say, "Not on my watch." Let's protect the children from the <strike>monsters</strike> "good people" who do evil acts. If you don't stand up for the children, who will?<br />
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<br />Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897067084988651970noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4000197825548242127.post-30133235477049516382012-10-08T20:03:00.000-07:002012-10-08T20:03:02.185-07:00Trick or Treat: A Story for HalloweenI am trying to suppress my inner Halloween Grinch by writing Halloween themed posts. But I confess this story really has nothing to do with Halloween...that's the trick. I hope you enjoy it...that would be the treat, right?<br />
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Recently I saw keychain on Etsy that said, "Please don't annoy the writer. She might put you in a book, and kill you." I love that. I have written four short stories now where a bad guy gets killed...It pleases me immensely....maaahhhhaahhh. The following story is one of them. And remember try not to annoy me, or you might end up in my next story.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgoOuq0-Vq7ey88kQ9kaqUk_Ty0c9IfTRPLPQa_VsOujeiFOAaD8NiRe6BfTXRqnOoQtyCNaInMZl6s2OYn_CBu_sbjPup-JH0DSwxaWasta39SMloET7NK-09AP4y5MUnH8DM1irsnSM/s1600/saloon-51161286392687b0ac.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgoOuq0-Vq7ey88kQ9kaqUk_Ty0c9IfTRPLPQa_VsOujeiFOAaD8NiRe6BfTXRqnOoQtyCNaInMZl6s2OYn_CBu_sbjPup-JH0DSwxaWasta39SMloET7NK-09AP4y5MUnH8DM1irsnSM/s320/saloon-51161286392687b0ac.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">publicdomainpictures.net</td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Saloon Girls</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Laughter and chatter overflowed the dressing room and spilled into the saloon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The room became still as the girls followed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two lingered behind. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With trembling hands Caroline fastened the garters for her lace stockings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rose held out a small pistol.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Tuck it in between your breasts or into your kid boots.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“But you said that the miners and cowboys are good to dance hall girls.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Honey, I said mostly good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Take the pistol.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have another one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’ll make enough in a week to pay me back for it and then some.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“But I-“</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Take it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Charlie looks out for us girls pretty good, but he can’t watch everybody every minute.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And put on more lipstick.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rose laid the pistol on the table, gave her a wink and left the room.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Caroline took the pistol and slid it into her boot. Then self-consciously, her hands pulled at her skirt, still it barely covered her knees. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Next her hands touched her bare shoulders and her exposed chest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She felt only half-dressed<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. If Mama could see me, she would know that I didn’t come here to teach as I told her.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She shook her head, and put on some lipstick, bright red like summer strawberries.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">As Caroline entered the dance hall, she found it transformed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When she had seen it earlier it had been empty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now the long bar was filled with men of various ages, like horses at a watering trough. The floor was muddied and showing evidence of men who were incapable or unwilling to use the spittoons properly. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Someone was playing the piano, and the dance floor was filled with men and dance girls. The tables around the room were all occupied by men: some holding girls on their laps, some playing cards, others just talking, but all of them drinking.<span style="color: red;"> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span>Sounds of music, laughter and voices intertwined. She inhaled deeply as if her breath could reach down and bring up some courage lying deep within.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then she stepped out into the saloon.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">A young cowboy was at her side instantly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She could tell he was a cowboy by his smell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cowboys smelled of sweat and horses, Rose had said, miners of sweat and dust. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her first steps on the floor felt awkward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had danced at home, but in a more formal style. Her partner, who seemed to be losing a battle with his spurs, didn’t seem to notice. He smiled at her like she was hot supper at the end of a hard day. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">See Mama, this really isn’t going to be so bad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not like things at home with…well never mind.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She could never tell her mother about that.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Her next partner was a miner, musty and dusty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was a good dancer but he held her very close and his dark eyes beneath bushy black eyebrows transformed her into the last drop of water in the canteen. After their dance concluded, he drifted off to another partner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She exhaled in relief.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">After a couple more dances, Charlie asked her to sing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was another new experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At home she had sung to herself while doing the washing, or a lullaby for her younger brothers, and, of course, she sang in church, but she didn’t consider herself a performer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All the girls in the dance hall sang for the men, though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Any feminine voice was music to them; talent was not a prerequisite. She was grateful for the reprieve.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her new boots were not broken in yet and her feet were letting her know it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her repertoire of songs was not many, but it didn’t matter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mama, I think they wouldn’t mind if I sang the same song over and over, like you used to do when Papa was drunk</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">On the dance floor, a girl screamed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From a nearby table, a man jumped to his feet and without waiting for an explanation, hammered his fist into the jaw of the girl’s dancing partner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fist and the whiskey put the offending man on the floor without a rebuttal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The other stood over him, “We treat our girls right here, Mister, ya hear?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The man on the floor nodded then slowly rose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He tipped his hat to the girl, “My apologies Miss.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He looked at the other cowboy as if seeking approval, did not receive it, and left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Feeling nervous, Caroline looked through the crowd for Rose and caught her eye. Rose winked.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The swinging doors were cue enough for the piano to begin again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Caroline was whisked off the stage, by another request for a dance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This cowboy was tall and lean, with green eyes that did a dance of their own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Handsome really</i>, she thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the first dance ended, he asked for another and Caroline gladly accepted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He would have asked for a third, but Charlie intervened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Plenty of girls here, plenty of girls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Have a look around.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The cowboy smiled at Caroline once more and then moved away.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“I lose more girls to marriage than anything else,” Charlie muttered as he walked away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Imagine that Mama. You would be proud of me if I married, right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Papa said no one would want me after</i>. . .her thoughts were interrupted by another dance request.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">This one had a handle-bar mustache, and announced himself as Bill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He spoke with breath that seemed to be part whiskey and part dead skunk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the music played, his hands with snake-like fingers attempted to travel over every inch of her small frame.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His dance steps reminded her of a headless chicken running around before it realizes it’s dead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But with each step, he managed to guide her to the edge of the dance floor near the swinging doors.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“What’d ya say we take a walk,” he slurred, alcoholic skunk breath washing over her like an avalanche.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“No thank you,” she replied.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Too prim? </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh well, maybe if I’m not nice he’ll go away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He reminds me of Papa. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"> “Think ya’s too good fer me, don’t ya?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>he said loudly even though he was so close that his spongy lips touched her ear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her heart quivered like a rattler’s tail and the walls seemed to creep closer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was no longer a dance hall girl in a saloon, but a young girl trapped in the arms of her alcohol-addled father.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His hands knew no boundaries when he was drunk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was powerless to fight back then with her father and now with Bill. “No Papa,” she whispered, but couldn’t say more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In some distant part of her brain an alarm sounded, but she was like a wild animal whose survival instinct is to play dead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was paralyzed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">A young man near the door stood up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Hey, she doesn’t--“<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Abruptly,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>two other men, apparently friends of Bill, shoved the would-be hero out the door, and followed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The saloon was alive with the sounds of music, loud laughter and drunken voices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one seemed to notice the scene being played out near the door.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Caroline saw the doorway getting larger and larger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her mouth was sawdust; black spots began to cloud her vision.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Then came a voice, strong and clear above the din of the saloon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“She’s not going anywhere with you.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Bill barked out a laugh that sounded more hyena than man, “Who’s gonna stop me?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">”Me and my pistol,” said Rose as she cocked the gun.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Startled, he released Caroline who stumbled and fell to the floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He whirled and lunged for Rose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the hate in his eyes gave way to fear as he felt pain explode in his chest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Disbelief had barely begun to give way to understanding when his body fell near Caroline.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The dance hall was suddenly quiet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People quickly stepped aside to let Charlie pass by.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He looked at the two on the floor and then at Rose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was no need to vocalize the question that his face made clear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Rose shrugged, “He insulted her.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Charlie nodded as if he had suspected as much. “Alright boys, get that mess out of here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rose help the girl. The rest of you men, watch your manners. “As he strode away, the sounds from the piano and talking sprung up again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A couple of men took Bill’s body roughly by his arms and shoulders, and dragged him out, leaving his feet trailing behind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bartender came out with a mop to clean the floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As Rose helped her to her feet, Caroline felt the cold metal of the pistol still in her boot.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Helluva first night, girl.” Rose whispered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Helluva first night.”</span></div>
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Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897067084988651970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4000197825548242127.post-65871532870464614942012-10-02T13:51:00.002-07:002012-10-23T11:40:45.657-07:00The Ghost in My HouseMy family is haunted by a ghost. A ghost that does not seem to know its place, I mean aren't ghosts supposed to stay in one location? This ghost goes everywhere we go.<br />
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I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, after all the ghost is me.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqN2DoMt5ZJN42HSjXTZa7pbWINAEJeeREPe9G7zeepNfhDd0UBTf5wPS6e-Le0HIz6UhzUMobsXPRsh1yjSxTxYA-VZxZdc4QyyD3jBf_4Q7lZUepPU_sDZ52IG84ctjkfk6OnAme6tk/s1600/ghost.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqN2DoMt5ZJN42HSjXTZa7pbWINAEJeeREPe9G7zeepNfhDd0UBTf5wPS6e-Le0HIz6UhzUMobsXPRsh1yjSxTxYA-VZxZdc4QyyD3jBf_4Q7lZUepPU_sDZ52IG84ctjkfk6OnAme6tk/s400/ghost.jpg" width="262" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">National Media Museum</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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There was another me, before. Before the memories; she died. That me was happy. That me was self-confident. That me was spiritual. In my other life, I could lasso the moon. Then memories, like sharp daggers began to pierce me. Pain weakened me, but it was Shame, like a dagger, that pierced my heart and felled me.<br />
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And now a ghost lives in my house. When I look in the mirror, I know the face looking back, the one that looks like my former self, is an illusion. My family knows too. One day I asked my oldest son if "all this" is hard for him. He said, "Well, it is a little weird because I remember the way you were before. But it will probably be easier for the younger ones because they don't remember." <br />
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Owww, can I die twice? <br />
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People ask me sometimes if my kids know. Yes, the older ones do. You've heard the saying about elephants in the room. That subject that no one dares talk about. I grew up with elephants, so no more. No elephants, no secrets, no skeletons in the closet. Not for me. My teenage kids know about therapy, the Dissociation, the PTSD, and the abuse.<br />
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As far as Ghosts go, you could imagine me like Patrick Swayze's character in Ghost. He wanted to desperately to get his old life back. That is what I want too. Eventually, he had to accept his new reality, say good-bye and let go. I don't have to say good-bye to my family, thank goodness. But I do need to accept reality and let go of the hope that I will return to be the person I was before. <br />
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Thomas Wolfe said, "You can't go home again." He had something else in mind, but I feel like that applies to me. I can never get Innocence back. Not the innocence that should have been mine as a child; that precious gem that should be the heritage of every child. Not the innocence that I had up until a couple years ago. I'm sure that some people see me as cynical now, and I couldn't argue. Cynical? Yes, and skeptical too. Pain and shame can do that.<br />
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But even though my cynicsm and skeptism, cast large shadows that threaten to overtake me, to become the whole of me, still I have a glimmer of hope. I see it like a small candle in a window of my mind. Quietly and steadily it flickers. <br />
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Outside the storm rages, but the light burns on. "Keep on moving,": the little light whispers. "You can't go back, but you can move forward. Something better awaits beyond the darkness. Just keep moving towards The Light."<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfOpYIfB_w1Dv9JLkvDojOdYGkZxYrnAIhf_A601wxAe_cVz70jJcOV9XhWIoKgvPLkd0Qtt_xcBVK5hgFrntvjL9rPjGlB7TTXynCB2VOQ6uKaWPHu63duiLH2sLlDLrA0bPRozLKjqs/s1600/window.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfOpYIfB_w1Dv9JLkvDojOdYGkZxYrnAIhf_A601wxAe_cVz70jJcOV9XhWIoKgvPLkd0Qtt_xcBVK5hgFrntvjL9rPjGlB7TTXynCB2VOQ6uKaWPHu63duiLH2sLlDLrA0bPRozLKjqs/s400/window.jpg" width="297" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brooklyn Museum Archives</td></tr>
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<br />Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897067084988651970noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4000197825548242127.post-84464587170633039452012-09-25T20:55:00.001-07:002012-09-25T20:55:27.597-07:00Book Review: Geography of Bliss - Eric Weiner (also my daughter as a tick)I am happy today, and that is not a word I throw around lightly. This mood that gave me the idea for today's post. Well, that and Vienna's homework. She asked for help with her Sociology: learn about a culture that is different from ours.<br />
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<em>Side Bar: As I write this, she is reading over my shoulder. In her words, she is, "like a tick, always watching" ....not creepy or anything...</em><br />
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As I sorted through my knowledge of other cultures (sociology is my favorite subject), I thought of the perfect book: <u>Geography of Bliss</u> by Eric Weiner. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuLz6yIAQXwmz0J6L2Etrv7hADZlaBD6cAQJ7rwMaoewFejLz3Pkm92HoOagC0-HeHwOPwYqIPl3hJwNiUIpIhkzAtaL1n3_qXRi2YpWtViNUQ_BpKkOvrUePzhJdYPWBwcL7yNFXFaFM/s1600/bill+kuffrey+pdp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuLz6yIAQXwmz0J6L2Etrv7hADZlaBD6cAQJ7rwMaoewFejLz3Pkm92HoOagC0-HeHwOPwYqIPl3hJwNiUIpIhkzAtaL1n3_qXRi2YpWtViNUQ_BpKkOvrUePzhJdYPWBwcL7yNFXFaFM/s400/bill+kuffrey+pdp.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bill Kuffrey publicdomainpictures.net</td></tr>
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I got very excited and explained to her that Eric Weiner, a Foreign Correspondent for National Public Radio and a self-proclaimed Grump, had decided to spend a year traveling the world to visit the happiest, and least happiest places in the world. <br />
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<em>Side bar: I also told Vienna that I can't concentrate while she is watching, and she said to pretend I don't know she is there because most people that have a tick, don't know. . .ok....creepier still. .</em> .<br />
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We looked at the table of contents, each chapter covers a different country. Which one to choose?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicuwH2xdACExCr43NH5Q4VSTlzoUODBlENFnUd5231i9ZB2ALwOluchGyi4jSrBiSjT0XVDHTQNsvdcGFoy6G95KilknMp_mkwisNqoQlLDFubfXyFzuoD6oYmCZ6wg-909B5RPYjDR8o/s1600/piotr+wojtkowski+1+pdp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicuwH2xdACExCr43NH5Q4VSTlzoUODBlENFnUd5231i9ZB2ALwOluchGyi4jSrBiSjT0XVDHTQNsvdcGFoy6G95KilknMp_mkwisNqoQlLDFubfXyFzuoD6oYmCZ6wg-909B5RPYjDR8o/s400/piotr+wojtkowski+1+pdp.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Piotr Wojtkoski publicdomainpictures.net</td></tr>
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Chapter 5: Iceland: awesome! Visiting Iceland is now on my Bucket List because of this book. Icelanders love chess and writing (heaven), and they go months without seeing the sun. I'm from Seattle, I'll fit right in. When I go to Iceland, I will NOT eat <em>harkarl</em>, rotten shark, but I will think of Mr. Weiner's description of it:<br />
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"The <em>harkarl </em>has an acidic, unnatural flavor. Worst of all is the persistent aftertaste. It lodges on the roof of my mouth and resists eviction, despite my attempts to flush it out with many glasses of water, a bag of honey-roasted cashews, an entire wheel of gouda cheese, and two bottles of beer. By the time I return to my hotel, an hour later, the taste has, ominously migrated to my throat, and shows no signs of leaving soon. I feel sick."<br />
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A local man explained to him that the only way to get rid of the after taste is to drink <em>svarti dauoi</em>, or black death, the Icelandic national drink. Weiner says the very nasty hang-over was a price he was willing to pay to get rid of that taste. <em>Harkarl</em>, anyone?<br />
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<em>Side bar: Vienna went to class, but not before <strike>warning</strike> reminding me that she, like a tick, will always be watching. Rotten shark and ticks...I think I'm going to have nightmares tonight, how about you?</em><br />
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Chapter 6: Moldova..ewwwww. It is said to be the least happy nation in the world. Maybe the problem is their music. You know how uplifting music can be, right? Well apparently it works the other way as well. According to Weiner:<br />
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"Russian pop is--how do I put this diplomatically?--bad. Very bad. So bad that it may have contributed to the collapse of the Soviet Union."<br />
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There you go.<br />
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Chapter 7: Thailand...ah, don't read that chapter Vienna. Their morals are..um...different than ours. The chapter begins with how despite his best intentions not to go, one night at 1 am he found himself in a bar. . .yeah, that is not the essence of the whole chapter, but enough for me to have Vienna skip it. <br />
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Chapter 2: Switzerland: I can't forget Switzerland. You know the saying one man's trash is another man's treasure. Well Switzerland shows us that one man's misery is another man's happiness. Or something like that, read this and decide for yourself:<br />
<br />
"Why are the Swiss so happy?" I ask Jalil.<br />
"Because we know we can always kill ourselves," he says with a laugh, but he's not joking. Switzerland has one of the world's most liberal euthanasia laws. People travel from all over Europe to die here.<br />
The strangeness of it all sinks in. In Switzerland, it's illegal to flush your toilet past 10:00 p,m, or mow your lawn on Sunday, but it's perfectly legal to kill yourself.<br />
<br />
And so Switzerland has one of the highest suicide rates in the world. How can a happy country have a high suicide rate? There is a theory in the book. . .<br />
<br />
If you like humor, sociology and philosophy, you will love this book as I did.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeB99ZnBgp-9kTBAVqox3YZ55Uq1bzqe0RaZrTY0T1blhG4PdqY7ERTCv4gZKxOgvd8n8DJ1tpRCgb9GGuOrAYLh9zTmDUT07xc7s02Yc2jtrdf03c5H9O3GnMEIoNuAAFMHL3uWSEbno/s1600/vera+kratocvil+pdp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeB99ZnBgp-9kTBAVqox3YZ55Uq1bzqe0RaZrTY0T1blhG4PdqY7ERTCv4gZKxOgvd8n8DJ1tpRCgb9GGuOrAYLh9zTmDUT07xc7s02Yc2jtrdf03c5H9O3GnMEIoNuAAFMHL3uWSEbno/s400/vera+kratocvil+pdp.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vera Kratocvil publicdomainpictures.net</td></tr>
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<br />
What? Oh, you want to know which country she choose for her project? Why Moldova, of course. She read this line:<br />
<br />
""Getting to Moldova turns out to be nearly as tricky as finding it on a map. It's almost as if the Moldovans are off sulking in their corner of the globe. 'Leave us alone. We're not happy, and we like it that way. We said go away!'"<br />
<br />
"You should move there," she said.<br />
<br />
I had to laugh at that. Evil girl. I guess she chose it for her report since she thinks I should move there, and she's planning to visit...or wait, if she is truly a tick as she claims, she will just go with me.<br />
<br />
We'll send you a postcard. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897067084988651970noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4000197825548242127.post-84451904717068335432012-09-18T12:14:00.003-07:002012-09-25T20:55:42.349-07:00You Can't Rush Spring<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">My favorite season is spring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I realize that as I write this we are heading in to fall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fall is nice too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The changing colors of the leaves and all that…yeah, yeah.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hate orange.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I had my way, I would eliminate orange from the world with the exception of fall leaves and pumpkins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still, fall is beautiful, I can’t deny that, but fall is a dying or if you insist, hibernation. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The leaves change color and then they fall off the trees leaving them naked for winter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sad.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJM0AhVkiWZeGh7CapwHTRymDPbt1JXiWhsBmk0IUEEHW4JHnd53v6GhvyRG_MLlEtO9Fp1NTw2eITE7gIdmVPZJLhG8xpT-tr3AxqtviKYYLJ8_dSXvVU-I-p7plKZQqzgU1XXO4rEsI/s1600/Jon_Harris_pdp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJM0AhVkiWZeGh7CapwHTRymDPbt1JXiWhsBmk0IUEEHW4JHnd53v6GhvyRG_MLlEtO9Fp1NTw2eITE7gIdmVPZJLhG8xpT-tr3AxqtviKYYLJ8_dSXvVU-I-p7plKZQqzgU1XXO4rEsI/s400/Jon_Harris_pdp.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jon Harris publicdomainpictures.net</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Spring on the other hand is rejuvenation, color returning after a gray winter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I live in the Northwest so when I say gray winter, I mean it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean months of cloudy skies and rain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not that I mind;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love the rain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I really love when the first flowers return in the spring, and the leaves push out from buds on the trees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, that is beautiful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tulips are my favorite flower, and they are the second flowers that arrive in the spring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I see daffodils, I know tulips are coming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The return of flowers, leaves and birds never fails to make me feel hopeful.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As much as I love the spring, I can’t rush through fall and winter to get there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I could I would rush through summer too, but you can’t rush spring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span> </div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I mention this because spring came in my heart on Sunday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was not like spring on the calendar which is predictable. It was a sweet reawakening in my heart caught me by surprise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went to church dragging my feet if you will.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(More about why church is painful for me, and why I keep going anyway another time.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The point is, I was not expecting to get anything out of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was “doing my duty”, so to speak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I figured that if I went to church and did not end up at some point crying in the bathroom I would call the day a success.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was my plan.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But to my surprise, the meeting touched me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a message there for me, a healing sort of message.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was grateful, very grateful, but surprised.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why now?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have been searching for that for so long, and then when I didn’t expect it, there it was.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As I pondered this, I realized that there have been other signs of spiritual spring in my life recently.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Again I wondered, why this, why now?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The overall message really hasn’t changed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was nothing significantly different about this meeting than other meetings that have made me cry in the past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The message was the same. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The people were much the same.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So what changed?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It must be me. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">My heart is changing, and healing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt something different because I was <em>ready</em> to hear it. What I felt Sunday must have been there all along, but until I was ready, I couldn’t hear it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t feel it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Realizing that the “problem” all along has been me, of course, I began the “why didn’t I get this sooner”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We all do this right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wondered: why was I so stubborn, so prideful, so whatever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s when I realized it.</span></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">You can’t rush spring, and you can’t rush healing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I didn’t do anything wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was not too stubborn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was not too prideful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact I think I deserve some kudos for continuing to push forward when it was so hard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Healing takes time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some wounds take longer to heal than others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But if we hold on through the cold, gray winter, spring will come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">This is not the end of my healing journey, not even close, I know that, but it is measurable progress and I am grateful for that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I started this post on Sunday night when I was feeling the warmth of spring, and now it is Monday night, and another winter storm is rolling in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s okay because I remind myself there will be more “springs” in the future.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDFfmIthGaqvdJRHq4ngwZ3RAR1ae5cQ2NOAUrsN2BtcKWLtlaMpn-UPaVLymt8Bgx6v6bPcZMEo7GeeGXuthSjXCok3c4teetiLScg81lKTwmCA8PelqhWN66SLzydDsSrwnAqPu7eHQ/s1600/petr_kratochvil.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDFfmIthGaqvdJRHq4ngwZ3RAR1ae5cQ2NOAUrsN2BtcKWLtlaMpn-UPaVLymt8Bgx6v6bPcZMEo7GeeGXuthSjXCok3c4teetiLScg81lKTwmCA8PelqhWN66SLzydDsSrwnAqPu7eHQ/s400/petr_kratochvil.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Petr Kratochvil <a href="http://publicdomainpictures.net/">http://publicdomainpictures.net</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span> </div>Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15897067084988651970noreply@blogger.com7