It’s Just You…

There seems to be a feeling. A feeling that surfaces when we are trying to process, mentally, ourselves. The world of ‘internal reflection’ as we find who we are by learning it from ourselves. It’s difficult. Odd even. As you think about it, you are hit with this feeling of "what am I doing?", as you turn the light of your attention back onto yourself. "Does this make sense?" you ask your thoughts, "...am I thinking about this right?" you wonder about your wondering….

I remember one of my first yoga sessions. In yoga, usually you're ushered through various body movements. Downward dog. Cobra. Cow. Cat. Didn’t matter to me, as long as I was getting a good stretch in. It felt a little tiring as I pushed to bend an elbow past its normal pain point. But the slow movement made me feel…impatient.

I wanted to do more. Push harder. Stretch quicker and in some empowering way. Efficiency and effectiveness were my go to urges. Why waste time? If I’m here to stretch out the muscles, then by-golly I want to do it best as possible! “Why didn’t I just stretch myself”, my mind was already asking why I’m here. 

Yet, there was something more to be had in this time spent. I was told by quite a few friends and gym goers that some yoga isn’t a bad idea. “It would help me a lot,” they would say as I talked to them about my sore shoulders and back. So, I obliged them, trusted them. Sometimes folks can offer some perspective I didn’t notice or think of.

What they wanted me to embrace wasn't just the stretches that could open up my shoulder blades touching together (they still can’t FYI). They wanted to encourage me to slow down on the outside, and to turn some attention to the inside. Yoga was meant to be, and is, a nice transitionary step.

At the end of the session, the instructor had us go into “savasana”, or corpse pose (really we would just lay flat on our back). This on-my-back time led me to the feeling of taking a nap. (What? I was tired?) But still mindfulness was tenacious, and I got lost in my head somehow…

I was adrift. I was feeling as though I was walking through a forest. The trees, green and luscious. I could almost feel the branches scratching at my arm. It wasn’t a cave, but it was chock full of these developed constructions. I was meshed within them, not stuck, but not free from…

I shortly walked, it didn’t take long for me to encounter a tremendous figure. Dressed in a black robe, eyes unseen…I found Death. Instead of being shocked with fear, we both smiled at each other. It was as if we both knew something. We stood there for a brief moment, as if at an accord. I felt no malice… No fear… 

It was then the instructor prompted us to roll on our side into the fetal position. She said “from the corpse pose to fetal as a rebirth”. My heart skipped a beat. It was as if she knew about my thought, my dream maybe? Maybe a nap really did happen. I was already searching for a plausible excuse. I’ve had some odd dreams before, but this one felt oddly specific and detailed. It also seemed to match the prompts of the instructor… What is going on in here? In my mind.

It planted something. Something that sprouted and touched a profound thought buried deeply in the crevases of my mental corners. It prompted me to reflect on the 5-letter word we all know about, but sometimes refuse to examine until something near it happens, or it happens to someone we love. It was Death.

This was it. I was driven to internally reflect. 

My attention wasn’t adrift to the smell of sweat in the room. The feeling of the foam yoga-mat beneath me. The soft whoosh of some air system. Just left with silence and a spotlight shining deep into the well. 

Frankly, I didn't want to dive into these caverns to find my penguin power animal, I just wanted to get a good body extension after a session of weight lifting, but there I was...in silence. Wondering why Death and I were indifferent in my mind.

That all was before my motorcycle accident.

There is something to say about our expedition into internal reflection, our use of attention not focused on something external, but as something turned in on yourself. Attention is a powerful component in our heads. Research into the mechanisms within psychology highlight attention as something that routes our cognitive resources. Memory, emotions, decision-making, all of which depend heavily on our attention.

Here it is again. My attention wasn’t on the world around me. It was pointed inward. It was analyzing this ‘thing’. This tree of thought. 

Why didn’t I notice this before? This strange comfort with Death...

Because it was too easy for my mind to be distracted by external stimuli. I needed to step back from being ‘on-the-ball’ with everything happening around me and I needed to just let my thoughts direct themselves.

It’s hard to strip off the outside. It’s what makes me human, right?

Maybe we need to appreciate the less complicated. The simplicity of just being a thing in this world. A disconnection feeling. It may feel odd, but there is nothing outside of you saying that internal ‘thinking about it’ is wrong.

Even yoga possesses some guides to stepping outside of a ‘person’. Animalistic, to some degree, drawing in the idea of opening up beyond this 'person' you are outside. Remember, Downward dog. Cobra. Cow. Cat. Your 9-5 self isn't wanted on the yoga floor. 

As a society we participate more in experiences like meditation and/or yoga, we spend more and more time in this world of 'internal reflection'. We are asked to sit in our thoughts more and more. This 'cave of your mind'. And we seem to be drawn to it culturally. As if it is something we've needed but neglected for some time.

And in those moments of ‘internal reflection’, we can be more active arborists, or at the very least more aware of the trees growing within us. 

That unique internal mental garden is only in your head. You’re the only one who can have access or even change it. 

And sometimes we need that reminder to check-in on the garden’s status, there’s no one else that can really do anything, and that it’s nothing to be afraid of.

In you…

It’s Just You…

The Prodigal Redux: Part I

Signs and Wonders, a biblical expression for miracles. Nothing short of a miracle has happened recently in my life. I'm not talking about the miracle of me still being alive after my accident in 2020. No no! What I am talking about is a much more recent miracle of a prayer being answered. An answer that finally makes sense of my near-death experience.

Unlike most stories that start at the beginning, I'm going to start this story in the middle, or rather roughly 3/4 of the way through. I'll get to the beginning later. I've written about my near-death experience in previous blog posts. I won't rehash that story here. I spent four months bedridden after the accident. Even after that, I was under orders for a lot of bed rest outside of the PT that was helping me learn to walk again. That's a whole lot of time to ponder what I had experienced while I was dead and what it might mean for my life going forward.

I did not just ponder. I had experienced the afterlife; it was nothing short of heavenly. Profound joy and peace beyond description. The kind of joy and peace you can only experience when you finally come home to God. He was there, all around me and in my heart, a warmth that bathed me and radiated from me at the same time. Sure, there was the mountain paradise that I've described previously, but there was no doubting that God dwelt in those mountains – dwells in those mountains of heaven.

I had no doubt that it had been a spiritual experience. Neuroscientists talk about near-death experiences being nothing more than a brain dying. This was not that. I was somewhere I had never been, not even in my wildest dreams. And yet, my family was there, those who had gone before me – mom, dad, my brother, and my oldest sister. There is no way I can imagine that my dying brain could have concocted such imagery.

So I have a spirit. That was something that my rational mind concluded was not the case before my accident. I wasn't an atheist. Possibly agnostic. I never gave it much thought. I was wishy-washy on the matter, but I believe that, at best, extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence.

Now that I knew that I have a spirit, now that I had experienced something divine, what was I supposed to do with that?

My worldview had been turned upside down.

I had nothing but time to think about it. While laying in a hospital bed for months, I had a few options: I could watch TV – too much about people dying from Covid on CNN or History Channel repeats; I could read once I was given an iPad on loan; I could stare at the walls, or I could figure out a way to be productive. I was going stir crazy. I decided to start journaling as well as work on a memoir of my experience. I thought that writing could help me make sense of it all. I needed to get what was in me out of me.

And I reached out in prayer to the best of my ability. Because I knew from my experience that God exists, I prayed for guidance. I did not know if I was going to be able to live independently, let alone what I might do to support myself now that half of my body did not work. It is an understatement to say that I was worried about my future. I believe that I have a spirit, now what?

This will sound silly, but I thought in terms of Star Wars: okay, so the Force exists. I'm a Jedi, but what path must I follow? What is my destiny?

I prayed and meditated about this for nearly 4 years. This is where I should probably take you back close to the beginning of my life. At least it feels like it – it was so long ago. Over 40 years ago, I was a teenager in high school lacking direction, just as I was lacking direction post-accident in my late 50s. I had been christened in the United Methodist Church, and it was in that church that I was raised. Like a lot of teenagers, I became sullen and stopped going to church. Church was a drag. Or so I thought for several years.

Then something compelled me at the time to drive up the street to a Christian bookstore, seeking answers to questions I did not even know I'd had. I did not understand what compelled me at the time, but I know now that it was God calling me to find the answers at that bookstore. There were a lot of books by people like Billy Graham, Jimmy Swaggart, Jim Baker, and Kenneth Copeland. Regardless of the scandals that would eventually plague some of those evangelists, those were the big names at the time in Christianity.

There were books called concordances, whatever those were. Remember, I was a naïve teen looking for direction. I felt stupid about it but decided to walk up to the counter and ask the proprietor for a book that had the answers. I remember that he asked what my questions were. I hadn't really thought about it but probably spewed out something like how did the universe start? Why are we here?

Stupid, right? Or profound, depending on your perspective. I barely remembered my Sunday school lessons about things like disciples, apostles, David and Goliath, Moses and the Exodus… I did not remember those things at that time. The proprietor – I forget his name – said I should probably start with the Bible.

Well, duh! Occam's razor – the simplest solution is usually the right one. Boil it down to essentials. He told me that, if I was a serious seeker of answers, I should probably invest in a study Bible. Tyndale Bible. MacArthur Bible. Thompson chain-reference Bible…

Decisions! Decisions!

I thumbed through the various options and was attracted to the layout and complexity of the Thompson chain-reference style. I've always been one to bite off more than I can chew, and that Bible was definitely that. It was a burgundy leather bound beauty, and getting my name embossed on the cover was included in the price. How much? $30, or somewhere in that neighborhood as I remember.

That was more than I planned to spend, but it was a beauty of a book. King James version: thees and thous, verily I say unto you… Yeah, that KJV. I did not know how to pray at the time. I was prone to rash decisions, but this one did not feel rash. This decision felt right.

I bought it and took it home. When I told my mother, she was overjoyed. And surprised; her “little boy” had taken it upon himself to buy a quality, leather-bound Bible.

I took it upstairs to my room and figured that the best place to start was on page 1, Genesis 1:1. In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. Okay, now I'm getting somewhere, I said to myself. I knew about the Lord's prayer. I thought that was something you only say in church. I didn't know anything about praying, so I did the best I could, “Dear God…”

I was praying for answers.

I was praying for direction.

Several months later, my best buddy and I were downtown yet again to watch the coeds on campus. Just across the street from campus, at the corner of State Street and Huron, stood the edifice of the First United Methodist Church of Ann Arbor. My buddy had to get going and took off on his bike. There were still a few hours of afternoon left. I didn't have to be home until dinner. Something compelled me to go over to that church. Maybe the answers were there. Other than the big questions like why are we here and how did the universe come into being, I felt like I had other questions that I hadn't even discovered yet.

I entered the church – doors were nearly always open – and made my way to the back of the sanctuary where the administrative offices and meeting rooms are. While I did have questions, I didn't really know why I was there. I wasn't sure who I should talk to. Probably the minister, who, as luck would have it, was in his office. I knocked on his open door jamb, and he invited me in. I decided I did not want to ask him the big questions. I felt like they were stupid questions to ask. My problem had always been not asking the right questions. The only question I did ask him was how does one become a minister of a church.

First United Methodist Church is in the middle of Ann Arbor, MI, a bastion of intellectualism. The Academy. He told me about his own path to the office he now held, which was four years at a seminary school, then a graduate degree in biblical studies, and finally, a doctorate in ministry. 7 to 8 years of higher education. What?! Well that was discouraging.

There are a couple of other points of clarification that I should make about those early days of decision-making. I was an average student. I could've excelled if I applied myself, but there were movies and TV, hanging out on campus downtown, girl watching with my buddy. Lots of distractions. I had aspirations to fly jets for the Air Force. As early as seventh grade I thought that I was destined for the Air Force Academy. Fat chance with my grades.

I was at a loss for were I would be headed after I graduated from high school. On a whim, my buddy talked me into considering enlisting in the Army, because that was what he was going to do. We took the ASVAB, the Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery. The test was common sense to me, and I scored well. Well enough that the Army recruiter was eager to snatch me up and talk me into being a helicopter mechanic. I wanted to fly jets, I didn't see how being a helicopter mechanic would get me there. The recruiter told me that I could eventually become a warrant officer to fly choppers. Not.

I took my test scores down the hallway to the Air Force recruiter to find out what I might be able to do. I knew I needed a college degree to fly jets, but I did not feel that I was ready for college. If I couldn't go to the Air Force Academy with the grades that I had, I did not want college at all. Logical, right? Riiight! The Air Force recruiter was happy to snatch me from the jaws of his army competitor. Long story short, I enlisted in the United States Air Force delayed entry program. That would allow me to finish my high school education, enjoy the summer with friends, and enter basic training the following fall. Future secured!

Flash forward a year, and I was sitting alone in an empty military dormitory room, nothing but the contents of a duffel bag with me. I had just arrived at the first station of my tour of duty: Fairchild Air Force Base, outside of Spokane, WA. I was a newly trained aircraft weapons and systems specialist, assigned to the 92nd bombardment waiting of the Strategic Air Command.

I had neglected to bring any books with me, not even my precious leather-bound Bible. No TV, no books, no friends. This was the early ‘80s, 2+ decades before reliable cellular phones. I won't lie; I was feeling lost and lonely. Although there were two twin beds in the room, I was not assigned a roommate. There was a common room with a pool table, but it was usually empty because there weren't many people in the dormitory. It was used for transits inbound and outbound from base.

Thoroughly bored, counting ceiling tiles while waiting for the chow hall to open for dinner, I snooped. There was a nightstand next to the bed with the drawer. In the drawer there was this small booklet that I would later learn is called a religious tract. It was a comic book published by Chick publications. I don't remember what the story of the comic was about, but I do remember that at the end of it, the story talked about something I had never heard before. It was the story of developing a personal relationship with God by inviting Christ Jesus into my heart as my Lord and Savior.

How had I never heard about this? Out of all those years attending church, there was never a mention of a personal relationship with God. With this new? Was this even possible?

Have you ever heard of a foxhole conversion? It's when a soldier is dug into a foxhole under heavy enemy fire or artillery shelling, praying for sweet Jesus to save him and get him home safely. My conversion wasn't quite foxhole, but I was a 18-year-old kid fresh out of high school, 2000 miles from home and assigned to my first station of duty to begin working on weapons of mass destruction. This was at the height of the Cold War, and the threat of war with the Soviet Union lingered like a bad feeling in the pit of your stomach. The good news was that, if nuclear war did break out, my base would be one of the first targets. I'd be dead before I knew it hit me. A brilliant flash hotter than the surface of the sun, and I'm vapor. This reality nagged and isolated me.

That was the incubator in which my conversion to Christ began and started to grow. I got down on my knees beside my bed. That's what you do when you pray, right? You get down on your knees, and you pray. It was a simple prayer, the wording of which has faded over the decades. The gist of it was that I asked Jesus into my heart as my Lord and Savior. Just like the religious tract said.

The effect was subtle but certain – I felt warmth. I felt peace. I felt joy. Almost instantly, my mind was at ease. I didn't realize it until later, but that had been the point at which the seed of God's Holy Spirit was planted in my heart by the sacrifice of Christ Jesus on the cross.

That seed would eventually grow into a beautiful shade tree of hope and salvation that I was to nurture for years to come.

More on that in my next post!

Thank you for reading. Peace and joy to you.

What To Do

Apologies in advance: I have no idea what I’ll write here today. I vowed to myself that I’d post every week regardless of how profound my words. So here I am, writing blindly and blissfully forward, as is my habit.

Politics? Meh. I was raised to believe that everyone has the right to vote, and they also have a right to privacy. My mother taught me that those two go together, and that’s how people get along. That’s certainly not the practice these days.

In this age of over sharing, everyone wants to broadcast their opinions. In honor of my mother, I’m not going to do that. Maybe that’s why she had so many friends; she knew when the speak up and when to shut her mouth. There’s wisdom in silence. Mark Twain knew this.

It’s another relaxing Sunday. I’m caught up with correspondence, and mellow classic rock is playing. The Lions play the Buccaneers in an hour or so. Maybe I’ll watch the game. It’s the first time the Lions have made it this far in a season in …

Well, I don’t follow football enough to know how long it’s been, but it’s been a while.

I thought I might take a nap, but my cat is sleeping in my spot. I don’t want to disturb her. Is that pathetic, or what? My father would’ve bopped he lightly with his Sunday paper: “Move, cat!” He was never a pet person, but he was challenged to hide his affection for them.

I started this post with no clear direction. That violates the first rule of writing, I s’pose. I don’t have a thesis statement. Oh, no! Maybe the lack thereof is thesis enough. I’m not here necessarily to educate you, dear reader. Maybe I’m just happy you’re here, paying me a visit.

You can join me in the practice of reflection. I watched Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny last night. One of the characters asked a question: if you could go back in time and change one thing, when and what would that be?

I have my answer. How about you?

I’d go back to 1976 and tell myself to do anything necessary to get all A’s. I was an average student, and it all started in 7th grade when those damned hormones started kicking in. Girls became a real distraction, but the real problem started in 8th grade. That’s when I befriended my class’ true-to-life Jeff Spicoli.

I’ll call him Jeff. There’s no reason to drag his real name into. He was a great guy. Super nice and mellow. Too mellow for the sake of being a good influence. He was what we called a burnout. He’d come late to first period, eyes red from getting high for breakfast.

I want to make something clear. I don’t blame him for my poor performance. My choices were my own. He had the strongest influence on those choices, though; he was one of the cool kids—y’know how it is. Never played by the rules.

Problem is, it was the rules that defined the path I needed to walk to achieve my dream of attending the Air Force Academy and becoming a pilot. I won’t keep you in suspense: I didn’t walk that path. Choices made under the influence of Jeff. That was part of it.

I could’ve used a mentor. I could’ve swallowed my pride and asked for extra help when I needed it. I needed it only because I didn’t pay attention in class, thanks to hormonal daydreaming. And I rarely did my homework.

Maybe it’s putting too much on me for saying I owned all of the choices. Yes, they were my choices, but also I could’ve benefited from better adult guidance in how to make the right choices. Ah, but those hormones were powerful!

Before I go getting myself down by lamenting a life that never happened, I’m grateful for the life I’ve lived, both prior to and since The Accident. I’m comfortable where I am in life, here writing to you, listening to Joni Mitchell, and getting ready to watch the Lions play the Buccaneers.

Go Lions! Restore the Roar!

Maybe I’ll order a pizza later. I haven’t had pizza in a couple of months. Pineapple? You bet! And jalapeños!

Love that spicy-sweet!

That’s all for now: Peace and Love.

365 New Days

365 new days, 365 new, fresh, blank pages on which to write the story of my life.

It’s the new year. 2024!

Had I told my 19 year old self I’d be disabled, living in North Carolina, and making my way as a writer, I’d have laughed it off as mild insanity. Yet here I am, 40 years on, doing just that. I’m writing this while kicked back in my armchair, iPad on my lap. Tablet technology is another thing my 19 year old self would not have believed possible outside the fantasy world of Star Trek.

My point being that time marches irrevocably forward. With it comes changes and challenges. Changes like my newfound love of jazz. Challenges like cooking up something to say. I have a vision for this blog. It’s here to document my daily … my daily challenges, triumphs, and failures.

So I started this post on January 1. The first of the year. 365 new days. Now it’s January 14. Oops! Dropped the ball on that one.

And that’s okay.

This blog is a work in progress. It’s my annual holiday update to family and friends, and whoever else wants to read it, but more frequently. I’ll try not to bore you with meaningless minutiae, but a life contains more significant moments than can be included in one holiday update. Unless that update is 365 pages or more.

I’ll leave that to a memoir I’m working on. Stay tuned!

I have family and friends battling a typical Michigan winter, where temperatures are in the single digits. Here in Asheville it’s in the low 40s. We’re supposed to get and arctic blast in the days to come. I’m not looking forward to that.

I do have exciting news on the career front. I’ve been interning for the state of North Carolina, mostly copy editing. The end of that internship is around the corner. I’ve been offered the opportunity to stay on in the capacity of blogger and vocational rehabilitation peer consultant.

Aside from the blogging, which dovetails nicely with what I’m learning here, I’d act as a sort of mentor for anyone going through the process of vocational rehabilitation. It would be an opportunity to give back to the program that has done so much for me.

Am I excited? Hell yeah!

Not only will I get to write to a specific audience, but there will also be the chance to share my experiences with others who are adapting to life with a disability.

And in other news, the University of Michigan Wolverines are now national college football champions! Against the odds of an NCAA investigation, the team held it together to play an undefeated season: 15-0.

I grew up in Ann Arbor. The Wolverines have always played a big part in making autumn my favorite time of year. The roar of the crowd. The energy. Before Michigan Stadium became what it is today, I remember going to football games when tickets were…

Well, I forget how much they were, but it was a lot more affordable then than it is now.

I subscribed to YouTube TV and Peacock so I wouldn’t miss a game this season. It was well worth it, even when things were grim in the Rose Bowl against Alabama. I’ve cancelled YouTube TV, but I’ll keep Peacock for the sake of Dateline and The Office reruns.

Do they still call them reruns even on a streaming platform?

Regardless, it will be nice to pare down the streaming TV bill. That’s a whole other topic.

It’s a sunny Sunday that leaves me wondering what I’ll do to fill the rest of the day. I hear the wind picking up outside. That’s colder weather settling in. There’s plenty of reading to be done. I’m reading a memoir by NPR correspondent, Ari Shapiro. Candid and entertaining. That’s where I’ll go next.

Cheers!

Moving Blindly Forward

I’m still a blogging neophyte. I know. There is a fuckton of information out there, I’m sure, on how to craft an exquisite blog post.

Have I read any of it?

Nope! Not yet, anyway. I’m not worried about coloring my style with someone else’s advice; we can all learn from one another if we’re open minded. The information available is often from people just like me who have been doing this for years. I’ll get there.

Be patient, dear reader! Stumble with me through this world with joy in your heart and compassion for others. I say stumble, because we’re all going to make mistakes, paying attention to the ground then hitting our head, or watching overhead and tripping on a root.

And I know tripping. My disability, coupled with my medications, make me unstable on my feet. My walking stick is a crucial tool for my safety.

I write to express myself and make sense of the world and my place in it. Why have I made the choices I’ve made? Why did the accident happen to me, just when I thought I was invincible?

Truth is, we’re all vulnerable, young and old. Life and time have a way of eroding even the strongest mountains. I live in Appalachia and am learning to embrace it. These mountains I will make my own, even if my hiking is limited. They’re older than the Rockies and espouse a wisdom of Nature that rivals the sages.

Archaeologists believe that these mountains once resembled the Rockies. Time has turned them into a metaphor for my life—old and slumped but still bursting with life. I’m not able to run marathons like I used to, but I will not give up moving forward, blindly at times, but trusting in something greater than me to guide my way.

God is all around us. In us. Shaping destiny whether or not you believe. I was once an atheist. Then I died in a horrific meeting of twisted metal, glass, and wood. Maybe you’ve already read this about me, but bear with me: modern medicine brought me back to life, but not before I experienced a peace and joy beyond description.

Not an old man on a throne sitting in judgment. God is a presence. A peace. Nonbinary and transcending anything we can imagine with our limited perception. I’ll spend the rest of my life seeking to adequately explain what I experienced. I know I’ll fail.

My point is that I was an atheist before the accident. We’re born. We die. That’s it. I never took into account the physics of consciousness. The laws of thermodynamics and all that jazz. Schroedinger’s cat…

1st law: energy cannot be created or destroyed. Consciousness is, as a beginning, the electrical energy transferred between neurons. Yet neuroscientists and physicists are stumped as to the nature of consciousness. It’s greater than the sum of its parts, and scientists don’t know why.

Without understanding the details, though I continue to study source material, I know that my consciousness, soul, spirit, whatever you want to call it, survived the death of my body. Yes, it was a spiritual experience, but it wasn’t a sectarian, or religious experience in a traditional sense.

I was raised in the United Methodist Church, but I left the dogma behind in favor of “logic.” When electrical activity in the brain ceases, that’s it. Enter the first law: where does that energy go? I know it doesn’t simply vanish. Physics backs me on this.

This is where the cat in the box comes in: Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle. No, I’m not talking about Breaking Bad.

Is the cat dead or alive? Poor thing. The answer is both, until we open the box and observe. Quantum mechanics posits that the act of observation affects the state of the observed.

Without going into details about my experience— that’s for my forthcoming memoir—I can tell you that it was nothing like a dream. Too real. I could feel a breeze on my face. I remember details like how a lake smelled. The tilt of the boat as I came about. My mother’s laughter, and my brother’s and sister’s love. The comfort of a down comforter as I gazed out the window on a verdant springtime mountain valley…

But mostly, I remember the pervasive presence of God in my heart. It was, and continues to be, an undeniable joy and gratitude, a peace and love, all of it wrapped into one overwhelming bundle of divine energy.

Like I said, I can’t do it justice, but I know now that God is real, and this divine Oneness surpasses anything on the ceiling of any chapel.

And so I continue forward blindly, but I have faith that the steps I take have a purpose that defies my understanding. I don’t always know what to say. Isn’t that true of any of us? I do know that I write for a purpose beyond me.

We each have a story to tell. I’ll start telling a fragment of my story in the memoir I’m working on. Some tell their story through the action of their love towards their children. Others express themselves through music or painting. The point is that we all express ourselves somehow. It’s part of the human experience and purpose, the need to create.

And now .I’ll blindly stop…

But not so blind. I’m starting this writing career later in life. On some level it’s what I’ve always wanted to do. My problem was that I let the world and my upbringing get in the way. Being a writer was never presented as a viable career choice. I had to figure it out over a lifetime. Call me dense or slow on the uptake. Fine. I’m grateful I figured it out at all. So many aren’t that lucky.

When a Tree Falls…

Have you heard that thought exercise about the tree falling in the woods? If no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? Or rather, does it even matter to anyone but the tree? I was writing in my journal this morning when the thought crossed my mind…

That DAMNED tree! What business does it have falling and hurting my brain with existential angst?

It’s not that bad, though. I’m pretty well grounded since my Near-Death Experience. I know I matter. I have purpose.

“So why all this business about a tree falling, Dave?”

I considered it as a metaphor, that’s why. As a writer, I’m the tree. My writing is the falling. If there’s no one to read what I write, does it make a sound? Does it matter?

I can make the argument that it does still matter. To me, it matters. An artist creates to express. To send a message that others hopefully grok. Does an artist care about making a dime from their artwork? I think some artists would say yes, it matters if one can feed, shelter, and clothe themselves with the profits from their art.

I know a good many artists who never make money from their art. That’s not the purpose. The purpose is first and foremost, for them, to soothe their soul and aid with depression. Art as therapy. And it works: I confess that I’d write even if I never made a nickel from it.

Writing grounds me. It helps me make sense of the world. But there is an unexpected downside to this literary life I lead, or rather, it’s fairer to say that my disability has created in me a shut-in. Call it undiagnosed or untreated PTSD from the accident, but I’m reticent to go out into the world.

Just yesterday, I was feeling sorry for myself. It was a moment of weakness, and I give myself permission to feel that way. I go with what’s honest. Anyway, I was throwing myself a grand pity party, missing my able body terribly. If I could just go for a run at will like I used to…

But that’s not to be. I’m a pragmatist. I am this way, and that’s it, so I’ll make the most of it that I can.

It seems I’ve wandered into the weeds. Let’s get back to whether or not I care if anyone hears the “tree” of my words.

No, I don’t give a fuck.

It’s not that I don’t want readers. I do. I want to thrive as an artist and continue to support myself through my writing and copy editing. Words are what I love, even though I know there are many whose craft is more refined.

So what? I’m not them. They’re not me. Stating the obvious, I know, but I’m here to tell you that you lose out every time you compare yourself.

We are all unique, with our own gifts and stories to tell. Those stories are the trees falling, the hammers of expression in the forests of need. The need to get what is inside, outside. The need to read and share and know that we are not alone. There are others walking similar paths.

The tree cares and hears itself. That’s all that really matters. The rest is gravy.

The Death of Cinema?

I’ve read or heard that prognostication several times recently: that cinema is a dying art form, and going to the movies will eventually become a thing of the past. Not being a frequent movie goer myself, I’m part of the problem, not that I want to be. As much as cinema has suffered in the wake of the global pandemic and the advent of affordable, passable home theater systems and umpteen inch TVs…oh, and streaming services, I’d like to think cinema is making a comeback and has been for over a year now.

I wax nostalgic about coming of age in the ‘70s and being just old enough to hang out at the movies sans parents, just in time for May, 1977, when a movie premiered telling the saga of a boy coming of age in a galaxy far, far away, a fun film called Star Wars. Maybe you’ve heard of it? This was back when a kid without an allowance could shell out a few bucks for admission, pop, and popcorn and not go broke.

Briarwood Mall Theaters, back when the ticket kiosk was in the middle of that arm of the mall, apart from the theaters themselves. I’d be lying if I said I can still imagine the smell of the popcorn being synonymous with the Empire, rebellion, and Jedi Knights. I will tell you that it took decades of life for that association to fade.

I spent a good chunk of my teenage life at the theater, watching movies first run whenever they caught my attention, and they often caught my attention. It wasn’t just science fiction or fantasy, either. My taste in movies was eclectic from an early age. I liked a captivating story, whether in space or contemporaneous to me on earth. I laugh when I think about taking a girl I liked on a date to dinner and an adult drama, Alan Alda style, called The Four Seasons. This was after the State Theater, once a single screen theater with a balcony from the Golden Age of Hollywood, was split into three—or was it four—separate screens.

I enjoyed the movie. Her: not so much. We were silent on the drive to drop her off at her house. She told me she needed to get up before dawn on Sunday for a Sunday paper route before church…

I digress. I blew my chance with a girl I’d been crushing on for months. I blame my early, unwitting cinephile self for not better reading the audience.

I have so many great memories of going to the movies. These are mostly from my youth, but also from the days when I was dating my soon-to-be wife. Or even before I met her. I wasn’t adverse to going to a movie alone. I enjoyed my own company when I had no one else to go with.

My lifelong passion for the movies didn’t end when I could own them on VHS and, eventually DVD and Blu-Ray. Now we have high definition streaming. I have a tough time keeping up with the options.

But what is this about the death of cinema? I refer to experts in the field like renowned screenwriter and lecturer Robert McKee, who said on a recent Rich Roll podcast that the cinematic experience is suffering thanks to the pandemic and streaming services.

Although studios are no longer doing it, they were simultaneously releasing first runs at the theaters and on services like (HBO) Max. Dune: Part 1 comes to mind because it was the first big release I saw after moving to Asheville, once I was discharged from a year of rehabilitation.

I wasn’t yet ready to venture out to the theater, still being worried about the pandemic. I instead bought a 65” TV and home theater setup and watched the movie that way.

It wasn’t until the spring of ‘22 that I was ready to return to the theater for the first time since my accident. I regrettably cannot remember the first movie I saw that spring, but I can’t forget the second one, a movie sometimes credited with resurrecting a blockbuster theater-only audience: Top Gun: Maverick.

You’ve probably guessed by now that this post isn’t intended to be a researched essay on The Death of Cinema. That’s not what I write my blog. I write just to express personal observations. Sometimes I’ll toss in cited sources. More often I won’t. I’m not aiming for a NYT byline. Not here anyway.

End delayed disclaimer…

Back to the return of Tom Cruise’s Pete “Maverick” Mitchell to the big screen. Like him or not, Cruise did Hollywood cinema a favor by waiting out the pandemic until the numbers justified insisting on a theatrical-only release. Waiting paid off, not just for Paramount, but for the industry as a whole.

I served in the Air Force. I know what it’s like to be near a jet when the pilot increases to military thrust and punches afterburners. You feel it in your body and bones as much as hear it through two layers of hearing protection. After everything I’d read about Maverick’s theatrical release, I knew that the big screen experience wasn’t to be missed.

I paid extra for the premium sound experience, RPX. There are speakers in the seats. It’s no stretch when I say that experience was worth it. As soon as those F/A-18 Super Hornets throttled up during the opening sequence, I knew I’d come to the right place, the cinema.

But it’s not only about the incredible carnival experience the big screen and sound can provide; no matter what anyone says, a home theater will be hard pressed to provide a similar experience. Going to the theater gets to the very core of what it means to be human. We all love a great story well told. Sharing in that experience with an audience of strangers adds something intangible but magical.

So is cinema in its death throes? I sure as hell hope not! There’s too much humanity to be shared, together in a cool, dark place once those credits start rolling. The pandemic was a gut punch to some theaters—my favorite multiplex back home in Ann Arbor closed and was demolished.

And though I support the SAG and writers strikes, they were either well timed or poorly timed, depending on your perspective. There is leverage for the unions, emerging from the pandemic. But then can the industry as a whole survive another jab when it’s already on the ropes? Time will tell.

I personally don’t think cinema is dead. Nor is it dying. It’s had to reinvent itself to compete with the increasing fidelity and production values of the streaming services. We’re human. We thrive on narrative. We’ll always seek entertainment, living by proxy through the lives of characters that are larger than life. Where else can we fully experience being James Bond or Ethan Hunt?

Will cinema be around in 50 years? Hard to say. But that’s a topic for another day, how advanced 3D, IMAX, and virtual reality will impact the industry. Let’s just say I believe cinematic storytelling will still exist. What delivery systems it will use is anyone’s guess.

But then, I’ll be gone in 50 years. Maybe we’ll all be on the verge of extinction. Yet another blog post. OK. Shutting up now. Thanks for reading.

Remembering When

I asked a friend if she had any ideas for a blog post…anything she’d be interested reading about. After all, I aim to please not just myself, but also my audience. Maybe no one wants to hear about my depression and struggles.

And that’s okay. I don’t want to always be a Demetrius Downer. The world has enough of that. This weekend is so different from last weekend. Night and day difference.

Part of what helped me climb out of the depression is a trick I remember from my days training for marathons. Something that I loved about running was the peace and solitude that followed me with every step.

I enjoyed that peace and solitude so much that I preferred running the first thing in the morning, well before I was due at work at 0900.

How could I fit in a 10 or 12 mile run before work? Math. I’d subtract the time it took to complete the run, stretch, shower, and have breakfast…oh, and commute from the time I had to start work. That meant I’d have to set my alarm for anywhere from 0300 to 0430, depending on the distance I’d be running that morning.

Predawn and then some! I lived on Ann Arbor’s Old West Side, a quaint neighborhood not far from downtown; predawn on that side of town transformed quaintness into something more like mystical. Even more so when I’d include hills through Nichols Arboretum.

Friends and family thought I was crazy, but they didn’t experience the predawn world the way I did. It became almost an addiction to have the freedom of traffic free streets, the peace of a city asleep.

I missed those days so much that I tried for a while to recreate those predawn mornings once I was healed enough from the accident to live alone.

NO! No running. Because of my injuries, my running days are behind me. But just to enjoy the stillness and quiet of a world asleep. I would wake up at 0430 to write and read my way into the day. And I was able to do that for a few months.

It was able to enjoy those predawn mornings almost like I used to when I was running. This lasted until my pain specialist and I agreed to try a new medication. Alas! The new medication definitely helps with my pain, but it KNOCKS ME OUT! precluding early mornings.

I tried for a while to honor the early alarm clock. No can do.

How was I able to wake up so early and get out the door to run, even in the dead of winter? I used a little trick called staging: I would lay out my clothes, winter gear when necessary, and developed the habit of pulling on my togs, grabbing my headlamp and water bottle—or bottles depending on the distance—and I was out the door for my warm up miles before I was awake enough to protest the ungodly early hour!

And it worked. Staging work.

Damn! Those were the days! Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I’d wind up disabled and living in the mountains of North Carolina.

Yet here I am! Don’t misunderstand me; while I do miss running, that doesn’t mean I’m not grateful and at peace with where I am in life. God is good and great. God helped me remember that little trick of staging.

I’m a creature of habit. I thrive on routine. While I can be spontaneous when it’s called for, routine is the magical ladder that helps me climb higher. It on the rungs of this ladder that I was able to climb out of last weekend’s depression.

I remember the staging and applied it to my current mornings. There are three things I’ve learned are essential to a productive, awesome start to my mornings.

1. A clean kitchen. No dirty dishes in the sink, etc.

2. A strong cup of ginger/turmeric tea steeped overnight. Soothes a sour stomach.

3. A clean mug waiting by the Nespresso, ready for that magical first cup o’ Joe.

That’s it. That’s my magic trick for a solid start to my days. A simple staging the night before that takes only a few minutes. A trick learned from predawn runs. Ritual before sitting down to write. Always showing up and letting the muse have her way.

Hobbiton

I’ve fallen into a bad habit. It’s one quite common among the disabled, negatively impacting mental and physical health. Being disabled and well equipped to live independently is a slippery slope. Combine that with a lack of focus and a diagnosis as someone with bipolar II disorder—I’m effectively medicated—and it’s a perfect recipe for sliding into an isolated depression.

I’m not afraid to admit to my internal struggles, struggles that at times keep me in bed for days at a time. Such was the case until just a few days ago. OK, so maybe I need to talk to someone about adjusting my meds, but that’s beside the point. I’ve been depressed since not long after my last post, which explains but doesn’t excuse my lack of productivity in recent weeks.

I share this with my audience to help others understand that I’m not always the source of inspiration my friends and family say I am. I try to…want to inspire others to reach inside themselves and rediscover the creative self, the playful child, that’s still inside each of us.

So yeah, a depression that kept me in bed all of last weekend, keeping me away from the keyboard and in front of Netflix binging Madam Secretary or YouTube TV for a Family Guy Friday. Hey, I’m not proud of it, but in the interest of self-love I make no apologies either. It is what it was, a form of retreat and self healing I didn’t know I needed.

I’m coming up on three years since the accident that took my former life and gave me a new lease on a life full of challenges I never dreamed I’d have to face. Once a marathon man, and now someone winded after walking a mile in 40 minutes.

Why? That’s a question, the answer to which I’d forgotten for reasons I’m still figuring out. I’d lost touch with my spirituality. I was directionless. The Universe, Divine Source…God smacked my head with a tree at 65mph to knock me out of an existential stupor.

I have a story to tell. It’s a cautionary tale about a boy with big dreams who burned through decades, clueless how to manifest those dreams. What I thought I wanted was never my first, dearest love and passion. What I did best from my earliest memories was fantasize, daydream that nothing was impossible, not even standing on the surface of the sun.

I lived in my head, in a world of what if, the clue that it took a lifetime to understand meant that I was, am, and always should have been a storyteller. A writer. Not a jet jockey or astronaut as I was inspired to believe. Admirable goals, to be sure, but not my purpose.

And yes, I believe we all have a purpose. I’m one of those people.

I live to daydream. I’m no comedian, but I understand that high that comes from making others laugh. Ideally with me and not at me.

Those who know me well know how much I loved to run. I’ve struggled to discover, or rediscover a sense of identity, one I thought I’d lost in the accident. And while the accident did strip from me some capabilities, I’m grateful my imagination wasn’t one of them.

I’m writing now with a feeling of renewal and rebirth, a phoenix from the ashes of my former self. I have been going through hell. I remembered a saying about going through hell, so I kept going. I clung to my faith that I was given a second chance for a reason.

And the fog began to lift, as it always does. My only job during that darkness was to remember why I’m still here and, above all, love myself. I’d never chastise a loved on for going through a rough time, so I wasn’t about to do that to myself.

I was here in my comfy hobbit hole, riding out the storm like REO Speedwaagon, knowing that it would pass as it always does. The beauty of going through times like that is that blissful juxtaposition once the sun breaks through and blue skies return.

I think my previous post was about being down as well. That isn’t my default state, honestly! I live for love and laughter, for the simple joy of a deep breath of fresh air, Canadian forest fire smoke notwithstanding. I know we’re social creatures, even as reclusive as I am. I’m working on changing that, striking a healthy balance between solitude and society.

I’ve always been wired to keep to keep to myself and enjoy the stories of others. I aspire to be one of those storytellers. I don’t expect others to believe as I do. We must each follow our own path. Though I believe death is an illusion, just as birth is, it’s not up to me to decide for others what to believe.

I know what I saw in that interval before the paramedics shocked my heart back to rhythm. It was wondrous to behold. I didn’t want to come back, yet here I am to tell you that you don’t have to believe in the fact of oxygen for it to sustain you.

Malaise

I’m sitting here in my armchair on a Saturday afternoon, wondering what to do with my day. I confess that no activity sounds appealing to me right now.

Reading? Meh

Writing? Meh

Watching TV? Meh

Playing chess? Meh

You get the idea. I wouldn’t say I’m depressed. I wouldn’t write at all were that the case. So I exist, an irony because I’m writing even though I don’t feel like it.

I once read that the times it’s best to write are when you don’t feel like it. That’s when you dig deeper to discover what the fuck the problem is when there technically isn’t any problem at all.

That’s me today.

It’s a beautiful Saturday afternoon here in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Sunny and touching 80 degrees. I’m listening to a Train mix through YouTube Music, probably because I wish I were in San Francisco. But I’m also fine just where I am.

Maybe I’ll wheel myself outside and recline in the sun for a while. Or maybe I’ll sit here and write through this malaise. That would probably be the best thing for me. I like to understand what’s going on between my ears.

I’m writing this post because I can. I survived a near-death accident, something I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Well, almost anyone. Hey, I’m spiritual, but I’m no angel. I’m grateful to have a hand that can type. I’m grateful for the breath in my lungs.

There’s a certain peace that’s slowly filling me as I write. That’s really why I write: to get what is in me out of me and in a place where I can inspect it and be reminded…

I am not my thoughts.

My thoughts are all over the place. San Francisco, regret for not making the military a career, wondering where my cat is, what I should do for dinner, how I could possibly visit a friend in Vermont, would I get Lyme disease from a tick bite up there…

Miscellaneous, random crap.

I know this blog has been languishing, so I figured I should write a post.

But then what to write about?

Maybe that dream I had last night? Too personal…and get your mind out of the gutter!

Here’s a realistic snapshot of a day that lacks direction. That’s okay for a Saturday.

Did you know Train recorded covers of Zeppelin songs? I didn’t. I only learned that about a year ago. Pat Monahan does a great impression of Robert Plant.

Something I’ve been working on is a revision of a memoir that covers the last 14 years of my life. It covers a time after separating from my ex-wife through discovery of distance running, then through troubles with uncontrolled bipolar disorder, then the accident and everything bringing me to today, posting in a blog and living the writer’s life.

It’s living a dream I didn’t know I had until I was in the middle of it.

It’s possible I’ll never be published, but I have to take the shot. The biggest risk you can take in life is avoiding the risk you should’ve taken.

Who was it who said you miss 100% of the shots you never take? Or something to that effect. I think it was Wayne Gretzky. I’d look it up, but I’m trying to exercise memory.. my mind is sometimes fuzzy. Could be my traumatic brain injury; could be a lack of caffeine.

As I’m making my way through this unedited post, I’d like to take a minute to thank you, the reader, for making it this far, walking with me along my meandering path.

I read in the New York Times today that there was a meeting of leading developers of artificial intelligence, A.I. The leaders, 350 of them, signed a letter that warns A.I. could soon pose an existential threat on par with pandemic and nuclear war.

Rise of the Machines!

And I don’t mean that facetiously. I watched an interview with A.I., and it was spooky. To think that a human was having a freeform conversation with an artificial mind struck me as more living science fiction than anything else I’ve witnessed in recent times.

I’m not worried about my own earthly existence. I know I’m living on borrowed time. But the survival of the species is certainly in question. Nuclear threat, pandemic, climate change, A.I…we’ll either finish ourselves off, succumb to the ecosystem protecting the planet, or maybe, just maybe we’ll rise above.

I’m a cautious optimist. Younger generations seem to have a handle on how to steer the ship before we go over the edge.

So writing through the malaise has helped. I have a better sense of how to steer my day now. Reading and movies are in order. And catching up on correspondence.

Memorial Day 2023

Memorial Day, a day officially set aside to remember those who have died in active duty military service; that day is tomorrow. While I don’t personally know anyone who has died in active duty service, Memorial Day does trigger countless memories of many in my family who have served.

The one closest to me is my own father, who served active duty in the United States Navy in the early 1950s. He was aboard the battleship USS Iowa during the Korean War. I remember his stories of how the ship would rock and rumble when they fired the main 16” guns. Light bulbs would break. When they enjoyed the rare downtime, sailors would sunbathe on the deck between the main anchor chains.

Then there’s my mom’s side of the family. She was the youngest of four, her three older brothers having served. My uncles Oran and Richard served in the Army Air Corps during the Second World War. Oran was an air traffic controller with the Flying Tigers, supporting bombing missions over the “hump” in Burma.

I’m a little fuzzy on my uncle Richard’s service. I do know he was a bomb-navigator, flying on B-24 Liberators during missions in the Pacific. Fun fact: the planes he flew on were built in the Willow Run assembly plant that Henry Ford built just a few miles east of Ann Arbor, MI, his hometown.

Then there’s the youngest brother, uncle Johnny. John was too young to serve in WWII. That didn’t stop him from enlisting in the army and seeing action in Korea and Vietnam. John became a highly decorated career NCO, retiring with the rank of sergeant major. While I don’t remember what awards Johnny received other than the Purple Heart, I do know he was awarded for bravery when he pulled soldiers from a burning Jeep that had been hit by mortar fire. While I don’t know all of the injuries Johnny suffered, I do know there was sufficient shrapnel left in his body to set off metal detectors.

I also have cousins who served, one in the Navy and the other as an officer in the Army. Aside from Johnny’s injuries, my family has been fortunate enough never to have lost one of us in action. For that, I’m grateful.

Memorial Day is about remembering those who gave the ultimate sacrifice. I don’t personally know anyone who was killed in action. That doesn’t stop me from giving pause to say a prayer for those KIA or MIA, missing in action. More importantly, I pause to say a prayer for the survivors of those thus touched by war. It’s those left behind that continue to suffer. I pray that they understand that their loved ones have moved on to a better place.

in years past, I’ve used Memorial Day weekend to read military history or watch a patriotic movie or two. This year I’m instead going to meditate on the freedom such sacrifices have bought. While the geopolitics of war is debatable, I’m not going to let such discussion taint the memory of those who have given their lives. May they rest in peace.

For Sanity’s Sake

Before the accident, I spent a lot of time outside, walking and running, stopping to do pushups in the dirt, saying hi to neighbors and other runners…

I can’t say I had lots of friends, because I didn’t. I still don’t, but getting outside and enjoying even brief interactions with others went a long way to helping me feel connected.

Nature is healing, and a friendly hello is energizing.

Since the accident, I’ve been challenged to get out even half as much as I used to. Partly it’s because of the sheer effort to get out of the house, and partly it’s because I’m still getting accustomed to the looks and kind deference I experience. It makes me feel like Quasimodo.

That’s not fair to those who are so kind to me. There is goodness in people. It’s mostly an internal struggle and perception I’m working to change.

When I was in rehab, the schedule of activities kept me busy. I got out of my room often and interacted with others on a daily basis.

And I had FUN! The staff at QLI in Omaha, where I did my rehab, were top notch.

Then I made the move to Asheville, a town I’d only visited once. I wanted to be closer to family, but I also needed a less severe winter climate than Michigan. And then there are the mountains! I love living in the mountains.

My older sister, knowing that I’m politically left leaning and used to the eclecticism of Ann Arbor, suggested Asheville, and she was spot on.

But what I was missing when I moved here is structure. I fell out of the practice of getting outside and interacting with others. I moved here in September of 2021. It’s 2023 now, and I’ll be honest: I’ve made only three friends locally.

That’s okay with me. I’ve never been very social. It’s not that I dislike people. It’s only that I prefer solitude most of the time.

But there’s a limit to how much solitude I need, or is even healthy for me.

I fell into periods where I didn’t leave my apartment for weeks. Groceries were delivered, and my CNA would fetch the mail for me. I FaceTimed with family, but other than that and talking with my CNA, I had no social interaction.

Oh, wait. Twice a week I would sign on for Zoom support sessions with friends who are also disabled from their injuries. So I’m not a total shut-in.

Still, I’ll be the first to admit that I have been in an unhealthy pattern of not getting out for fresh air or getting the social interaction that suits me.

So I’ve made a vow to go for walks at least four times per week, also using my wheelchair for longer excursions. Fresh air and sunshine! And exercise.

Having been a distance runner, not exercising brought with it an emotional toll. I’ve battled depression, exacerbated by the fact that I’m bipolar 2. Life and emotions are a veritable roller coaster.

I’m also learning to reach out socially in a manner that suits me. This means finding penpals who enjoy long form correspondence. With technology such as it is, finding penpals is pretty easy.

I use penpalwprld.com, and I’ve so far found penpals in the Czech Republic, Hungary, Venezuela, England, Vermont, and South Carolina. Email makes writing convenient, and the technology exists for videoconferencing around the globe.

One of my favorite parts of the day is writing to my penpals. It’s my preferred method of communication.

I’m fascinated by how technology has enabled me to stay connected, and I’m grateful for it. If only more people practiced communication with others, sometimes others with different perspectives, we may not have so much division and polarization in the world.

I’ve grown quite spiritual since the accident. Seeing the afterlife will do that to a person. I believe we’re all part of something greater than the individual. The universe is a living entity. God? Sure! Or Source. Or Oneness.

When we die and turn in these rental bodies, we’ll know. Understanding that there is divinity in each of us, whether we choose to believe it or not, is a powerful antidote to the poison of separation.

But I’m not here to preach. We all must walk our own paths. I’m here just trying to figure it all out and sharing in the process. Thank you for reading. 🙏

Mothers Day

I’m not a mom. I never will be a mom.

I’m sure that’s a shock to some of you.

Weirdos.

But today is Mother Day, 2023. I have sisters who are moms. I have a cat who was a mom to nine kittens before I adopted her. The kittens had already been adopted.

And, of course, I have a mom. I say that in the present tense because, even though her body has expired, her spirit lives on eternally.

I was married for 13 years. We never had children.

My mother was born in 1932. The height—or depths—of the depression. She was born into a hard-working pioneering farm family; outhouse, pet pig, chores and all.

Her name was Glennetta. Like her name, there was no other like her in the world.

I wasn’t always the best son, though my siblings would probably agree that for whatever reason, I was her favorite. She would have denied that.

She did her best to give all of her kids equal love and affection. I think she did a good job of it, never mind that she had six of us to juggle.

She loved to sing. That’s one of my earliest memories of her.

Her singing had an absent-minded quality to it; music sure did fill the house, especially when I was younger.

She would play records to entertain me in the dining room, adjacent to the kitchen from where she could keep an eye on me as she did kitchenly, Betty Crockery things.

This was years before Martha Stewart became a household name.

My favorite song back then was The Little Drummer Boy, that Christmas classic sung by … Andy Williams? Or Bing Crosby. Not the duet with David Bowie.

I’m wandering into the weeds. This post is about my mom.

She was a stay-at-home mom long before WFH was a thing. Then my little sisters came along. Twins. Our family outgrew the house on Juneau Road.

We moved to Ann Arbor in the summer of ‘71. Compared to the post-war housing of Hickory Hills, our new house was a mansion.

I was 6 years old and qualified for my own room. All of the four older kids got our own rooms. The twins shared a room, which was only fair since they had shared a womb.

I knew nothing of my family’s finances. My dad was a CPA, but when my teacher had us play the game when you say what your dad does for a living, my answer was what my mom had told me: he makes money.

Little did she realize that I took that literally, thinking my dad actually printed money.

It was sort of a Kindergarten Cop moment, except I was in 2nd grade. “It’s not a tumor!”

Eventually my mom got a job outside the home. And then a second job. Although my dad was a gifted forensic accountant, he never charged what he was worth.

My mom’s jobs were out of necessity.

She was always there for her children, even to a fault. Although not in the best of health in later life, we could all depend on her to listen and love us, regardless of the problem.

For years, it was only my brother and I who lived close to Mom. Everyone else lived out of town or out of state.

My brother had his wife and sons. He usually did something special for the mother of his children. My sisters would all call, send cards, flowers, or other gifts.

A Mothers Day tradition for my mother and me grew organically from the fact that I had no children and naturally wanted to do something special for my mom on her day.

She loved to plant flowers, so we would visit local nurseries that would always have Mothers Day sales. She would buy several flats, and then I would treat her to lunch at the restaurant of her choosing.

She kept it simple. It was always Applebees or Chili’s.

In later years, she hid her poor health from us until it was too late. She worked up until the day before she was hospitalized. Thanksgiving Day, 2011.

She never came home from the hospital until she left her body behind.

So when I talk about my mom, it’s a mixture of past and present tense, joy and sadness, love, hope, and above all, gratitude. She’s no longer here in the flesh, but she’s with me every time I think of her. That is often.

Happy Mothers Day, Mom! Keep rocking that spirit world!

Timely Tirade

Look at me! I’m getting an early start on my next post. I’m not feeling well. I think it’s the flu. Whatever it is, it’s sapping my energy.

Getting an early start on the post seemed prudent; I don’t know for how long I may be bedridden. It just feels like it’s heading in that direction.

The news is getting me down, so I’m limiting my exposure while trying to balance that with being “informed.” I’m sick of the gun culture in this country. Whatever the founders intended with the Second Amendment and a well-regulated militia, I’m certain the current state of affairs wasn’t it.

I mean, c’mon! “Well-regulated…” it’s right there in the fucking wording!

…

Picking up on this a few days later. A few tragic days later. Yet another mass killing, this time at an upscale mall in Texas. Texas…don’t get me started.

I have good friends in Texas. Not everyone there is a gun-loving psychopath, but this idea that an armed society is a polite society is flawed out of the gate. The news is proof.

Gun advocates claim there are not enough guns in enough places. When I started my own research into this, it was hard to find unbiased sources.

The FBI says one thing, then the NRA comes along to say the FBI is underreporting crimes deterred by armed citizens.

Check sources and their agendas.

Y’know.

Fuck it.

I’m not going to waste my breath here justifying one position over another. I still believe in the power of the vote. That’s where I’ll state my case.

I only know that I’m exhausted from the news that we’re on track to break the record for mass killings in this country. What other nations have similar per capita numbers?

NONE.

What is the difference?

GUNS.

Or rather, lack thereof.

And I know it’s not just about that. There’s a mental health component to it as well. There’s the argument that crazies will find a way to kill regardless.

Maybe so.

But the tools used determine the effectiveness of a rampage. Say someone is triggered to commit an act of mass violence.

The perpetrator has two options, and AR-15 or a machete.

Which do you think will result in more deaths, all else being equal, like crowd density and law enforcement response?

The weapon of distance has the overwhelming advantage. It’s much easier to kill with the rifle.

Take away the rifle, you have on the mentally ill perpetrator left with…what?

A knife?

A machete?

I can think of only one weapon that may be more effective, and that’s a vehicle. But even a vehicle is limited in where such an attack could occur.

A vehicle couldn’t easily be driven inside a mall or stadium or other venue.

I’m not saying take away all guns. A similar attack with a pistol or lever or bolt-action rifle would not be as effective as a semi-automatic AR-15.

There is no reason for the average citizen to own an assault rifle.

Have a rifle or shotgun for hunting. Hell, have a pistol for home defense.

Leave playing ARMY to the Army and a well-regulated militia, each state’s National Guard.

And there’s the obvious argument: a musket was the weapon of choice when the second amendment was ratified. I don’t think it would have similarly structured, let alone ratified, with the assortment of weapons available today.

Oh, but what about the black market?!

Sure, that will be the wild card, but I don’t think many of the mass shooters who obtained their weapons legally would have resorted to the black market.

Other countries have black markets. Other countries have violent mentally ill populations. What other countries come even close to our record of mass killings?

As for the mental illness factor, I like what a friend of mine in the Czech Republic said they do in her country: psychological evaluations for ANYONE before they can purchase a firearm.

I know that would never fly in the United States, but that doesn’t mean it’s not a good idea.

The answers are out there, but doing nothing in the wake of these events is bullshit.

If not now, when?

OK, so maybe I did spend my time making my case. Hey, it’s my time!

…

Deep breaths…

Serenity now!

Soaking in Silence

I read a book a while back — I’m known to do that — discussing how the plague of multitasking and numerous daily distractions kills productivity.

Crazy, right?! I thought multitasking was supposed to be the bomb!

NOPE

The book is Deep Work, by Cal Newport. I’m not here to give you a book review. What I will tell you is that the ideas presented in the book have been nothing short of powerfully transformative.

Separating oneself from distractions, freeing the mind to dive deep into the sea of thought, is a tall order. Modern life is filled with distractions. Even writing this post I’m tempted to click over to local weather, the news, what’s the best movie to watch on Netflix tonight?

Checking texts, changing the Sirius XM station to play…lo! And behold! Aldo Nova!

How many of you remember that blast from the past?

And there you have it. We’re off reminiscing about high school days…

Or at least I’m reminiscing; my brother gave me that album for my birthday.

And…we’re back on topic, which is breaking free from distractions. Even background music can be a distraction.

I struggled with this for years. Even my love of distance running could be a distraction from getting serious about my writing. My ability to focus, having come a long way, still requires constant, diligent attention. I need to focus on focusing.

I love music. There are days when I have music playing from the time I wake up until I go to bed. It’s not often a distraction, but I just demonstrated how it can be. Even now: Don Henley’s Boys of Summer reminding me strongly of a girl, a woman I once knew.

When I really want to focus, unfortunately even the music has to go.

Silence.

Have you tried it lately? What in your life prevents you from finding your corner away from distractions?

Silence is its own music. It’s powerful. When all of the demands on our attention are stripped away, we’re left with ourselves and the freedom to focus.

I’m not trying to tell you that you have to unplug from everything and shut yourself in a soundproof room. I have music in the background right now. Atmosphere.

But there are some tasks that demand uninterrupted trains of thought. My trains often derail for the slightest reason. For me, silence is sometimes the sweetest salve to heal a fractured attention span.

Last night is an example. I thought I was going to catch a couple of episodes of Tiny Beautiful Things on Hulu and then read before bed. I’d just finished dinner and loaded the dishwasher.

The house was silent. Bastet was rubbing against my leg; she always has to be with me when I’m in the kitchen.

No noise from the neighbors.

Perfect silence…well, my tinnitus notwithstanding.

I didn’t want to disturb that bastion of quietude. I could almost reach out and touch it. I decided against the plan for Hulu. I read for the rest of the night.

Let’s see how tonight goes. I like the show. It’s based on the book by Cheryl Strayed.

Shut In

I used to run.

A lot.

It was common for me to go out into the world with nothing but a hydration pack and ambition. One, two, sometimes four or five hours I’d be out on the roads and trails, chasing a dream.

That dream was to be an ultrarunner, that rare condition that afflicts those with an addictive personality. I fit that bill.

Running any distance longer than a marathon is considered an ultramarathon. A marathon is officially 26.2 miles. 42.195 kilometers.

My objective was to run my first ultramarathon in 2021, although the pandemic threw a wrench in that; it was uncertain if and when organized races would resume.

The universe — God — had a different plan for me.

In August of 2020, August 16 to be precise, I had a transient ischemic attack (TIA), a mini-stroke, while driving southbound on US-23. The TIA caused me to black out.

An eyewitness later told police that I swerved and then veered off the road, hitting a tree dead-on.

The accident report estimated that I was traveling at 60 mph. Talk about a universal smack in the head!

But I’m not here to write in detail about the accident.

Long story short: I’m permanently disabled. No more running.

It took me a year to learn how to walk again. I live independently, but something changed in the wake of the accident. I stopped going out.

It wasn’t a matter of desire: I wanted to go out. I had moved from Ann Arbor, MI, to the beautiful mountain town of Asheville, NC. There is so much to see and do here.

I had spent a year in physical rehabilitation, housed with others also acclimating to the disabled life.

It occurred to me that I’d been in a bubble. Traveling to Asheville was my first extended experience as a disabled minority in an ableist world.

People move fast! And I’m slow. Turtle slow. Add to that my subconscious guardedness because my balance isn’t the greatest, and you can perhaps imagine…

Chicago’s O’Hare airport was my journey to Mordor.

Such experiences imbued in me a subtle dread of the idea of going out in the world.

It’s exhausting.

However, I’m starting to rediscover that part of me that loves doing the unthinkable.

I can’t run marathons anymore, but maybe I can hike a mile or two.

Or maybe I can even take my wheelchair somewhere that’s ADA accessible and spend an afternoon.

I’ve become too comfortable living in my apartment for weeks at a time: Amazon and Instacart take care of most shopping needs. My certified nurse assistant helps with household chores and meal prep.

It’s easy to be a shut in. It’s something most people would be surprised to learn about me.

But I was NEVER about doing the easy thing.

Some parts of me died in the accident. I’m learning that my marathon attitude isn’t one of them.

That’s a part of me that, apparently, took longer than my body to heal. Many have said a marathon can be a metaphor for life. I understand that now better than ever.

It’s all in the mind. I’m grateful for that.

PT@VA

It’s been a long time since my days in the military. Though I had a few complaints during my tenure as an aircraft weapons technician, my memories of the military are fond memories. I had a lot of fun. I made a lot of friends. And I sometimes shook my head over the inflexibility of procedures.

Sure, most of the procedures were developed over time, with trial and error being a part of the development process. They made sense. But I was reminded of intransigence of procedure when I received a call this morning. It was one of the physical therapists at the VA, calling to schedule an appointment for a wheelchair fitting.

I explained that I already have a wheelchair.

“That’s ok, Mr. Camfield. We need to start the process from scratch in order to equip you with a chair and hitch-mounted carrier.”

Oy! Don’t get me wrong…

I welcome the help. I really do, but why spend so much money on a new chair when I already have one?! Rhetorical, of course.

It’s not certain I’ll get a new chair. I like the one I have, and it has only about 11 miles on it. If I do get a new one, maybe I’ll donate it. I’m sure there are several organizations that could use a free motorized chair.

So I get to drive to the East side of town on Monday, bright and early at 0900.

It will be nice too get out for a bit and interact with other humans. I don’t get enough of that.

Ha! Forgot to post this the other day. Speaking of being human…

Mistakes will be made.

My Way

One of the most powerful and profound outcomes of my accident is that I can no longer move fast. My cognitive ability is unimpaired with the exception of occasional brain fog that I attribute to my traumatic brain injury. My physical ability, my speed in all activities, however, is permanently stuck in first gear. SLOW!

Sloth like, and necessarily so. If I move suddenly, such as by changing direction, I risk losing my balance and falling. I used to laugh at those commercials for alert necklaces, where an elderly person falls and can’t get up. Yeah, I was an insensitive kid, but I’m here to tell you that falling is no joke! Especially now that I’m older and my mobility is greatly diminished.

Don’t laugh at old people. Growing old is not for wimps.

I’ve fallen twice since the doctor and my PT agreed to rescind my bed rest order, which lasted for six months post-accident. Six months on my back sapped my strength. Each time I fell, I broke something. The first time, I broke my clavicle and one of the little orthopedic implants holding my left wrist together. The second time, I broke my right humerus near the elbow.

Both times, I needed help getting back on my feet. I had practiced getting up from the floor during PT sessions, but I mysteriously lacked strength after those falls. Getting up from the floor is called a floor transfer. It’s a considerable process with only one arm and limited flexibility.

Fun stuff!

But I needed help. I have since practiced floor transfers on my own.

Aw, hell! I’ve wandered from the path of my point.

Being a sloth.

I’m careful with how I move now, and it has impacted how I think. Slow motion isn’t just for visual effects.

I slow my thinking, deliberately. I picture a sloth and find fulfillment in the image of moving and thinking slowly.

By slow thinking I don’t mean like I’m mentally impaired. No no…I can process like nobody’s business! My thinking is meditative. Any moment is a fresh moment and in the NOW. a blank canvas or instance of silence, that vacuum that nature abhors.

and something comes to me. Sometimes profound, often mundane, but always in slow motion.

It’s ironic that I’m grateful for my disability. It’s evidence that I was on the wrong path. I lived for the physical. The spiritual didn’t matter.

Things have changed. I used to live in doubt. I feared death…

Now that I’ve died, it doesn’t bother me anymore. I’m back with purpose.

I thought I was living with purpose before. I was woefully wrong. It’s not to run a bazillion miles. It’s not to make fistfuls of cash. My purpose is to share my story and my imagination to the best of my ability.

And spread peace where chaos resides; love where there’s hate; forgiveness where there’s injury; faith where there’s doubt; hope where there’s despair; light where there’s darkness; joy where there’s sorrow…

Y’know, the basic stuff. Maybe it’s a tall order, but living and thinking slowly goes a long way for me.

And walking with gratitude and grace in every step I take.

In a world filled with division, distraction, despair, and doubt, a little bit of love and focus goes a long way.

My way is my way. My path. We all must find our own path through life, but there is more than just the material. Be kind to yourself. Be kind to others. Be grateful.

Bastet

Egyptian cat goddess, and black cat queen of my heart.

Meet Bastet. Though as any cat owner worth their salt knows, the name is only a formality, just as saying you’re the cat’s OWNER is a cosmic joke.

I rarely call her by her formal name. She is, in any given minute,

Baby Girl!

Fuzzy butt

Squeezy

Nutty nut

Google head

Another words, a creature of many personalities, moods that are at once mystifying and hilarious.

I adopted her two days shy of National Adopt a Black Cat Day. I didn’t know that at the time. I knew only that her face spoke to my heart, and I wanted a black cat. I wanted to give her a home.

She had recently successfully raised a litter of eight (the ninth hadn’t survived). All of her kittens had been adopted. But she had no home.

My home would be hers.

They let me spend time with her in a familiarization room, but I didn’t need the time. I knew.

After the paperwork and adoption fee, we were on our way home. She mewed pathetically the whole way, frightened of the unfamiliar carrier and the motion of the car. Then an unpleasant aroma signaled that she’d literally been scared shitless.

Ah, well. Welcome to pet ownership!

It has taken several months for her to feel comfortable with me, but now we’re inseparable. She loves to sleep between my feet, but she’s not a lap cat.

In fact, many of her behaviors are tailored ideally to my situation. She’s not a lap cat, and that works for me because I need my lap free for my iPad. Like now.

She also took right away to her scratching post, leaving my armchair alone. Mostly. The chair is a gift from a dear friend. I’d had to see it all torn up, shredded by razor sharp claws.

For the first few weeks, her night time shenanigans kept me up. I shut her out of my bedroom at night. She didn’t like that at first but adapted.

For a time.

Then she developed the habit of digging at the carpet where the door opens. I experimented by letting her come into the room at night. She started to adapt to my schedule.

Now she sleeps when I sleep, making that part of the 14+ hours each day that a cat requires to be catty.

We’ve achieved a beautiful and soothing relationship, Bastet and I. She does mostly anything she wants — which isn’t bad because she’s instinctively well-behaved — and I let her. Minimal fuss and mess, and it makes all the difference having another living soul in the house.

Randomness

Easter has come and gone. Enjoyable in my solitude. I wrote to two of my international penpals, enjoyed some reading and music, and I spoke with each of my sisters.

And I pondered. A lot. Such is common for me, especially on Sundays.

You might think I was pondering the deep stuff: life, love, the nature of sacrifice…

Nothing like that. My mind was often distracted by my clumsy upstairs neighbors, seemingly inconsiderate, or at least clueless of the noise they create through the floorboards.

I’ve considered going upstairs to introduce myself, out of the blue. Y’know, “Hey there! I thought it might be helpful for you to put a face to the person you’re annoying downstairs by you excessive commotion.”

My sister cautioned me against that approach because 1. You never know how someone may react and 2. I’m disabled and unable to adequately defend myself if their reaction isn’t neighborly.

Instead, I’m pondering writing to the apartment manager, explaining the situation and why I’m reluctant to address the matter myself. It’s a sticky situation.

Today is the Monday after Easter, and I’m feeling fine.

Mostly.

I’m saddened for so much of what’s happening in the world. Mass shootings at schools, and one just this morning at a bank in Louisville, Kentucky. I dance a tightrope of trying to stay up to date with the news while preserving sanity and a positive outlook.

Faith in God helps. I feel like I should qualify that statement. When a person talks about faith in God, it’s often assumed to be the Judeo-Christian God. The God I met during my NDE is so much more!

That’s not where I want to go with this post. I’m here to talk about…

I don’t know. It’s the not knowing I want to cover. I’m not posting just to post. I want to say something, but I also want to be honest about what is happening in my heart and head.

I was an atheist before the accident. Now I’m not. God was present when I died. It wasn’t Jesus that I saw. It wasn’t some old man sitting on a throne of Judgment.

God was and is all around us. They were and are in the living Earth, the rocks and water, wind and sunshine. Yes, God transcends gender. They are not him or her. They are so much more.

God surrounds us with beauty and love.

I’m a believer now, grateful for the chance to share my story. Take from it what you will, if you take anything at all. God doesn’t require belief for them to exist. You don’t have to believe that oxygen exists for it to contribute to life. Get it?

All I’m saying is that God is good and great and all around us.