The Science of Bits and Boundaries

It's a true fact, which is the very best kind of fact, that everything - everything - is made up of tiny little bits.  Even tinier than atoms, are neutrons and protons, and those uber tiny bits are made of quarks and gluons.  I'm sure that sometime soon someone will discover that quarks are made up of even tinier bits. And all these bits are vibrating around at various frequencies, just sort of bumping into each other with a bunch of - get this - space around them.  What is space, I wonder.
 
So that means that bits of me are bumping up against bits of the couch and bits of the floor and bits of the Earth and actually, we are all exchanging bits all the time.
 
So how in the world do we tell what's me and what's not?  We imagine boundaries.

While I'm trying to get my mind around these tiny little bits, I think about the planet, which is a little part of the solar system, which is a tiny part of the galaxy which is an itsy bitsy bit of the Universe, which might just be one of a collection of Universes.

AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!

So tell me again about the importance of that rose thorn in my thumb. And tell me again why we make a big deal out of location of birth, the shade of brown of skin, or what song we sing.

Surely whom or how we love doesn't matter as much as how well we love, or even that fact that we love.  Surely what we put out there, is what will be in the space that surrounds our bits.  Surely, given enough time (whatever that is) bits of me and bits of you will be exchanged.  How lovely is that?

We are One and we are a gazillion googalilion bits.  It's enough to blow my neurons!  I am grateful.

I'll Fly Away

One fine morning, when life I do depart I'll fly away.
To the peace of Mother's loving heart, I'll fly away. 
I'll fly away, oh, glory, I'll fly away. 
When I die, Hallelujah by and by, I'll fly away.

When the shadows of this life have gone, I'll fly away. 
Like a bird from these restraining walls of life, I'll fly away. 
I'll fly away, fly away, oh glory, I'll fly away. 
When I die, Hallelujah by and by, I'll fly away. 
Oh how glad and blissful when we meet. I"ll fly away. 
No more cold or shackles on my feet, I'll fly away. 
I'll fly away, oh glory, I'll fly away. 
When I die hallelujah by and by, I'll fly away. 
Just a few more lovely days and then, I'll fly away. 
To a land where I'll begin again. I'll fly away.

More and more I have dreams of flying. It's so lovely. Every time I think, "Wow! I thought this was only a dream, but here I am, actually flying!" In my dreams I often teach others the secrets to flying. You just have to know you can. It's so simple. Not easy, but simple.  
Also in these dreams, I feel an urgency to pass along anything of value I have. It seems like hubris, but often I pass along wisdom, knowledge, always love and kindness.  
Dreams are just a glimpse of the another side. I'm eager to pass to the other side, but I have so much more to do and accomplish here. Sometimes t's hard not to feel overwhelmed. I know that's a lesson for me.  
"Be at peace, you will have everything you need to accomplish everything needed of you." I trust that.  
You may think I'm silly or crazy or a fool. That's okay. What you think of me is really none of my business, and though a bit of ego pokes me saying I should care what some people think of me - those whom I love - even that matters little in the whole scheme of things.
"Give, offer, put it out there. You don't have responsibility for when and if it is absorbed or even noticed." I work at trusting that. I'm so grateful.

Rocking the Garden

I'm continuously building the Garden of Many Groovy Things.  It will, of course, never be done.  What fun would there be in that?

As part of the Garden, I've built retaining walls, and now I am building a grotto to honor Mother.  The structures are concrete blocks faced with rocks, most of which I've found in my yard and my neighbors' yards (with their blessings.)  This sort of masonry is not something I've ever done before, and like most things, I just dove into it without doing much research.  I've learned a thing or two along the way.

1. The rocks are beautiful, but the cement matters.  Oddly, I just discovered stuff called surface bonding cement.  It changed my life.  This stuff is so much fun and works so much better at bonding rocks to a surface than other cement.  Go figure.  I could be angry about discovering this so late in the project, but I think I'll just be grateful that I eventually found it.
2. Start at the bottom.  Each stone is set not only against the wall, but upon the stones beneath it.
3. Success is about 50% bonding and 50% support of those who came first.
4. Often one needs external support while the cement dries.  
5. It takes all sizes of rocks to complete the project.  All colors and all shapes make it beautiful.
6. If a rock doesn't fit the space, I've learned to try turning it around.  Sometimes a different perspective is what's needed.
7. Sometimes, the tiny pebbles are what's holding the whole thing together.
8. I never know where or when I'll find THE perfect rock.  Gotta keep my eyes open!
9. The cement will dry in its own time.  No use rushing it. 
10. Sometimes a whole section falls down.  Then I start over.

I often marvel at the age of these stones.  I've moved most of them from place to place in my gardens for the past seven plus years.  In fact,  I've always collected rocks and many of these have made over 20 moves with me.  These rocks rock.  When I think about being old, these rocks laugh at me.

Even as a child I loved hunting geodes along the Mississippi River.  They are rather spherical, unremarkable - looking rocks.  You just have to know what you're looking for.  They were formed over a million years ago when a gas bubble got trapped in some lava or during some sedimentation.  The outside of a geode is very, very hard, and when the rest of the ground erodes around them, they remain.  But the secret of geodes is that when you crack them open, you find gorgeous crystals.  They were there waiting for you all this time!  They must be broken to reveal their beauty and magic.

The odds are very good that I'll never build another garden that includes things like this.  But what I've learned by doing it isn't wasted.  Maybe, when I'm long gone, someone else will find this garden and find some magic.  Eventually, the structures will fall and crumble.  The rocks, however, will be around for longer than I can even imagine.  

They'll be waiting for someone else to learn the lessons they have to teach.  And for these ancient, patient teachers and their wisdom, I'm so very grateful.

The Law Has Gone to Pot!

I learned some heartbreaking statistics yesterday regarding South Carolina and I'm upset about the craziness on so many levels.

Evidently marijuana, which is illegal in S.C., is used equally among people of all shades of brown.  However, arrests for possession of marijuana with intent to distribute, is about 8 times higher for people with darker brown skin and who are financially poor. That is, most people who use marijuana in this state are ecru, middle class males.  Most people who are imprisoned for marijuana charges are poor, dark brown people.

This is insane on several levels.

1. Law enforcement officials say that they are only "going after" law breakers, regardless of color.  Obviously, this is not the case.  There is just no way around it.
2. "Possession with intent to distribute," or fixing to sell, is defined as being caught with an ounce or more of weed.  It's a felony.  That's ridiculous. Anyone who was on a university campus in the '70s knows that having a lid (an ounce, more or less)  of pot doesn't mean you have an intent to sell.  Come on!  A bale, a few pounds. . . . that's probably an intent to distribute. An ounce? No way.  A felony!
3. We taxpayers pay a bundle to sniff out, arrest, try, and imprison people who are caught with an ounce of pot.  I'm not even talking about the cost of really screwing up the lives of the people who are arrested and their families. 
4. Marijuana is in the hands of criminals because our government has decided that it should be included with meth, cocaine, heroin, etc.  Alcohol is legal, tobacco is legal and the government makes big bucks by taxing and regulating those.  Alcohol and tobacco are addictive and kill people daily.  Yeah, all the time.  Marijuana?  Not so much.  No one has ever fatally overdosed on marijuana, there is a truck load of evidence that it is beneficial in many, many respects and it's certainly a safer pain management choice than opiates, which are legal, addictive as hell, and totally out of control.  Don't even get me started on that one.

Whether or not you want to use marijuana for medical or recreational reasons,  you surely realize that our law enforcement, judicial, and prison systems can be put to much better use than spending time on people who have an ounce of pot.  And surely everyone can understand that considering marijuana use as a "Black" problem is just mind-bogglingly ignorant. 

Because I believe that in a democracy, it is our duty to break unjust laws, I encourage everyone - especially ecru Boomers and older - to grow a marijuana plant or two in their gardens.  Grow it in your front yard.  You don't have to smoke it, just grow it.  And put a little sign beside the plant that Quotes Thomas Jefferson, saying "If a law is unjust, a man is not only right to disobey it, he is obligated to do so." 

I'm feeling obligated to do so.  Someone send me some seeds.  

I'm grateful.

Healthcare and Flies

Have you noticed?  People are dropping like flies.  Young people - you know - people  my age are contracting infirmities I'd not even heard of when I attended Sister Mary Imabitch's Institution for Wayward Nurse Wannabes.  Many are falling to are that old devastating chestnut, cancer, or being killed by the treatment of it.  Others are fading into the slow lane exits.  And everyone is losing people from their lives on a regular basis.

Even I, someone I've always assumed to be beyond all that nonsense, have collected more diagnoses than can fit on a hospital's form.  On the line that asks if I've had any surgeries, I just write "How much paper do you have?"  Same for medications.

I find it helpful to remember a few key points when it comes to this thing called healthcare.

1.  If you are considering a career, get into healthcare in America, because evidently most Americans will do anything, pay anything, believe anything, endure anything that a healthcare provider tells them.
2.  Don't be one of those "most Americans."  I find it best to do some research and make my own decisions.  Doctors have protocols to follow.  Have this test every 1.7 years, have that test all the time, take these vaccines, step outside the theatre and turn in a counterclockwise circle three times, blah, blah, blah.  Some of those suggestions may make sense for you, some may not.  Common sense, something not all that common, can go a long way.  You will be the first one to know if you don't feel well. 
3. Decide what your life goal is.  In this case I mean, do you want to live as many years as possible or do you want to enjoy life as much as possible?  I agree that to a great extent, enjoyment is a state of mind that one can determine to have - that is as long as the temple that is ones body is capable of determination.  Another way to think about that is to ask yourself what's the worst that could happen?  What are the odds?  Is the possibility of anal leakage, stroke, and your skin turning green better than just skipping the onions when it comes to getting rid of heartburn?
4. Remember that diagnoses are just words, numbers are just numbers, and get on with it. 

I have some really nasty ass words written about me on medical records.  I spent some of my precious time being angry about them.  Silliness!  Now I'm just going for it.

I am not going to pass on the yummy fancy drinks. I'm going to try things on the menu I've never had before. I am going to India!  I'm writing a new novel and a new book of interconnected very short stories.  I'm continuing to build the Garden of Many Groovy Things.

I promise to taste, feel, smell, touch, and see as much as I can and appreciate it all without trying to figure out its goodness or badness.  I vow to love and to live and if there comes a time when I can't put words together or travel or chew my food, then by God give me creme brûlée and let me sit in my garden.

Let me sit in the rain, let my joints rust until I turn into a statue on which birds can perch.  If it appears that I'm no longer thinking, leave me to ponder it.  Let me absorb the sunlight and glow at night and let me decompose happily. Just don't tell me I have to take this pill or that pill or have more of some tests or procedures, because I really don't.  If the pill makes me feel better, I'll take it.  Simple, eh?

I don't have time enough - no one has - to waste on fear or anger or filling my head with violence and stupidity.  I choose to be kind and hope that others will.  So when I drop like a fly, I'll drop like a happy one that's lived on good honey and dung.

And This Is How Depression Feels

Just back from an outrageously fun road trip with my sister, an outrageously fun person.
Now all I see are things I need to do, get done, finish.  I feel as if I have a term paper due tomorrow and my ribbon is out of ink.
I feel guilty because I spent money that could have fed hungry people or housed homeless people.  I'm selfish and I've no right to be.
I still care about people,  my loved ones, but I don't feel as if I'm contributing a dang thing to them.  I feel like a burden.
Even now, when I'm careful to say "I feel. . . . . " rather than "I am. . . . . . " because I know it's what I'd tell a client, I don't really believe it.
I am alone - as we all are.  There is nothing special about my aloneness.
There are so damned many rules.  I have screwed up so much. I wait for my brain to explode or my memory to fade until I don't know anything.  I used to know so much and I will never get that back.
I rely on chemicals to help me from being this way all the time.  Chemicals.  Rely.  Now and then the monster gets the best of even the chemicals.
Though I know this, too, shall pass, I know it will return.  It always does.  It is in deep. It takes its toll.  It stinks of death.
If I told you I was grateful right now, I would be lying  I hope to return soon, but I can promise nothing except that this scattered pile of broken bits still loves you, for whatever that is worth.

Warning: Label

A good friend of mine does genealogical research and recently came across the story of Armless Charley, a resident of southern Illinois, who was maimed in a mill accident when he was a child.  He went on to become known for his determination and ability to work long, hard hours, and he became active in local politics.  However, in later life, he became depressed and his life was summed up in a headline, Three Maniacs Burned to Death in Asylum Fire. 

The story got me thinking about the labels we insist on giving people.  Those labels come in and out of fashion just like dress styles.  But they always leave a mark.  Words always go together to change things - sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse, sometimes we think it's for the better but turns out to be for the worse.

We say so and so is a genius.  What does that mean?  Rarely does it mean that so and so has an IQ of 140 or higher.  It's supposed to mean that so and so is exceptionally good at something.  McCartney and Lennon were geniuses at writing music and lyrics.   Mozart was a genius at writing music.  Who was the most genius?  Could Einstein play saxophone like McGrew or paint like Van Gogh?
Speaking of Van Gogh, was he a maniac, crazy, nuts, AND a genius?  It gets really confusing.

Another friend of mine wrote Beneath the Whiskey Sky*, a novel in which a man with Downs Syndrome is a main character.  The story is set in cowboy days and the man is often referred to as an Idiot or Mongolian Idiot.  Such terms are offensive today, not only to people with Downs but people from Mongolia.

Lately, there is a lot of talk about children who are "on the spectrum," meaning they may have Aspergers'  Syndrome or may have Autism.   I reckon we are all on the spectrum.  We are all colors of the rainbow.

And speaking of colors, we have strange labels for people depending on the color of brown their skin is.  All living, breathing humans are naturally some shade of brown on the spectrum from ecru to dark chocolate.  We are indeed not red and yellow, black and white.  That's misleading at best.  And when we classify people as Black or White, we are insisting people are one or the other of these polar opposites.  It amuses me that President Obama is considered our first Black president.  I have nieces who are darker brown than he after one week in the sun!   The labels are not specific. They are not correct.

Why is it so important that we correctly label someone anyway?  I understand the evolution of Us and Them as a way of surviving.  Maybe all the cave men and women in my clan had red hair.  We could easily identify someone who was "Them" if they had black hair.  Ooooh, scary.  And it served the species well.   But it stopped serving us well quite a while back.

Americans are the newest mutts, but of course, if we dig back far enough, we'll find that we're all descendants of the same Adam and Eve, or the same aliens who planted us here, or the same Shiva and Shakti or the same apes.

We no longer need to identify people based on color of skin, curliness of hair or eye shape, in fact, it's not beneficial to try to do so.  Hell, that's why we invented uniforms, so we could tell the bad buys from the good guys.  Long ago I began refusing to answer the question of "race" on official (and less official) forms.  When pressed, I say that I'll identify as a race when the questioners adequately define the term.

And guess what.  Idiots, geniuses, maniacs, accountants and politicians, come in all shades of brown.
Our ongoing politics reminded some of us, ever so briefly, that there may be people who or neither Republicans or Democrats.  Some of us may be way out on that spectrum as well.  When we narrow our choices to elephant or donkey, to black or white, to idiot or savant, we narrow our world.
We call people bitch and bastard who are not a female dog or a person born out of wedlock. We THINK we know what we mean by those words, but do we really?

I'm a huge fan of words.  I think they are the coolest.  In the beginning was the Word.  And words have continued to make changes in everything,  They are the most powerful things of all.  They can heal, unite, break, harm, divide us.  They are bigger than we.  We must respect them if we are to continue to evolve.




*  Tracy Knight wrote Beneath a Whiskey Sky,  The Astonished Eye, and my favorite, Trace Elements.   More importantly, I had a mad crush on him in junior high.

Torn

Okay, okay already! I hear you, Body! I'll behave today. Just stop screaming at me. 

It's time for a warm epsom salt bath, extra tumeric, clean sheets,and Thai food. Not necessarily in that order. I keep thinking about those meat tenderizers that are like hammers with metal spikes. I believe I may have been tenderized while I slept. Well, truth be told, I probably needed to be more tender, but not this way.  

It just makes me crazy that I have so much to do and my body refuses to cooperate. I very much dislike needing more sleep than the average bear. I keep thinking I should be able to fix all of this. 

If I were a patient, I'd tell me that fibromyalgia is a real thing, that it's not a character flaw, laziness, or all in my head. Then I'd advise me to have a warm epsom salt bath, extra tumeric, maybe some ibuprofen, clean sheets, and Thai food. Not necessarily in that order. Then I'd give me a rain check for a hug since a hug right now would just hurt too damned much, tell me to pay at the desk, and go on my way. 

But the other health stuff going on with me, reminds me that I don't have an endless amount of time in which to adventure, to complete things, to accomplish. Of course, no one does, but we all think we do until some doctor or test result or some sort of epiphany reminds us that we don't. Maybe this evening, when it cools a bit outside, I'll make it to the hammock and watch the sun send dancing rays of energy through the woods. I'll see how many I can catch. My muscles will relax, their fascia will soften, I'll listen to the gurgling fountain and the tree frogs and the birds.  

All is well. Peace be with us all. I am grateful.