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When the missing out weighs the dragging of the feet, then I return.  Please consider yourself missed my dear little faithful blog.  The trite phrase that you are never far from my thoughts and always in my heart, is true.  The ensuing guilt of my absence when prolonged, true as well.

I have suffered physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually with an ongoing vertigo condition that has had me by what some state crudely the “short and curlies’ for almost two years.  I have been on a new regiment of medication and yesterday passed a milestone test at my specialist’s office of being able to lie down without a vertigo attack being triggered.  This my dear blog was, and is, huge in the life of me.

Last night was a rough one rest wise as I had a tough time trusting the process as the last time I attempted to truly lie down to sleep, I ended up in the emergency room due to the extreme nature of the vertigo attack.  So I experimented a lot with different angles and never did quite allow myself to totally lie flat.  That’s okay.  I can ease into this new “old” way of sleeping.  Just the fact that lying horizontally is now an option is a miracle that still has me in a bit of a humbled stunned state.

How long this will last or what comes next with the vertigo condition, I do not know.  That little saying of “one day at a time” seems very appropriate here.  For now, I am thanking the Universe, my Birth Day Gods and Goddesses (as that was my birth day wish as I blew out my candle), Annie Rosa Lee Dog’s spirit and my Guardian Angels that be for this respite and/or total healing.

All of that and a gorgeous blue skied day with an abundance of sunny rays.

Life is good, my friend.  Sweet.  Just like a cool glass of Southern tea.

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My absence from my blog has been due to my physical health related problems.  That, and my ensuing depression.  All of which have gotten me to the place I am today ~ inside the House of Truth.  At least The House of Truth as I know it today, in this moment at this particular juncture in time, at this fork of this road.

I have returned to therapy.  About time.  That’s right.  About motherfucking time.  Or would that be about mother fucking time?  Whatever.  It is time.  And I am doing it.  Not fucking.  Not even fucking around ~ not this time.  I am participating in therapy in a different way than ever I have done before two weeks ago.

Meaning?  I am raw.  real.  no pretenses.  no good girl persona.  no bad girl disguise.  defenses, gone baby gone.  Why?  How?  Why now?  I am just ready.  That.  And writing a check for $175 for a 50 minute hour seems to keep me on point.  Cuts through the bullshit.  Stops the spin before the tales get spun, if you receive my meaning.  And I hope she does.  My treating psychologist that is.

50 shades of grey.  50 ways to leave a lover.  50 episodes of whodunit.  50 ways to lose a life.

50 megawatts of power.  outage.  ongoing.  no end in sight. 

50  methods to one’s madness. 

Fifty.  Ways.

My spirit and mood have been vacillating, wildly and erratically at times, between gratitude for life and wishing to be finally done with this journey.  Folded in among this particular ping pong game of emotions there burbles nostalgia for what never was but wished for anyway, moments and times.  Like say, the throb of deep connected love with the same person for a long period of time and the resulting imagined passionate lovemaking.  And let me not forget to write of the fear, dread and anxiety brought on by considering medical procedures, tests and surgeries meant to return to me my health and maybe, may I hope, my sanity. 

Where does one go when the well is dry.  Bone dry.  Yet the body still thirsty and the spirit weak.  Prayer feels too hard.  No, not hard, just not for me.  Not now.  I suppose I feel undeserving somehow of asking for help.  Hard to do this earth journey; seemingly impossible to bridge the worlds or universe. 

For now, I dwell in the land somewhere in between.

All hands on deck. 

Both hands on the wheel at the 10 o’clock and 2 o’clock positions. 

Houston, we I have am the situation. 

Multiple choice.  Correct answer ~ all of the above.

In order to be here, one must go there but the going there, requires no physical departure; at least for today. 

My thoughts and inner visioning have been hijacked.  A few days before now, my eyes drank in the images of temples ~ hanging cliff temples.  And ever since that first viewing when my soul leapt with recognition, my core began a slow drumming.  The beat of this internal drum, thrumming through me; my body responds with a re-awakening and yearning to return to mountain peak, where I surely have lived in some yesteryear.  Forgotten, until now. 

This drumming back to consciousness, caused my limiting thoughts and jailhouse rules and boundaries to spring into action; to speak out loud their automatic chastisement.  You cannot go, you would surely perish.  Only the fit of body and the most holy of spirits belong on that journey above the clouds.  Remember your fear of heights.  You would most certainly slip and fall, causing great disaster and inconvenience to others.  You cannot go, you would surely perish. 

So in preparation for this journey, which I must surely embark upon, the first steps are to soothe my protector’s fears and to loosen my jailer’s clawlike hold.  For my journey, you see, has most certainly already begun and I have not yet perished.

Where I work there is a department called the Transitional Services Unit (TSU) that helps incarcerated youth return to their communities.  I understand that it was not that many years ago that this unit did not exist and that youth who had aged out of the juvenile justice system were simply released.  Set out on the curb so to speak.  Now each departing youth has a team who works with them and on their behalf to help them navigate the numerous changes and challenges. 

This morning, I realized that I need one of these TSUs of my very own.  Now whether or not I would make good use of their offered services, I do nots know for sure.  But I cannot help but think that there might be some comfort in just knowing I had this team of humans who were looking out and ahead for me, even for a little while. 

Because where I am today is a familiar place.  Familiar but full of danger and darkness.  This place where I end up after the ground opens underneath me and I experience the free fall into depression, a cavern of great depth.  This time, I did what I used to do many years ago, I pretended I was not falling ~ for a while.  That is until either the invisible tether securing me to the landscape of life, separated or the growing velocity of the plunge forced me to admit I was in this place, once again. 

I must snap out of my funk.  Create toe and finger holds to climb, pull and grunt my way to the surface.  Pronto.  Today is my middle grandson’s 14th birth day family celebration.  I love this boy, dearly.  I am to bring the cheese bread.  Cheese bread ~ his Grammie’s cheese bread ~ is one of his most favorite foods.  To not show up, cheese bread in tow, is not acceptable.  I love this boy. 

So I must figure my way out of this quagmire of self indulgent angst once again in order to leave my home, get in Buster Blue, drive to the grocery, purchase the ingredients, return home, make the cheese spread, drive to my daughter’s home, participate in the family birth day celebration and be part of my life ~ part of my middle grandson’s life. 

Where are the TSU personnel?  Hello?  Can you hear me? 

With or without other human help, I must assist mine own self.  I have been in this place before, many times in fact.  Surely I must know the way up and out.  I will look for some markers and familiar signs pointing ahead.

Should I stay or should I go?  This question has me off kilter, off balance, out of sync.  Centered I am not. 

It seems this question of where I will live or more specifically, where will I grow roots has been a long asked question.  One that hovers over me sort of like a lazy man’s lasso ~ too loopity-looped to really ensnare anything.  For all the years that I lived in California attending grad school, I was unsettled.  This condition was due, in large part, in knowing that upon graduation, I would be called upon to make a decision ~ to choose between a warmer clime and those whom I call my family.  The choice though is never that simple or at least it feels laden with much more. 

I chose to return to the Land of Almost Always Winter to be close to my clan.  And now here I am again at the crossroad of choice.  Do I apply for a position in a much warmer climate near the ocean or do I take a pass and continue on here?  If I take my familia out of the equation, I have to admit there would still be considerations.  Things like a regular paycheck at a job that I will have held for a year next week, a rented living space that I like (even with the leaky roof) and a few local friends whom I enjoy their company.  And then, of course, there is the little or actually big fact of not having to pack up and move, again. 

Now, some might say that I am putting the cart before the horse.  I mean really, why don’t I just go ahead and apply for the position and then consider all of this other stuff.  Well because in order to apply, I must request letters of recommendation and only want to ask this favor of colleagues if I am truly interested in the job.  Plus, I realized that it’s go time as in let’s get it together and figure out where I am going to commit to living for a while.  If I am going to stay put then I could and should (beware of the should says a little voice) begin taking the steps to open a small private practice in addition to my 4-day work week. 

Come on self.  What’s the hold up?  The hang up?  What exactly is the sticky wicket?  The answers are here within my heart and mind.  Right?  Allowing myself to know what I know is easier said than done in the moment.

The other day I read the headline or byline or small snippet of an article based on the theory that humans are incapable of simultaneously loving someone and worrying about that same someone.  In other words, worry is not tantamount to love.  This byline, this fragment of what appeared to be a lengthy piece of writing, has now been popcorning around in my head. 

My knee jerk reaction was to exclaim, “You sir or madam, are wrong!”  That urge most likely comes from the fact that I am a notorious worrier over the safety of those I hold dear.  And I suppose I must be equating worry to the strength of my caring and out-and-out affection for these folks.  Pious, perhaps?  Martyr, maybe?  I mean, really, does any “good” parent not worry about their children’s safety, futures, happiness and health?  And does not their worry make their “love” even stronger? 

If I were a predictor of the future, one gifted with psychic abilities if you will, I might foresee my search for this particular catalyst of thought and emotion provoking article in order to read beyond the byline.  I mean, after all, one must have some understanding of what one vehemently disagrees with, correct?  Plus, beyond my initial uncensored reaction there lies a curiosity and openness to this new idea.  For when the day is all said and done, worry does not seem to enrich the lives of either the lover or the object of their affection. 

So sign me up for new ideas and careful considerations of a new way of approaching the sacred experience of love.  My knee seems to be healing nicely from its recent acute reaction.

It appears that a simple function termed threading of film onto a projector eludes me.  Baffles me even after some time and effort spent cleaning the very old equipment and online searching for helpful how-to instructions.  Not surprising I suppose ~ this road block of sorts.  After all, this is no ordinary antique projector.  This is my adoptive parent’s projector and the 8mm and super 8mm film reels housed in their bright yellow Kodak cardboard boxes hold family history  family secrets  family surprises.  This film plays silently with only the loud thrum of the machinery accompanying the grainy color images. 

At least that is how I remember the viewings as a child and young adult when after much pleading, my mother would finally acquiesce, giving my father permission to haul out the projector and the film.  As adopted daughters, my sister and I, yearned even more than the average kid to see again and again the evidence of our belonging, of our history.  A history that only went back to when we arrived in America, bought by these White American parents.  I was a Korean adoptee and so was my sister, arriving from different backgrounds and first families to form our very own little tribe of two in a land where no one looked like us ~ to a land where for all of our childhoods we were known as The Adopted Korean Girls. 

Fast forward many years and here you will find me.  Finally pushing through my myriad of fears, resistance and ambivalence to allow myself to figure out another piece of my foundation.  Sounds heavy for such a simple task of figuring out an old projector and watching a few canisters of film.  Simple or not, these actions have been many years in the making. 

It seems that the gathering of our lives lived through memories, yearnings, wishes and dreams is a life long journey.  A journey which offers experiences of joy, sadness, grief, longing, laughter, anger, tears, breath taking ah-ha’s, rage and acceptance.  I figure that I am somewhere a little past mid-way of this journey of this life time and it is looking more possible than naught that there will be future viewings of these little films.  Where those particular pieces of the puzzle will fit is not quite clear, yet.  Thankfully there is a focusing mechanism on this antiquated projector. 

 

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