Today, fellow students, we discuss love beyond quality (No. 4 in your texts). Ahem.
I think it's like energy: People talk about suffering from negative energy, and what they really mean is they're not getting what they think they want, or they're feeling threatened by somebody not giving them what they want, or they're mad at somebody for SAYING they're not going to give them what they want. Anyway, there isn't good or bad or positive or negative energy. It's just energy. We use it or misuse it, but if we don't get the results we were looking for, it isn't because the energy is bad, it's because we're misguided or manipulative or greedy (proceed with listing the rest of the seven deadly sins here), or maybe just screwing up the experiment.
Likewise Love: There obviously can't be negative (bad) love, right? There's pounding on someone you say you love; or there's sacrificing oneself until one becomes a piece of broccoli in the name of loving one's master; or there's "loving" your children into complete incapacity and laziness, to the extent that they can't even feed themselves when they grow up and finally, very reluctantly, leave home. Well, clearly none of that is love.
If we're both generally and specifically loving, then we're fulfilling our lives and destinies. As I have said before (a lot) you can love people without having to buy them a beer. I don't think that by suggesting we turn the other cheek, Jesus meant that we should let ourselves get beaten up over and over again; I think he meant we can comfortably leave the premises and love from a much calmer and safer distance. Hitting back only perpetuates the non-love going on at the moment. Get the hell out of there (literally and figuratively) and go back to loving as hard as you can.
That's the only way out of this mess. Well, that and the tango: When you're all tangled up, tango on. (Sorry, I can't find the original soothsayer of that, or I'd attribute it for sure. I didn't think it up, but I'm not above using a sooth when I run across it.)
----
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Friday, July 17, 2009
Fear and Loathing on the road to Atlanta
I once wrote my way out of a migraine. It occurred on our Odyssey from California to Atlanta in the height of the heat of the summer of 1995, after we had endured the 120-degree temperature in Hayes, Kansas and were progressing to the Land of the Dark Lutheran, toward a motel in Concordia, Missouri. I was struggling with the steering wheel, keeping it between 10:30 and 11 o’clock in rotation just so the 15-foot Ryder truck wouldn’t be blown completely off the right shoulder while rolling along at a breakneck, governed 55 mph. At about 3 in the afternoon I felt the fingers of a migraine stealing up my neck, over my right ear, plunging into the center of my temple and down to paralyze my TMJ. Once we were able to stop, the horror of the headache would certainly bloom in living, psychedelic color.
Now, in those days, my migraines were spectacular: they lasted exactly 56 hours, and if I could not make myself sleep, I would lie in bed, sweating foul fluid and vomiting ceaselessly. Those attacks reduced me to a begging and puling infant; I am told the color of my face moved from yellow to green and back again -- the whites of my eyes stayed steadily yellow, and cleared up to a perfect white within minutes of the passing of the migraine. Not pretty, not fun, unmistakably a curse of some sort. To this day, though I’m now free of them, I have not understood the provenance of nor the release from those agonizing spells. Eventually Imitrex and its spinoffs were put on the market; I spent about 8 years jealously guarding those pills (they cost about $20 each, and, as I say, I was broke much of that time and without health insurance). At one point, in desperation, I begged a physician friend of mine for a prescription, and, again shamelessly begging, persuaded two of my kids to pay for my migraine drugs for a year or so. I finally resorted to importing Imitrex from an internet site (God knows the exact compound of the pills I took – some things are better left unexamined). Then, sometime between 2006 and 2008, the headaches stopped. I still have Imitrexes around – I know exactly where they are and exactly how many remain, more than a year after my last attack. The memories of those migraine headaches are as much a part of me as my smallpox vaccination scar and my big feet.
So there we were, in the middle of the nauseating amber waves of grain in unspeakable heat, the gritty gusts of crosswinds thudding into the truck at 45 knots. We were hocked to the last penny on our remaining credit card, I driving a truck that rented at $100 a day and cost the same amount in fuel, Mary in the chase car carrying a dying dog and a stoic but fading cat in un-air-conditioned misery. The truck had AC, but wouldn't go faster than 55 mph so the whole thing, to my increasingly hysterical mind, became fresh Hell in very slow motion.
Arriving at the motel, we unloaded the animals and the necessary luggage including my little Mac Plus that I had brought along to check in online in the evenings with friends, and to send an update of how this remarkable trip was going. (I said when we were deciding to do it, “How hard could it be?” By the end of its first 45 minutes, when, using the truck body as a crowbar, I ripped the rain gutter off of a dentist’s office building in Scotts Valley, I vowed I would never utter those words again. I haven’t yet, except in desperate jest.) Our friends and my children were all shaking their heads throughout the making of the arrangements and, even during the trip itself, I was sure that I heard the clicking sounds of eyes rolling in heads across the nation. Anyway, I had promised to keep in touch with all of them, and was sending out nightly group emails to the effect that we had made it another day closer to Atlanta (where we knew NO ONE).
That night of the lowering migraine, I was giddy with panic and relief: panic because we could not afford to stop for my usual 56 hours of migraine prostration, and relief because I had not in fact ridden the damned truck into a drainage ditch. I decided to hell with reassuring all our loved ones, to hell with being too arrogant to admit that this MIGHT have been a mistake, I would just write and tell them all exactly how, as they said on “The West Wing” when the President was shot, my day had been. Mary and I had agreed that neither of us would complain to the other for the length of the trip and the settling in afterwards – there was nothing to be gained by it and it would only bring the other one down; despair was not an option. On the other hand, that night I was no longer in the mood to be brave, or even as stoic as my cat, and so decided to tell the truth to people that loved me.
I wrote and wrote and wrote; too hot and nauseated to eat, I just wrote until I couldn’t think of another single thing to set down. I was completely focused on logging the whole day. When I was finished, I found that I had no headache; the prelude aura had disappeared, my appetite was back, Mary swore my color was a healthy pink (well, it was REALLY pink because the heat was still brutal, but at least it wasn’t yellow).
Now, I know that I said in the previous blog that physical pain could stop connection in its tracks. When I think of that mindless feat of writing my migraine away, of connecting so solidly with myself that I was not able to tell the same lie as those of delightful adventures of the previous days, I’m not so sure. Perhaps if the headache had fully bloomed and I had given over my body and soul to it, I wouldn’t have had the wherewithal to THINK about writing, much less the capacity actually to do it. Once that letter was written, I began to take back my life from the grip of the FEAR of the migraines – the headaches were bad enough, but the fear had been just as crippling, effectively doubling the pain, not to mention a constant anxiety about when the next one would jump me.
I think of fear as being one of the Great Disconnectors, and I am pretty sure I get that one. Pain is what you get for having a body: nobody gets through life pain-free. Fear, and its brothers grief and anger, are what you get when you lie to yourself.
--
Now, in those days, my migraines were spectacular: they lasted exactly 56 hours, and if I could not make myself sleep, I would lie in bed, sweating foul fluid and vomiting ceaselessly. Those attacks reduced me to a begging and puling infant; I am told the color of my face moved from yellow to green and back again -- the whites of my eyes stayed steadily yellow, and cleared up to a perfect white within minutes of the passing of the migraine. Not pretty, not fun, unmistakably a curse of some sort. To this day, though I’m now free of them, I have not understood the provenance of nor the release from those agonizing spells. Eventually Imitrex and its spinoffs were put on the market; I spent about 8 years jealously guarding those pills (they cost about $20 each, and, as I say, I was broke much of that time and without health insurance). At one point, in desperation, I begged a physician friend of mine for a prescription, and, again shamelessly begging, persuaded two of my kids to pay for my migraine drugs for a year or so. I finally resorted to importing Imitrex from an internet site (God knows the exact compound of the pills I took – some things are better left unexamined). Then, sometime between 2006 and 2008, the headaches stopped. I still have Imitrexes around – I know exactly where they are and exactly how many remain, more than a year after my last attack. The memories of those migraine headaches are as much a part of me as my smallpox vaccination scar and my big feet.
So there we were, in the middle of the nauseating amber waves of grain in unspeakable heat, the gritty gusts of crosswinds thudding into the truck at 45 knots. We were hocked to the last penny on our remaining credit card, I driving a truck that rented at $100 a day and cost the same amount in fuel, Mary in the chase car carrying a dying dog and a stoic but fading cat in un-air-conditioned misery. The truck had AC, but wouldn't go faster than 55 mph so the whole thing, to my increasingly hysterical mind, became fresh Hell in very slow motion.
Arriving at the motel, we unloaded the animals and the necessary luggage including my little Mac Plus that I had brought along to check in online in the evenings with friends, and to send an update of how this remarkable trip was going. (I said when we were deciding to do it, “How hard could it be?” By the end of its first 45 minutes, when, using the truck body as a crowbar, I ripped the rain gutter off of a dentist’s office building in Scotts Valley, I vowed I would never utter those words again. I haven’t yet, except in desperate jest.) Our friends and my children were all shaking their heads throughout the making of the arrangements and, even during the trip itself, I was sure that I heard the clicking sounds of eyes rolling in heads across the nation. Anyway, I had promised to keep in touch with all of them, and was sending out nightly group emails to the effect that we had made it another day closer to Atlanta (where we knew NO ONE).
That night of the lowering migraine, I was giddy with panic and relief: panic because we could not afford to stop for my usual 56 hours of migraine prostration, and relief because I had not in fact ridden the damned truck into a drainage ditch. I decided to hell with reassuring all our loved ones, to hell with being too arrogant to admit that this MIGHT have been a mistake, I would just write and tell them all exactly how, as they said on “The West Wing” when the President was shot, my day had been. Mary and I had agreed that neither of us would complain to the other for the length of the trip and the settling in afterwards – there was nothing to be gained by it and it would only bring the other one down; despair was not an option. On the other hand, that night I was no longer in the mood to be brave, or even as stoic as my cat, and so decided to tell the truth to people that loved me.
I wrote and wrote and wrote; too hot and nauseated to eat, I just wrote until I couldn’t think of another single thing to set down. I was completely focused on logging the whole day. When I was finished, I found that I had no headache; the prelude aura had disappeared, my appetite was back, Mary swore my color was a healthy pink (well, it was REALLY pink because the heat was still brutal, but at least it wasn’t yellow).
Now, I know that I said in the previous blog that physical pain could stop connection in its tracks. When I think of that mindless feat of writing my migraine away, of connecting so solidly with myself that I was not able to tell the same lie as those of delightful adventures of the previous days, I’m not so sure. Perhaps if the headache had fully bloomed and I had given over my body and soul to it, I wouldn’t have had the wherewithal to THINK about writing, much less the capacity actually to do it. Once that letter was written, I began to take back my life from the grip of the FEAR of the migraines – the headaches were bad enough, but the fear had been just as crippling, effectively doubling the pain, not to mention a constant anxiety about when the next one would jump me.
I think of fear as being one of the Great Disconnectors, and I am pretty sure I get that one. Pain is what you get for having a body: nobody gets through life pain-free. Fear, and its brothers grief and anger, are what you get when you lie to yourself.
--
Monday, July 13, 2009
Okay, now what?
Man, this connection-with-self exercise is really hard. I know I keep going on and on about it, but it does seem to be true what I've heard: all effective and satisfying relationships begin with it, and without it all we are is lost and alone.
I know of only one shortcut to connection with oneself (unless you're the Dalai Lama), and it's definitely the hard way: that is to get physically injured or really sick. Winning the lottery pales when one has just barked one's shin on the open dishwasher door for the fourth time that day. The most expensive, exotic, fabulous and food-filled ocean cruise is utterly lost on someone who is wretchedly, wrenchingly, and retchingly seasick. It is easy to get one's own attention if the body is in distress -- ask any cutter. And that is really sad, isn't it?
So, masochism aside, how in the world do we find ourselves, secure the connection, fit back into our own skins? I happen to have the luxury of examining this today, because my stomach is upset. Maybe it's the heat, which has been brutal for a week and will be for another 5 days at least. Maybe it's some kind of food allergy. Could be sympathy for the dogs (who entertained themselves and us all day yesterday with a festival of diarrhea). Whatever it is I have no desire to accomplish anything today, but am feeling too lousy to sleep. That leaves me trudging back to my lesson plan.
In review, then, boys and girls, here's the process of connection (which, you'll recall, is what we get when we love):
[Note: Art Buchwald (I think) on a day of pleasant ball-tossing and other familial bonhomie, ordered his eight-year-old son to sign an affidavit to the effect that he was having a happy childhood. If only I had thought of that, my children and I wouldn't now be saddled with only the memories of sad and painful times of their (and my!) youth. We're running out of witnesses to the happy, funny, loving occasions, and are being held hostage to the miserable ones.]
Therefore, all that being so, we tiptoe out of the amphitheater of guilt, leaving the Greeks to do their garment-rending in peace.
We progress onto (2): Love beyond vision. I am still not sure what that might be, but a friend suggests that it is faith. In the darkest possible part of the forest, it's all we can do to see the next safe place to step. We guess that it's in the general direction of home, we hope that there's not a snake hidden under the leaves, we pray that if there ARE any guardian angels they're still awake at the switch. We proceed anyway.
Must be a control problem. Is there ANYONE of my acquaintance here that has the tiniest issue with control? If so, please speak up. It is not a subject with which I have any familiarity. (Right, Juls.)
----
I know of only one shortcut to connection with oneself (unless you're the Dalai Lama), and it's definitely the hard way: that is to get physically injured or really sick. Winning the lottery pales when one has just barked one's shin on the open dishwasher door for the fourth time that day. The most expensive, exotic, fabulous and food-filled ocean cruise is utterly lost on someone who is wretchedly, wrenchingly, and retchingly seasick. It is easy to get one's own attention if the body is in distress -- ask any cutter. And that is really sad, isn't it?
So, masochism aside, how in the world do we find ourselves, secure the connection, fit back into our own skins? I happen to have the luxury of examining this today, because my stomach is upset. Maybe it's the heat, which has been brutal for a week and will be for another 5 days at least. Maybe it's some kind of food allergy. Could be sympathy for the dogs (who entertained themselves and us all day yesterday with a festival of diarrhea). Whatever it is I have no desire to accomplish anything today, but am feeling too lousy to sleep. That leaves me trudging back to my lesson plan.
In review, then, boys and girls, here's the process of connection (which, you'll recall, is what we get when we love):
- Love beyond recollection (that must be the forgiveness thing);
- Love beyond vision;
- Love beyond judgment;
- Love beyond quality;
- Love beyond condition;
- Love beyond expectation; and
- Love beyond reciprocation.
[Note: Art Buchwald (I think) on a day of pleasant ball-tossing and other familial bonhomie, ordered his eight-year-old son to sign an affidavit to the effect that he was having a happy childhood. If only I had thought of that, my children and I wouldn't now be saddled with only the memories of sad and painful times of their (and my!) youth. We're running out of witnesses to the happy, funny, loving occasions, and are being held hostage to the miserable ones.]
Therefore, all that being so, we tiptoe out of the amphitheater of guilt, leaving the Greeks to do their garment-rending in peace.
We progress onto (2): Love beyond vision. I am still not sure what that might be, but a friend suggests that it is faith. In the darkest possible part of the forest, it's all we can do to see the next safe place to step. We guess that it's in the general direction of home, we hope that there's not a snake hidden under the leaves, we pray that if there ARE any guardian angels they're still awake at the switch. We proceed anyway.
Must be a control problem. Is there ANYONE of my acquaintance here that has the tiniest issue with control? If so, please speak up. It is not a subject with which I have any familiarity. (Right, Juls.)
----
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Hip Hip Hooray
I am going to throw a party in honor of my youngest child's 39th birthday next month. It's going to be a surprise, so don't tell ANYBODY! I am inviting all of her brothers, her sister, her aunts, ward of one aunt, husband of another aunt. I'm going to include her cousins, and their spouses and children, her nieces and nephews, her sister-in-law, the parents and aunt of her sister-in-law, the mother of a parent of her sister-in-law. I'm inviting the guy that delivers pizza to the house of any of these people, plus their pool guys, their gardeners, their cleaning crews. I'm sending all of them to the house of the guest of honor, treating them to a delightful weekend for this most auspicious occasion.
I'm sparing no expense, leaving no stone unturned. I'm inviting Mohammar Qaddafi and Robert Mugabi; also invited are the Boston Strangler and Osama bin Laden. Bernie Madoff will get special leave to be there. I'm inviting all of her FaceBookFriends (FBF's) -- ALL of them -- and all of the FBF's of all of her FBF's that she's poached over the years.
Unfortunately, I am unable to invite myself, but this huge and expensive party is the very least I can do for my baby girl. It is an honor to reduce myself to just making it happen for her. She's lonely, she's frightened for her future, and is nearly eaten alive with hate. Poor kid -- maybe this will make her feel better.
----
I'm sparing no expense, leaving no stone unturned. I'm inviting Mohammar Qaddafi and Robert Mugabi; also invited are the Boston Strangler and Osama bin Laden. Bernie Madoff will get special leave to be there. I'm inviting all of her FaceBookFriends (FBF's) -- ALL of them -- and all of the FBF's of all of her FBF's that she's poached over the years.
Unfortunately, I am unable to invite myself, but this huge and expensive party is the very least I can do for my baby girl. It is an honor to reduce myself to just making it happen for her. She's lonely, she's frightened for her future, and is nearly eaten alive with hate. Poor kid -- maybe this will make her feel better.
----
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
Surrender Dorothy!
A few weeks ago a friend was being scared witless by a cascade of medical issues her husband was exhibiting, from cancer to heart issues to shingles aftermaths to God knows what else. In one of those automatic but surprisingly useful comments, I told her not to give in to the fear. She said later that that was exactly what she needed to hear; I took credit for it though I'm not sure "I" was the one that came up with it.
Lately I've been tempted to "give in" but even in the middle of the stomach-drop, I can "hear" myself (or somebody) telling me not to give in to the grief, either. When a person in mourning says that she's afraid to start crying for fear she'll never stop, I know exactly what she means. When someone gets crazy with panic -- hysterical, unhearing, unseeing -- I know exactly what's happened: he's given in to the fear. Likewise, someone becoming enraged has just offered up his own psyche to it, and it's pure surrender of self. In the last case, that of anger out of control, everybody else in the room is busy getting the hell out of the way of it, but if one of them felt physically safe enough, he could understand what was going on and perhaps help the one slamming around get back to himself. Or not, but at least there would be a sober witness to it. In turn, fear and grief can be contagious and our emotional antibodies need to be invoked or all the world would run mad.
My teacher once told me that the three Great Disconnectors are fear, grief and anger. If it is true that connection begins with self, then certainly we disconnect from ourselves when giving over to one of them. Common terms for this surrender are "unhinged", "unspooled", "deranged", "losing it" and we know it when we see it. I'm not sure we know it when we are ourselves coming unspooled; we usually know it in retrospect, and heap embarrassment and shame upon our own heads for having "lost it." It would be helpful if we could spot it either before the episode or in the early stages of it; that way maybe we could get on top of it before it gets on top of us.
On the other hand, there's quite a rush with any of these conditions, and the rush is very seductive. Sometimes we think that the antidote to incipient depression is violent feeling -- wailing and gnashing of teeth -- but in fact it's only the flip side of depression, and it's every bit as destructive as the original depression. Raging is particularly attractive because when we're in full-on rage, people tend to scatter (and rightfully so), which makes us feel powerful, tough, in charge. We're not any of those things, of course; when goddamning around, all we are is somebody throwing a tantrum, and most parents know that a child in tantrum mode has become a suicide bomber because he has no other weapons left to him; he's entirely WITHOUT power, and so he sacrifices himself just to get a little taste of it.
Losing it through fear or grief can be attractive as well; it puts us squarely in the position of Victim, and often there's a professional Rescuer around who can rush in and make himself feel powerful by trying to reassure or comfort us. Of course, we're getting off on this whole thing by massive infusions of self-pity, and by the frantic attentions of the Rescuer(s), and so we resist getting better. Thus the Rescuer can't do his job and is spurred on to ever greater efforts, and so it goes. It seems to be great fun, and satisfying to all involved, as long as everybody in the play remembers his lines and his blocking (ha). We're not connecting with the other actors, we're only pretending to so we can keep things going. In the end, nobody really gets better, nobody really feels better, the real issues have not been addressed and we keep racing around the maze, smacking into walls and wearing ourselves out with frustration and soul-searing loneliness.
The only way out is Love, the active verb, not the (direct or indirect) object. I was given a discipline; I haven't tried it yet because it's early in the day and I seem only to be subject to the blues in the late afternoon/evening, but I'm hoping (a) that today I won't GET the blues, but (b) if I do get blue that invoking the discpline will ease it, and/or (c) if I can even remember the damned discipline in the first place I will have struck a blow toward self-connection, that is to say my brain will have been fruitfully engaged and that always makes me feel better.
Anyway, here's the discipline: first I say, "I am doing the very best I can;" then I am to name every single thing that I love, starting with myself; I name all the big and small things, no matter how trivial, including even the things I don't like. It would go something like this: "I love myself, I love my dogs, I love my house, my friends, my tomato plants; I love to write; I love to swim; I love my children; I love the sunset; I love my fake fingernails, the dust on the bookcase...," you get the point. Then all that is loved becomes one, and the act of loving has transformed the grief, the fear, the anger; all that energy gets channeled in a positive direction and I'm back inside my Self, my home, my heart, and I feel better.
I am doing the best I can, and I love practical suggestions.
----
Lately I've been tempted to "give in" but even in the middle of the stomach-drop, I can "hear" myself (or somebody) telling me not to give in to the grief, either. When a person in mourning says that she's afraid to start crying for fear she'll never stop, I know exactly what she means. When someone gets crazy with panic -- hysterical, unhearing, unseeing -- I know exactly what's happened: he's given in to the fear. Likewise, someone becoming enraged has just offered up his own psyche to it, and it's pure surrender of self. In the last case, that of anger out of control, everybody else in the room is busy getting the hell out of the way of it, but if one of them felt physically safe enough, he could understand what was going on and perhaps help the one slamming around get back to himself. Or not, but at least there would be a sober witness to it. In turn, fear and grief can be contagious and our emotional antibodies need to be invoked or all the world would run mad.
My teacher once told me that the three Great Disconnectors are fear, grief and anger. If it is true that connection begins with self, then certainly we disconnect from ourselves when giving over to one of them. Common terms for this surrender are "unhinged", "unspooled", "deranged", "losing it" and we know it when we see it. I'm not sure we know it when we are ourselves coming unspooled; we usually know it in retrospect, and heap embarrassment and shame upon our own heads for having "lost it." It would be helpful if we could spot it either before the episode or in the early stages of it; that way maybe we could get on top of it before it gets on top of us.
On the other hand, there's quite a rush with any of these conditions, and the rush is very seductive. Sometimes we think that the antidote to incipient depression is violent feeling -- wailing and gnashing of teeth -- but in fact it's only the flip side of depression, and it's every bit as destructive as the original depression. Raging is particularly attractive because when we're in full-on rage, people tend to scatter (and rightfully so), which makes us feel powerful, tough, in charge. We're not any of those things, of course; when goddamning around, all we are is somebody throwing a tantrum, and most parents know that a child in tantrum mode has become a suicide bomber because he has no other weapons left to him; he's entirely WITHOUT power, and so he sacrifices himself just to get a little taste of it.
Losing it through fear or grief can be attractive as well; it puts us squarely in the position of Victim, and often there's a professional Rescuer around who can rush in and make himself feel powerful by trying to reassure or comfort us. Of course, we're getting off on this whole thing by massive infusions of self-pity, and by the frantic attentions of the Rescuer(s), and so we resist getting better. Thus the Rescuer can't do his job and is spurred on to ever greater efforts, and so it goes. It seems to be great fun, and satisfying to all involved, as long as everybody in the play remembers his lines and his blocking (ha). We're not connecting with the other actors, we're only pretending to so we can keep things going. In the end, nobody really gets better, nobody really feels better, the real issues have not been addressed and we keep racing around the maze, smacking into walls and wearing ourselves out with frustration and soul-searing loneliness.
The only way out is Love, the active verb, not the (direct or indirect) object. I was given a discipline; I haven't tried it yet because it's early in the day and I seem only to be subject to the blues in the late afternoon/evening, but I'm hoping (a) that today I won't GET the blues, but (b) if I do get blue that invoking the discpline will ease it, and/or (c) if I can even remember the damned discipline in the first place I will have struck a blow toward self-connection, that is to say my brain will have been fruitfully engaged and that always makes me feel better.
Anyway, here's the discipline: first I say, "I am doing the very best I can;" then I am to name every single thing that I love, starting with myself; I name all the big and small things, no matter how trivial, including even the things I don't like. It would go something like this: "I love myself, I love my dogs, I love my house, my friends, my tomato plants; I love to write; I love to swim; I love my children; I love the sunset; I love my fake fingernails, the dust on the bookcase...," you get the point. Then all that is loved becomes one, and the act of loving has transformed the grief, the fear, the anger; all that energy gets channeled in a positive direction and I'm back inside my Self, my home, my heart, and I feel better.
I am doing the best I can, and I love practical suggestions.
----
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