The healing journey of a widowed, unschooling badass in Delaware.
Nineteen degrees Fahrenheit.
That’s how cold it was when I stepped outside, barefoot in a robe, to do my Wim Hof Method breathing.
I’m not sure why I push myself out there each day. It feels like God is beckoning me, it feels like it would be a sin to not take this time for myself.
Matthew 23:23 KJV — Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye pay tithe of mint and anise and cummin, and have omitted the weightier matters of the law, judgment, mercy, and faith: these ought ye to have done, and not to leave the other undone.
Isaiah 58:9-10 RSV — Then you shall call, and the LORD will answer; you shall cry, and he will say, Here I am. “If you take away from the midst of you the yoke, the pointing of the finger, and speaking wickedness, if you pour yourself out for the hungry and satisfy the desire of the afflicted, then shall your light rise in the darkness and your gloom be as the noonday.
We are the instruments for the Holy Spirit’s work in the world. We must be open to serving our fellow man and lifting their burdens.
As I find my path more clearly, the opportunities to help others multiply. Yet, it never seems like enough.
I started the day off right with five rounds of Wim Hof Method breathing. There was little wind and the snow fell gently.
The availabilty of books in our society is beautiful (libraries, local, regional, and national bookshops, Target, Walmart, big box stores, grocery stores, thrift shops, Little Free Libraries, Facebook Marketplace, garage sales, borrowing from friends, antique stores, random take-a-book-leave-a-book bins, drug stores, campgrounds, newsstands, churches, community centers, etc…) Each of these places is different, but they share a common limiting factor: space. What books end up on these various shelves is decided in as many ways as there are places. But choices must be made.
Only one of those places is accused of “banning” books. It is misdirection. It is a ploy to divide us over a problem that is a symptom of a diseased system.
As long as we trust government to educate our children and decide what they read, we will remain victims of those who run that government.
We enjoyed the chilly new year air with a visit to a tucked away oasis.
Most capitalists are hurt by war, we are incentivized to keep peace with our market. A bombed, burned, and murdered clientele does not create profit.
A tiny fraction of capitalists, chosen by the State, profit from war.
My younger son got me a fun Lego build for Christmas. I took time today to put it together and take a few pictures.
I’ve been on a search for my deepest traumas, the ones that occurred before I was born and before my parents were born, the ones that escape memory.
They travel back to Adam.
I’m not so foolish (or am I?) to think I can integrate original sin into my psyche. I just want to dig as deep as I can in my short time in this body. I want to do the work so my children and their children won’t have so much of this burden.
Therapy, meditation, prayer, self love, acceptance, and radical openness all play their parts. Deep traumas require deep love to heal.
At night I visualize the ancient pains. They appear as monsters, caves, and vast bodies of water with bottomless trenches.
All of these images have emerged out of a formless mass thqt appeared to me about six months ago. They’re not yet coherent, but they are beginning to communicate their meanings to me.
They form narratives, driving me to solve puzzles and unravel their metaphors.
A legion swallowed me at the bottom of a dark sea and revealed that all of history was built on death and suffering, that everything in this world grows out of decay.
Then it spit me out on a sunny shore, an abandoned beach. Marooned.
I don’t know if it’s an island or if I will find civilization or more monsters here. I do know that I need to appreciate the sun. Too often, I dive right back into the depths, searching for the next ugly spot to heal. This time I’m going to walk the beach and feel the warmth for a night or two.
As often as my sons get bruised and cut, it’s not too often that we end up in the hospital.
This collision with a trampoline calls for a few stitches. Every urgent care walk-in near us was closed, so here we are, in the emergency department.
I’ve been off my Wif Hof Method breathing routine lately, but spent a few minutes early this morning scrambling to get the trash cans to the curb.
Before I made it back inside, my feet were sticking to the pavement with every step.