Mom’s Advice for Everything

Several years ago, a tiny book called Life’s Little Instruction Book was a best-selling phenomenon.  H. Jackson Browne wrote the book as a gift to his son who was going to college.  If you were alive on this planet 20 or so years ago, you know of this book.  It was everywhere.  I had the privilege of briefly working for the original publisher of the book, jokingly referred to by those of us in marketing as “The House that Jack Built.”

It was such a simple and rather obvious concept.  Despite its simplicity (or maybe because of it), the book spent almost a year at #1 on the New York Times Bestseller List.  Copycat publications began to fall like rain behind it.

As a young writer, I longed for that kind of publishing success and wracked my brain trying to create a similar premise for a book.  Creating the simple is often the most difficult task.

With Mother’s Day just behind us, I’ve been thinking about my mom.  Well, of course.  In the story arc of my time with my mother, what she has taught me is not exactly conducive to book form.  Sure, she has given me quite a few lessons over the years, but there is a definite and predominant theme which would ultimately be the whole of any literary endeavor built around her wisdom.  It has been my mother’s answer to everything:  “Get up and move around; you’ll feel better.”

When I feigned sickness to avoid school as a child, that was her swift reply.  I suppose some mothers might feel a forehead or sit at the edge of the bed in pursuit of further information about the purported illness.  Not mom.  As she would zip through my room, probably putting away freshly folded clothes or (often) running a vacuum cleaner as my alarm clock, she would fling the phrase over her shoulder.  No matter how pathetic I made my plea sound, her response was the same: “Get up and move around; you’ll feel better.”

And the part I couldn’t easily admit as a child was that she was almost always right.  Even when I did have some aches or pains which might have justified my complaint, usually if I just started moving they began to dissipate.

Over the years, I have heard my mother’s voice echoing in my brain on many occasions.  When I was ill or depressed or just in a general funk, I could hear my mother advocating her cure for everything.

When life felt untenable and just generally bigger than me, “Get up and move around; you’ll feel better.”  When a job or my checkbook or the mess in the garage seemed out of control, “Get up and move around; you’ll feel better.”  When my heart or my spirit or my hope was broken, “Get up and move around; you’ll feel better.”

It’s no secret that exercise can combat depression.  My mother knew that far before it became the conventional wisdom of mental health, though in her eyes exercise is a waste of precious time you could actually use to work and accomplish something.  Of all the great wisdom in the world she could have passed on, in her endlessly pragmatic way my mother gave me the one piece that is actually useful in most situations.

I hope my mother is on this earth for many more years.  But, when the time should come for her to slip this mortal coil, this will be my vote for her epitaph: “Get up and move around; you’ll feel better.”

Don’t Cry Over Spilled Karma

So, here is the order of events:  I stopped at the ATM yesterday to have some cash on hand to tip my massage therapist.  Because the ATM only spews out twenties, and because I don’t want to set a $20 tip precedent with the aforementioned therapist, I stopped at a convenience store to get a Coke and thus break a twenty. 

In front of the convenience store was a man in fatigues sitting at a table collecting money for The Wounded Warrior Project.  Now, I’m all for taking care of returning veterans.  I think we should provide medical care and housing assistance and education and just about any need for those who are willing to put their lives on the line for the pittance we pay them to do that.  But, I have a natural resistance to people asking for money at the entrance to stores.  It’s such a deeply seated antipathy for me that I’m not even fond of the Girl Scouts when they do that.  Yeah, I know.  I’m a jerk. 

Getting accosted as I’m entering or leaving a store is just something I don’t like.  It’s bad enough that the WalMart greeters make me feel like a criminal when they eye my cart as I’m leaving the store.  Having my social conscience mauled by the cause of the week takes me over the edge. 

Don’t get me wrong.  I am generally a quite generous person.  Even if I’m irritated by the spoken or even silent request, I usually give something.  The non-politically-charged issues are easiest.  Children raising money for new Little League uniforms?  Absolutely.  Salvation Army bell ringers during the holidays?  Hmmm . . . no, I almost never give to religious organizations as most of them have judgments I find unspiritual.  Homeless person on the side of the road?  Sure, most of the time, if I have some cash on hand. 

Two bucks.  That’s my standard.  If someone needs it, and I feel good about giving it, then I’ll pull out two bucks and wish them well. 

When I entered the convenience store, I only had twenties, of course.  I nodded at the gentleman and mumbled something about needing to get change.  By the time I got my Coke and paid, I had actually forgotten all about his presence, so I was taken a bit off guard when I saw him again.  I almost walked past, but then I stopped and turned around and reached for my wallet.  As I fumbled for two bucks, I had a nice little chat with the gentleman.  He told me about Wounded Warriors and mentioned some of the celebrities involved.  He said that Bill O’Reilly talks about it all the time.  I said that I didn’t care for Bill O’Reilly, but I would give some anyway and smiled.  He backed away from the statement and claimed he didn’t actually watch Bill O’Reilly, but he had just heard that.  I put my money in the jar and wished him well.

I had a few minutes to kill before my massage was to begin, so I stopped in the bookstore.  I had taken $40 out of the ATM, so had the cash available when I found yet another book I just couldn’t live without and probably wouldn’t actually read.  I opened my wallet to pay for the book.  There were a few ones and the ten for my massage tip.  I riffled through the bills for a few seconds and then it dawned on me.  I had mistakenly put a one and a twenty into the donation jar for the Wounded Warriors. 

For a brief moment, I had that sinking feeling you get when you don’t have money you thought you had.  I went through a brief analysis of how to retrieve the money and reached a conclusion within about 2.3 seconds that it was simply gone.  I had donated $21 to the Wounded Warrior Project in spite of myself. 

As I laid on the massage table a bit later, I couldn’t help but think about the fact that I actually had two legs which could be rubbed and manipulated and pounded into relaxed muscular submission.  And two arms.  And a fully functioning body, even as much as I took it for granted.  I thought about those returning wounded veterans, many of whom could probably benefit from a therapeutic massage, and all of whom gave a precious part of themselves in service to our nation. 

As I lay on the massage table, I fully released my internal grip on that twenty.  By the time Kevin patted my shoulder and said, “We’re done; I’ll be waiting for you outside,” my only regret was that I hadn’t given the twenty deliberately. 

I left the ten in the tip envelope for Kevin, scheduled my next massage, and walked out into a bright, breezy day with a relaxed body, an empty wallet, and a full heart.  As non-religious as I am, I couldn’t help but think of the words of St. Francis of Assisi: “It is in giving that we receive.”  It is how we become instruments of peace in a warring world.

Managing Facebook Friends: It’s an Art, Not a Science

Facebook friends are AWESOME. (Insert smiley face, emoticon, tag, etc.)  Until they’re not.

My FB friends list, probably much like yours, includes old friends, new friends, friends of friends, friends I’ve never met and likely never will but we somehow got connected on FB friends, work friends, and so on.  Most of these connections are rewarding.  Some are practically nonexistent (Uncle Joe who signed up because his kids told him to and then has never returned).  Some are thought-provoking and even challenging.

And then there are the almost unbearables.

Younger people seem more comfortable with blocking someone on Facebook, sending them to that nowhereville where even their incessant Farmville updates won’t reach you.  I have only ever blocked one person, and that was for personal attacks that I won’t tolerate in any forum.  But, blocking seems so complete and permanent and . . . well, mean. 

I have a few Facebook friends that I wish I could soft-block.  They aren’t annoying or pissy so much as they just don’t get me.  I have annoying and pissy friends who get me, and I really don’t mind them so much.  They can disagree with my politics or views on religion or sexual mores, but they understand who I am and we keep a safe distance or tango only as a dance and not a war.  It’s the ones who interact with me as if they haven’t a clue about any aspect of my life that cause me irritation.

These are people I can’t block for various reasons.  Perhaps they’re connected to far too many other people in my circle, or they are professional colleagues, or they’re family. (I can hear the buzz now — “Is she talking about me?”  Just to set the record straight, no.  No, I’m not.  I’m not talking about you.)  For some reason, I just can’t drop them on the chopping block.

Mostly, I keep them around because I figure it says more about me than it does them if I can’t tolerate them.  And I guess that’s the beauty I find in Facebook; it is teaching us to interact with each other in completely new ways.  My little inner communications major observes this like a sociologist studying mob mentality.

We may piss each other off.  But, we’re connected.  And somewhere in that is a truly beautiful gift.

Why Doctors Should Rethink Smoking

I went to the doctor recently to get my hormones checked.  I was positive I was beginning the long, slow descent into the black hole of menopause.  That HAD to be it.  I was moody and angry and depressed.  There were so many good things happening in my life, and yet I had this big ball of intense crying just behind my eyes waiting for the slightest provocation to burst forth.

I mentioned all of my symptoms to my doctor, plus I added that I had quit smoking (again!) about a month before.  He nodded, ordered blood work, referred me to a gynecologist, and scheduled me for a transvaginal ultrasound.

The labs came back within normal limits.

The gynecologist will be seen in two weeks simply because I’m due for a Pap smear.

The ultrasound was cancelled.  I thought it was overkill, and since I consider myself to be the primary player in my own healthcare, I get to trump the doctor.

I knew what the truth was.  I was jonesing.  I’ve tried to quit smoking at least 746 times . . . diligently.  I have rarely made it through an entire month stretch.  The symptoms that drove me to the doctor were simply brought on by moving through another threshold of withdrawal.  The key to my issues was completely overlooked by my well respected primary care physician.

A few years ago, a friend of mine was in the hospital.  I was visiting her when the doctor came in the room.  In the course of their conversation, he asked, “You don’t smoke, do ya’?”

“Sure do,” she replied.

“Oh,” he said.  “I thought you were smarter than that.”

It took me a few minutes to process this conversation.  By the time I determined a reply, he was down the hall.  I should have chased him.  I should have grabbed him by his white-coat lapels and said, “How dare you?  How can you call yourself a medical professional and belittle your patient in this way?  If she had just declared that she was an alcoholic or a heroin addict or a little too dependent on prescription painkillers, you would have addressed her issue with the gravitas expected from a medical professional.  You would have considered that information in her treatment plan.  You would never dare look an Oxycontin addict in the eye and say, ‘I thought you were smarter than that.’”

Nicotine addiction is a serious issue, and the approach that doctors and nurses usually take desperately needs to be reconsidered.   Belittling your patient is neither effective nor professional.  Ignoring that aspect of a patient’s overall health picture is perhaps missing the easiest path to a diagnosis.  Doctors need to have honest conversations with patients about smoking without that undercurrent of moral judgment.  Save the guilt trip for my mother.

Smoking isn’t a wise choice.  Most smokers I know wish they could go back in time and never start.  But, belittling someone is not likely to help her abandon an addiction that some say is one of the most difficult to conquer.

My next step is an e-cigarette.  I’m hearing good reports about the success of this transition and the vastly reduced health risks.  But, for now, nicotine is my Paxil.  You can start nagging me about it when you get off your anti-depressant and stop drinking coffee.

132 Friends Have Posted to Your Wall

Birthdays sure aren’t what they used to be.  The birthdays of my childhood were like mini-Christmas, and I was the babe in the manger.  There was usually a party, and the wisest among us would come bearing gifts.

These were not the bouncy-place, pizza-for-everyone, invite-the-whole-class, pink-and-purple princess parties of today.  No, I’m old enough to remember when your birthday meant primarily family gathered for dinner; the leaf placed in the dining room table to accomodate aunts, uncles, and cousins; the nice table cloth used on a Tuesday.  My mother had a red plate with white letters around the edge which spelled out “You are special today.”  The plate only came out for good report cards, opening nights of the school play, and, of course, birthdays.

Despite the generational difference between those relatively spartan celebrations of the 70s and the stop-the-presses clusters of these modern times, there is an aspect of the childhood birthday that has remained the same: the child feels special.

The shift in the birthday experience which took place as I entered my 20s was a true shock to the system.  I had moved away from my family, so the dinner and the cake went the way of the pterodactyl.  Presents became less . . . well, convenient at first, I suppose, and then just not even considered.  That wasn’t too horrible.  I sucked so badly at remembering others’ birthdays that I was grateful to be let off the hook by the benign treatment of my own.  I settled into the acceptance of birthdays marked by a card in the mail from my mother, a call from my sister, perhaps a casual acknowledgement at work, and a possible gathering of a few close friends, if one of them remembered and put forth the energy to spearhead the event.  Not bad.  And some of them were even quite nice.  But, somehow, birthdays as an adult had become somewhat of a disappointment.  The anticipation I felt by force of habit far outweighed the reality of the day.

Then came Facebook.  Yes, I said, “Facebook.”  The first year I was on Facebook, it was a total shock to see post after post on my wall wishing me well on my birthday.  At first, I was kind of, “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”  I mean, Facebook tells them it’s my birthday.  It’s not as if they have it circled on their calendar with a red sharpie.

And Facebook tells me when their birthdays are as well.  Thus, I conversely felt a bit shallow and pathetic when I would send well wishes to dear, precious, old friends who really deserved better than for a social network to nudge me to do so.  But, I didn’t know the birth dates of many of my Facebook friends to begin with.  And everybody needs a reminder.  (I contend it is the primary role of a partner to remind your circle of friends that your birthday is coming.)

It took a couple of years to get used to the social implications of this new way of celebrating a birthday.  But now when my birthday rolls around and the timeline posts start stacking up, I am absolutely THRILLED by it.  I LOVE that my friends, both close and casual, are reminded and then care enough to send me their best.  It is such a tidal wave of positive energy that my entire day seems elevated.  It’s far better than the annual feeding of my messiah complex in my youth.  It beats the hell out of the bouncy place.

No, birthdays aren’t what they used to be.  They’re much, MUCH better.

One Thing I Learned in Sunday School

A few weeks ago, a friend of mine and I were having a chat when she asked me a question I had some difficulty answering.  We were discussing race relations/equality/justice and so forth, all issues about which I am infinitely passionate.  My friend asked, “Where did you get your intense devotion to issues of racial equality?” 

Hmmm. . . where did I get it?  I can think of oodles of examples that nurtured it along the way, but the initial springboard seemed a bit of a mystery. 

My friend asked, “Did you come from a liberal family that cared deeply about social justice?” 

After L-ing a bit too OL (thanks for the line, Modern Family writers), I said, “No, that would not have been it.”  My family was about as equality minded as any other conservative white family in the 60s and 70s. 

“Do you think it has something to do with being a lesbian?  You know, your own experiences with inequality naturally transferring to other minority experiences?”

I think that certainly has an impact on my ability to understand the pain of being on the shorter end of the “equality” stick, but still not the source. 

I pondered this question further on my own over the next few weeks.  I wondered if, in the words of the sage philosopher Lady Gaga, I was simply ”born this way?”  I’m sad to say that probably wasn’t the case either.    So, what was it?  Could I go back and discover the seed?  I pondered this question in depth, as I am wont to do with just about any single thing one can imagine. 

Then I thought of Mrs. Soper. 

Mrs. Soper was my first grade Sunday school teacher.  If you had told me then that she was 112 years old, I would have accepted that without reservation.  I’m pretty certain she had taught the first grade Sunday school class for 86 years already by the time I arrived. 

One Sunday morning, Mrs. Soper was asking for a volunteer, probably to lead the prayer.  No one jumped at this golden opportunity, so I started pointing my pudgy six-year-old fingers at each member of the class and reciting, “Eeny-meeny-miny-mo, catch a nigger by the toe . . . “ 

Mrs. Soper pointed her gnarled, 112-year-old finger at me and snapped, “We don’t say that word.” 

I slunk back into my chair, cowed and embarrassed.  There is no greater humiliation for a budding comedian than to learn that an attempt to be funny is not only not funny but horribly inappropriate.  Besides, I had enjoyed the protected status of preacher’s kid my entire life.  It was the rare and courageous adult who dared chastise me publicly.  Well, Mrs. Soper was both rare and courageous (in addition to being the mother of the church treasurer, the woman who wrote my father’s paycheck). 

Until that time, the little engine in my spirit that could contemplate issues of social justice had only followed the track laid by my family.  In an instant, Mrs. Soper threw the switch and sent me in a new direction.

I have no idea if I ever said that word again in my childhood (I know that I haven’t as an adult, with the rare exception caused by academic or narrative necessity, as evidenced above, and usually not even then).  I would not be surprised if I did, but I can tell you one thing with certainty: I never said it again without thinking how disappointed Mrs. Soper would be with me.  In fact, every time I hear that word to this day, whether coming from the mouth of one of my students or in a rap song, I think of Mrs. Soper.

It’s not an easy responsibility for an adult to undertake, to transform a child’s ignorance into a choice they can never make again without knowing it is a poor one.  I have done it in the past when my nieces were younger, and let me be the first to tell you, I didn’t enjoy it.  It was embarrassing for them and unpleasant for me.  But, I also know they remember those instances as clearly as I remember Mrs. Soper. 

The writer of the Proverbs said, “Train a child in the way (s)he should go, and (s)he will not depart from it.”  I think the part of the verse that gets most overlooked is the concept of the true way to go.  I learned lots of stuff in church that I have long since abandoned, but I have never departed from the track Mrs. Soper switched me to. 

From now on, if anyone should ask where I get my passion for social justice and equality, I know exactly what to say — “Mrs. Soper.”  She planted the seed which my life experiences have watered and nurtured.  But, she planted the seed.  Would that we all  contributed to the gardens of the young people in our lives in such a profound way.

What 9/11 Didn’t Take

There will be a lot of remembrances of September 11, 2001, taking place today.  I won’t bore you with my personal memories when I know you have your own.  But, after the shared horror and devastation of 10 years ago, I will tell you this:

I still believe that war is not the answer.

I still believe that love is stronger than fear.

I still believe that an open hand is stronger than a clenched fist.

I still believe that a country that welcomes others to her shores is better for it.

I still believe that religious diversity and tolerance must be a part of a truly democratic nation.

I still believe that people are basically good at heart.

I still believe that the Osama bin Ladens of the world are the aberrations.

I still believe that a “War on ____________” breeds more ___________. 

I still believe that retaliation never brings closure.

I still believe that kids and schools and communities are more worthy of our time, attention, and money than are bombs and guns and political posturing.

I still believe in liberty and justice for all.

Pat Summitt: Queen of the Court

I am a Pat Summitt fan from way back.  I know that doesn’t make me unique.  It is always interesting to hear someone claim to be the “#1 Fan” of someone like Summitt.  I understand why someone might say that; it’s a fan’s way of saying, “No, I really, REALLY love her.”  But the fact is that a lot of people love her.  I’m satisfied just being among that group.

Today is “Wear Orange for Pat” day.  Just a few days ago, Summitt announced that she had been diagnosed with early-onset dementia at the age of 59.  Like several other people I’ve talked to, I remember watching a few games last year and thinking, “Pat doesn’t look good.”  There was something in her eyes that seemed different.  But, those subtle hints didn’t make this announcement any less shocking.

Pat Summitt began her career in a dead-end profession: women’s basketball.  She began coaching the University of Tennessee Lady Vols when she was still a graduate student and Title IX was in its infancy.  It is hard to find a comparison for what she accomplished in almost single-handedly creating women’s basketball as we know it today.  Perhaps Henry Ford comes closest.  In our celebrity-driven culture, Pat Summitt is one of those rare celebrities who earned every ounce of her renown and paid for every magazine cover and sports article with sweat and determination. 

This blog post started out to be a discussion of how people are diagnosed with early-onset dementia every day.  And where is their parade of orange?  It started out to explore the rather morose obsession we have with whatever illness a celebrity has.  Thousands of people suffer anonymously until a famous name makes an announcement of a recent diagnosis and suddenly it becomes the illness-of-the-week.  Honestly, how long do you think it will take for the Pat Summitt Dementia Care and Research Unit to become a part of the UT Medical Center?  Must we have a celebrity connected in order to care about (and fund) disease research?

That was SUPPOSED to be my blog post today, a minor rant on our nation’s Celebrity Obsession Syndrome.  But, . . . this is Pat we’re talking about. 

I stood in line at Davis-Kidd years ago to get her signature on my newly purchased copy of her book.  Me, and about a thousand other people.  I watched every televised game of the three seasons which brought back-to-back championships in ’96, ’97, and ’98 (the Lady Vols have won a total of eight national titles, all coached by Summitt).  I shook my head in amazement over the years as she broke record after record.  Now, even the fact that she is the all-time winningest coach in NCAA Division I basketball (men or women) has become somewhat old news.  Most importantly, I admired the way she found to win consistently while never losing sight of the importance of education for her student-athletes.  One of the most honored moments in a Lady Vol’s life is when she gets to sign the pole in the locker room, and she only gets to sign the pole when she graduates from college; it has nothing to do with basketball. 

I’m not so much a women’s basketball fan as I am an admirer of anyone who practices and perfects the specific purpose of her life.  The mode of Summitt’s accomplishment is completely secondary; the accomplishment itself places her on a par with some of the greatest names in history.  Excellence that pure is incredibly rare, and Pat has it. 

I wanted to kibitz and quibble about the sudden awareness of early-onset dementia now that a famous person has it and put forth at least a soft indictment of our obsession with celebrity. 

But this is Pat we’re talking about.  This is Pat.

Deb’s Life: Take 48. And . . . Action!

For the last 29 years, I have been primarily focused on, motivated by, and invested in a primary relationship.  For those who know me, you know it hasn’t always been the same one.  There have been two profound and lengthy relationships, ones which I would call “marriages” despite the legal limitations.  Those two relationships dominated the last 18 years.  There were others, not as long but also important. 

During those 29 years (and, yes, every time I write that number I taste a little vomit in the back of my throat), my energy, my earning power, and my ego were all wrapped up in the identity I clung to as one half of a coupled whole.  I heard myself introduced as the unit so often I now have to remind myself that my first name isn’t actually “Deband.” 

These relationships were deeply important to me, and I certainly don’t want anything I write to imply otherwise.  My most recent relationship, especially, is still a tender place deep within that alternately sends waves of sadness and release flooding through my spirit.  I mourn it daily.  But, this particular post isn’t really about that, . . . the “that” which is still too real and close and painful to take life in the written word. 

This post is about what I didn’t focus on for the past 29 years.  My drive, my natural abilities, my career, my professional fulfillment.  It is about the Ph.D. I didn’t get (yet!), the job security I didn’t manifest, the retirement fund I didn’t build.  This is not the fault of my relationships; it is the fault of the way I was in my relationships.  I operated on the principle that relationships always took priority, but I never realized how I neglected my relationship with myself.

I was a hell of a partner in many ways.  I knew how to show up, support, be strong.  I knew the characteristics of a “good partner,” and I knew just when and how to display them.  I knew how to appear the way I knew others, my partner AND friends and family, expected me to appear. 

Some might say I was playing a part.  If you are currently mad at me, your verbage would be that “it was all a big act.”  But the only act a person can keep up for 10 years (18 years, 29 years) is a delusion perpetuated on self.  A consciously directed duplicity would be a role that I, for one, could never maintain for an extended period without breaking out of character. 

What really happened is this:  I loved some people really well for a long time over the last three decades, but I never had the proper perspective on where I fit in those equations.  I helped to create a sense of home and family, but I forgot to build in my personal aspirations or pave a way for my core needs to be met.  Deband was all over it, but Deb was nowhere to be found.   

So, I’m 47.  I’m filling out grad school applications.  My car is the bottom-of-the-line Toyota, the kind I would have bought at 22 when I still could only dream of the cars I would yet own.  I fold my own clothes and toast my own bagel. 

I have two dogs and a five-year plan.  Most importantly, I have me.  Perhaps for the very first time, I have me.

Stripped Down to Nothing

When I was a child, I had a recurring nightmare about being sent to prison.  I thought that would be the worst thing that could ever happen to a person.  I would wake in a start, sheets damp from my sweat, and feel the most intense sense of relief as I realized that the bars had been a dream. 

I was reminded of the dream recently as I read a memoir by Neil White titled In The Sanctuary of Outcasts.  White is a typical southern business man with shirts pressed into cracker-crisp submission, the requisite stories of his time in the frat house at Ole’ Miss, and the dual social safety nets of family ties and southern white privilege to catch him when he falls.  Until he finally falls too hard. 

Neil White was convicted of check kiting in the early 90s and sentenced to 18 months in a minimum-security prison.  He was incarcerated in Carville, LA, in a facility that, oddly enough, also housed one of the last remaining “leper colonies” in the country.  As he meets and befriends both patients and prisoners, and more importantly, as he privately ponders all he has lost and what he might ever have again, White undergoes a transformation, the transformation we must all undergo to become fully human.  It is behind the bars of a prison – removed from his family, removed from his social status, removed from his lifelong need for approval and recognition — that Neil White begins to taste freedom for the first time.  

I have recently undergone a “stripped-down-to-nothing” experience.  Much like Neil White, I can’t say I enjoyed the early stages of this process.  The shock of having my life changed so completely was not an easy swallow.  Those days contained pain and sorrow and sadness and self-pity.  I was numb, but nowhere near numb enough. 

And then, things started to change.  Just a little at first.  The change was soft and slow and subtle.  And so incredibly profound. 

Any material losses became as a speck of sand to the great ocean of self-discovery into which I now daily dive.  Releasing the material, in fact, was key to my transformative process.  I have a fourth of what I used to have, and I’m still thinking there are some items I could give away. 

Two years ago, I again dreamed I was in prison.  I had the dream three times that summer.  I believe I now understand the personal reasons why.  I won’t delve into the specifics of that here, but suffice it to say that the bars in my dream did not represent a person or situation.  They weren’t symbolic of my job, my relationship, or my financial situation.  They didn’t stand for some trauma in childhood or sense of inadequacy. 

The bars were the disconnect between the me who moves through time and space and the me who is actually living this life.  They were the great mysterious veil between my projected self and my true nature.  They were the barrier I erected between knowledge and understanding. 

It is only when everything else is stripped away, when there is nothing left but you and the bars, that you can see them for what they are.  And then you can remember . . . the bars are only a dream; it is the freedom that is real.