Snippet of Chapter Six From the Book in Progress

“Life is as dear to the mute creature as it is to a man. Just as one wants happiness and fears pain, just as one wants to live and not to die, so do other creatures.”

~His Holiness, The Dalai Lama~



Human body-sized bergs of ice floated gingerly down Salt Creek, occasionally coming up for air, as my brother and I waded carefully downstream donned in our heavy coats, rubber gloves and hip waders. Barren elm trees towered over our heads along opposing banks, disrobed by yet another brisk fall and frigid early winter.

My brother and I were winter fur trappers and traders. It fit in nicely with the fantasy I’d developed of being a mountain man. It also helped supplement my allowance and put gas in my car. During some seasons I pocketed as much as 400 dollars, which was a small fortune to a teenager.

It was like this most every winter before the hard freeze. Just before the creek froze solid, finally succumbing to sub-zero temperatures, chunks of ice would begin to form and drift along, bumping my brother and I in the back of the legs as we waded along checking our muskrat traps which lined both sides of a creek that varied in depth from ankle to chest. Although we were familiar with the layout of the river, a wrong step would mean filling your waders with icy fluid which at worst could pull you under and drown you. At best, the temperature of your entire lower torso would begin to plummet and the pain and discomfort of approaching frostbite made a usually peaceful outing excruciating. Stepping in a hole and filling our hip waders had happened to each of us at least once and it was NOT a feat we cared to repeat.

On this particular sunny, yet frosty Saturday morning, we were moving our traps downriver to a place where we hadn’t yet depleted the population of muskrat. Adding to the intrigue of the ice formations trying to drag us under was the small detail of reports a man had drowned upstream in Lincoln a few days before. No body had been recovered and the search spanned a portion of the river we explored. In other words, every time we were bumped by a chunk of ice, we were sure we had just been discovered by the ghost of Salt Creek. We were both pretty spooky in those days and watching us jump and gasp must have made a hilarious spectacle. In fact, hearing my brother and I share those tales back home was another thing that actually made my dad smile.

We had just completed checking our traps along “Old Salt Run”, a stagnate body of moss- layered filthy water which ran from the local cesspool westerly until in dumped into Salt Creek. It was rich with muskrat and we chose to leave those traps where they were for the time being and concentrate on moving the torturous metal objects that lined both sides of the larger creek.

Now would probably be a good time to offer a little background on the “art” of trapping muskrat. You may not like it, but at least it will offer a glimpse in to how we captured the furry prey on a shallow river. Our basic premise was to watch the creek banks for signs of activity in the form of muskrat tracks or dens that were dug into the side of the river. Once a suitable spot was chosen, we would place a steel trap just below water level right against the bank. The end or chain of the trap was then tied to a stake which we placed away from the bank in deeper water. Once the unsuspecting rodent found his leg embraced by the unforgiving steel, the current would pull him into deeper water where he would then drown. We knew we had a catch when there was no trap visible along the bank. A lone stake with no visible trap meant we had added one to our bag of goods. On rare occasions we would find empty traps where larger muskrat had chewed off a leg in order to escape. As gruesome and unforgiving as it sounds now, it was just normal fare back then. I seldom gave it a second thought.

During the previous week we had noticed that raccoon had burrowed a large den under a large tree directly across the river from one of our traps. Although raccoon pelts brought substantially more money than muskrat, we just weren’t rigged for trapping them so we stuck to larger numbers of pelts with lesser value. We had discussed trying to trap some of the raccoon family, but collectively decided it just wasn’t worth the retooling.

As we approached the trap directly across from the raccoon den, we made a discovery that caught us both by surprise. Although our intent was to merely check the trap and move it downstream, what we found stopped us knee-deep in frigid water. We looked at each other in amazement. An unsuspecting raccoon, while walking down the river bank looking for food, had stepped in our muskrat trap. Apparently the coon’s extra weight and size made it possible for him to step up higher on the bank rather than being pulled into the deeper water. There he stood, firmly grasped by the cold steel, glaring in amazement now at the two men responsible for his predicament.

I have to admit our first response was to count money since a raccoon pelt meant thirty-five dollars as opposed to just the four or five dollars we received for a good muskrat. The raccoon’s pitiful predicament quickly created a second response from both of us, which was that we should just release him to be reunited with his family across the river. We just stared at each other and shook our head. How on earth were we supposed to approach an angry, cornered raccoon and just let him go? There was no way on earth this bandit-faced rascal was going to let us anywhere near him. He hissed, and glared and pulled back on the trap, reminding us of the cruelty of his plight.

We discussed several options, all of which eventually led to one of us being face-to-face with the angry critter while we tried to loosen the trap. Try as we might to muster a solution that didn’t require such close quarters, neither of us could come up with a thing. And even if we could, we wondered, how would he fair in the wild with a broken leg? It seemed the raccoon’s fate was determined by a power higher than ours and we clearly couldn’t just leave him.

Farewell Signs

"To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven."  -Ecclesiastes III-

"Good writing takes more than just time; it wants your best moments and the best of you."

-Real Live Preacher, RealLivePreacher.com weblog, 10-09-04-
 
"But words are things, and a small drop of ink, falling like dew, upon a thought, produces that which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think."

-George Gordon Byron-
 
The signs are everywhere and no longer possible to ignore.  I knew it was happening when I couldn't generate a blog concept regarding the Islamic Cultural Center at Ground Zero.  What started as a tiny seed of thought took root and today came full circle during my jog.  It's time to stop blogging and start my book.
 
Rambings of a 138 has been my baby.  It's also been my refuge; my hiding place, if you will, from bigger and better things.  Those who know me well, know that the entire concept for this blog came from a personal journal I began over two years ago.  That journal was raw and uncensored.  It was full of anger and opinion and politics and religion.  I began that writing as a means to vent.  I had a million thoughts a minute running through my mind about a thousand different topics.  This little laptop helped me make sense of it all.  Then somewhere in the venting, I had the idea that it would be fun to make my opinions and thoughts more public.   Ramblings of a 138 was born.
 
A title for the blog was my first challenge.  I had plenty of material.  By mere chance (or so I thought) I got my first glance at the number 138 by taking an online IQ test.  You and I both know my IQ isn't anywhere close to that, but that number has come to mean things to me you can't imagine.  I see it everywhere, stamped on everything.  That number has become a guide that leads me in the right direction and on occasion has even been a warning that thwarted harm.  I can't explain it.  You'd have to live it.  Recognition of that number has even caught the attention of an illustrator that is working with me on a children's book project.  It just simply shows up everywhere.
 
Some of the topics I've covered have served as a mirror for my own spiritual journey.  The venting I did initially, has given way to a sense of peace and understanding.  As much as I value my own opinion about things and have always wanted you to value them as well, I suddenly don't feel the need to share them publicly.  As much as some of my topics have been thought-provoking, there have been times when I fear my writing has also stirred some dissention.  There was a time when I thrived on that kind of attention, but times have changed.  Now I'm realizing that discussing the same things over and over again, be they religious or political in nature, simply get me nowhere.  There always have been, are now, and always will be people of varying opinions and I no longer feel the fire within me to tilt the scale in my favor.  
 
So what happens next?  (You MUST be on pins and needles by now).  Well first of all, the blog site will remain open for you to come back and visit any time and I hope you will.  Revisit old posts and see if they stir your soul.  For the forseeable future, any posts you see from me will be in the form of excerpts from my book project.  I'm going to keep the title close to the vest for now, but the subject will be about my own personal spiritual journey from childhood to present.  Look for the finished product at your neighborhood bookstore sometime this decade. 
 
I already have a children's book in the illustration phase and hope to submit that sometime this year or early next for consideration.  Self-publishing isn't out of the question.  I have at least one other book idea on the table and like all people who love to write, I want to write the great American novel.  Look for THAT at your bookstore in about, uh...........well, it's gonna be awhile.
 
I want to thank each and every person who ever read an entry, visited the site, checked out my profile, became a follower, left a comment or even just checked a box.  This blog has been a labor of love for me and seeing a new follower or comment always made me smile.  It just wouldn't have been as much fun without my few faithful fans.  There is one person I'd like to single out.  This blog was an instrument in leading her to me and she has been my biggest fan, bar none.
 
Linda, you have inspired more of my writing than you could possibly know, even before I knew you were reading it.  You gave me courage.  The very best thing that came from this blog or any of my writing was that it led me back to you.   That little 138 led me to my true love at long last.  Together we'll embark on a whole new adventure and that includes your writing as well.  I love you.
 
So my dear friends, I sign off filled with joy of the expectation of new challenges to come.  Please come back to visit, and I'd love a comment of "so long".  (I don't care much for good-byes).  It's been a blast.  For our next virtual party, let's celebrate a book signing!
 
Love and Light,
Matt

There Is A Place

There is a place in my soul:


     Where the grass is green and soft and lush,

     Where the smell of freshly cut lawns and hay sing inside your senses,

     And the fireflies dance an amber dance across the openness.

There is a place in my soul:

     Where the snow is pure and white,

     Where the wintry air cleanses your heart and mind,

     And your eyes are engulfed by the essence of light.

There is a place in my soul:

     Where a brilliant palate of a thousand hues brings heaven near,

     Where you can taste the air and its hope of Fall,

     And your ears are delighted by the crisp sounds ‘neathe your feet of those who lived.

There is a place in my soul:

     Where vast fields of waving grain invite your touch,

     Where brooks invite your toes,

     And shapely clouds await your gaze.

There is a place in my soul:

     Where My Love lives,

     Where every memory, every taste, every sound, every smell, remind me of home,

     And there is my peace.

There is a place on this earth:

     Where my soul belongs and my true love lives,

     Where I’ll be returning,

     And the odyssey complete.



- Matt Leatherwood and Linda Faris -

Poetry In Motion - A Repost

Authors Note:  This is a repost from earlier in the year.  In typical Team Matlin fashion, Linda had a feeling today it should be reposted.  We don't know why, we're just following her/our instinct.  Hope you enjoy.  -Matt-


A little over a year ago, I had the opportunity to go to Nebraska and spend a little time at the orchard. That place is amazing and always gives me some level of peace. One morning, very early, I walked outside to take a stroll along the trees and just take in some cold Nebraska air. As I walked out the door, I was met with a beautiful “dusting” of new snow. During my short walk I met a wandering raccoon who came near enough to almost touch. When I returned from my myopic adventure, I walked inside and what follows is what came out. Don’t ask me when I turned from Philosophy to Poetry. Don’t worry. I’ll be back.

I awaken to a dusting of fresh snow and stand on the walk, pondering my first step, unretraceable.

The snow unmarked, untrodden like the life of a newborn baby having not made his first step.

How shall I leave my mark on the glistening snow? Which direction shall I take? What mark will I leave? Will someone be able to follow my trail or will wind and time erase the prints so that each may leave their own?

The raccoon ponders not his path, which step or direction. Minding only which way leads to peril, becoming prey, not predator. Each step by instinct, not thought.

And as I ponder which step, I start in any direction, following only my heart, leaving my trail, my path, my mark. And looking back see that wind has already covered my footsteps. Having no clear retrace by which to return, my choices remain open in any direction.

Every step a new path, a new adventure. Walk on. Leave a trail. Make a NEW trail. Walk on.


-Matt Leatherwood-

Closer Than We Think

"Choose being kind over being right, and you'll be right every time."       - Richard Carlson -

The last three or four weeks have been the beginning of a slightly new direction for me spiritually.  It's a little hard to explain so maybe I should just start at the beginning.

I recently posted a new status on my Facebook page that resulted in a response I hadn't expected.  It clearly offended and even angered some people I respect and whom I consider to be friends.  It was a post of a religious/spiritual nature and, as usual, was meant only to invoke thought and reflection.  It did much more.  Not long ago, I would have dug a trench, stood my ground, and defended my position as "right".  This time I did something different.  I offered an apology and deleted my post.  I spent two days agonizing over backing down like I did.  It seemed to be the right thing to do, yet it was not part of what has historically been my nature.  I think that's changing.  There's more.

I remember distinctly the day I "became a Christian".  The details of that time aren't nearly as important as the change it initially brought about in me.  During that time, although it wasn't always comfortable, I professed my new-found faith and tried to convert non-believers with my "testimony".  After all, my way of belief was "the way" and I felt it necessary to share that with others lest they spend eternity in hell.  I also remember the period of time when I began to study about world religions and physics, thereby casting doubt on my faith.  The details, again, aren't so important.

In my journey from Atheist to Agnostic to Christian, back again to Agnostic and "finally" to  Gnostic, I have also tried to share my new discovery and "knowledge" with others.  I've argued against the religious establishment and pointed out what I felt were inconsistencies in religious dogma, etc.  I felt like it was my duty.  I felt like it was wrong for people to live, what I believed, was mythology.  I see now just how arrogant that stance was.  But wait.  There's more.

A couple weeks ago I went with Linda and a friend to see an independent film, The Nature of Existence, by Roger Nygard.  The web site is worth checking out and I actually recommend the film.  http://www.thenatureofexistence.com/.  Again, details aren't important.  Roger traveled the globe over a period of 4 years and interviewed a variety of people regarding the nature of our existence.  He asked people on the street, scientists and religious "gurus" a series of 85 questions regarding God, religion and our existence.  The film was interesting, but it was what Mr. Nygard said after the film during a question-and-answer period that caught my attention most.

After being asked how making the film might have changed him, Roger replied, "I think it's made me more tolerant of other's beliefs."  He went on to say the thing that has started my transformation.  He said that whether or not you believe we were created by God (a la Adam and Eve) or a cosmic miracle of stardust that began with the Big Bang, we can surely agree that we were "created".  I've thought about that comment a great deal, and I can't find a loop hole.  Christian, Muslim, Jew or Gentile, surely we can agree that by SOME event, we were indeed created.  And that's when I realized that for me, it's not so important that I'm right about my beliefs or that you're wrong.  What's important is that we find common ground as humans.  I can take it a step further.

We both pray.  You may actually call it prayer and I may call it meditation or "sending positive vibes to the universe", but the word "prayer" works fine for me.  I'm actually not doing anything much different than I did as a Christian.  I just call it something different.  We both believe in God.  You're specific about yours and even His name and I see things on a more cosmic level, but the term god works for me.  Higher Power, Universe, Supreme Being, Yaweh, Lord, Alien from another galaxy.....makes no difference to me.  It's someone or something greater than us.  On that we can agree.  Let's call it God.  Works for me.

As it turns out, if you really take liberty with the definition, I'm religious.  You go to church and may even follow a specific doctrine.  You may identify yourself as Catholic or Protestant, Lutheran or Follower of Allah.  I adhere to no specific doctrine and don't go to church, but I see the world and people as my "church".   You might say that the fact that I follow no religion IS my religion.  We can agree on that, right? 

So there you have it.  We were both created.  We pray.  We believe in God and follow a religion.  I'd say that's a pretty good start.  We have alot more in common than we think.  And in the end, isn't that really all that matters?  It doesn't matter so much who's right.  What's important is that we hold hands while we're all finding our way on this tiny little planet which couldn't even be considered a dust speck relative to the 100 million galaxies in our universe.  We're the same.  Sure we differ in some details of our beliefs and we look different, but we're all humans. We're all brothers and sisters.

I think there's still great potential for Peace, Love, Joy and Harmony.  I believe we're alot closer than we think.



 

A Perfect Storm

"War does not determine who is right - only who is left."   -Bertrand Russell-
 
"Sometimes when things seem to be going wrong, they are going right for reasons you are yet to understand."    - Alan Cohen-
 
"Love ultimately proves its reality."     - Alan Cohen -
 
"Force always breeds resistance."   - paraphrased from the Tao Te Ching -
 
The City of Dallas recently hired a new Chief of Police.  As you can imagine, being the top cop for one of our nation's largest cities is highly visible, highly political, and undoubtedly, full of pressures from both within and without.
 
Shortly after our new police chief took office, one of the most bizarre set of circumstances I've ever encountered took place in a nearby city....a "suburb" if you will.  Our police chief's son was involved in the fatal shooting of an innocent bystander and then a Lancaster police officer.  The chief's son was then gunned down by local police.  Let me make this clear for you.  The top-ranking police officer in one of our country's biggest cities had a son who killed a fellow officer, and THEN the boy was killed by other police officials. 
 
I don't care how you spin this.  My heart goes out to that chief.  I don't know what kind of father he is.  I don't know what kinds of issues he had with his son.  I don't care about anything involving his parenting.  HIS son is dead.  And he was killed by fellow police officers acting in a way they are trained to do.  To make things so much worse, his son was a murderer and a cop killer.  I can't even begin to imagine the turmoil and grief that must be crushing the very soul of that chief.  His son did the unimaginable......and now he's dead.  Try trodding through THAT emotional and political mine field. 
 
It gets worse.  On the day of the son's funeral, a Dallas Deputy Police Chief called for on-duty officers to aid in the escort of the funeral procession because he felt public safety was being jeopardized.  It was a split-second decision based on what he felt was best at the time.  When the public got wind of what happened, they called for the Deputy's head on a platter.  How dare he use on-duty cops to escort a cop killer?!  It was the final clap of thunder in a perfect storm.  But I'll get back to that.
 
Rewind two weeks to a dinner I had with my daughter.  At that dinner, I was able to pick the brain and listen to the wisdom of a teenager filled with visions of world peace.  She spoke of how she wants to grow up to write peace treaties and help the starving children of third-world countries.  She doesn't want to be in politics, but wants to share the message of peace and forgiveness.  She wants to be an ambassador of freedom and good will.  And then she said something that made me almost choke on a cheesestik.  "I know what the terrorists did was terrible and wrong", she said.  "But what would have happened if we'd just forgiven them?"
 
Now rewind almost nine years to that fateful day in September of 2001.  A terrorist attack on U.S. soil killed nearly 4,000 civilians, firefighters and police officers.   Almost immediately, President Bush launched a war on terror;  an action I supported, by the way.  Since that time, nearly 6,000 U.S. and allied troops have died in the effort to stop terrorism in Iraq and Afghanistan.  I've already addressed my new position on the war effort so I won't get into that.  But what I do want to make clear here, is that we have lost 50% more people in the war effort itself than we lost in the initial attack.  So what was initially nearly 4,000 dead, is now nearly 10,000.  And we're really nowhere closer to stopping terrorism.  You know it.  I know it.  The pentagon knows it.  Different topic for a different time.
 
So let's get back to my daughter's question of forgiveness and how it relates to our police chief and the war.  What if?  What if the citizens of Dallas could just forgive the Deputy who used on-duty personnel and accept that he did the best he could?  What if the family of the slain police officer could just forgive the chief's son for his heinous crime?  The truth is, the boy is dead.  The ONLY people that will suffer for carrying the hate are the people doing the hating.  What if, (and I know you're gonna blast me here) the U.S. had merely "forgiven" the Muslim world for the act of terrorism carried out by a few?  What if we had simply spent that trillion dollars on education or increased security within our own borders?  Would the body count be 10,000 by using THAT strategy?  I doubt it.
 
I'm trying to get to my point here, but there's more than can be condensed into one meager blog entry.  Where is our spirit of forgiveness?  Even Jesus said, "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone."  You aren't perfect.  Neither am I.  We may not have killed a cop or bombed a hi-rise, but aren't we worthy of forgiveness?  Is it possible, just POSSIBLE, that in the big picture, forgiving the unforgivable may be what serves everyone best?  
 
The Tao Te Jing (The Way) and various others have suggested that the quickest way to build resistance is to use force.  Tell your kids they CAN'T do something and they can't wait to try it.  Build a wall along the border of Texas and people will die trying to climb it.  Take your all-powerful war weapon half way around the world and the most "unworthy" opponents will dig in and fight back until it makes you look like you're nothing.  I boxed in only one fight, but I can tell you...every time the guy hit me, I did my best to hit him back.  It's a law of nature.  Use force and resistance will come.
 
I clearly don't have the answers to all this, but I'd like to pose a challenge to anyone reading this.  Ala "Pay It Forward", I'd like you to think of one person you need to forgive, whether you think they deserve it or not.  Now forgive them.  Now ask them to do the same.  And so on and so on.  I think you'll be amazed at how much lighter you'll feel after letting go of the bitterness.  And maybe it'll catch on.  Maybe starting right here and right now we can start a chain of forgiveness, one person at a time, that will change a nation.....that will change a world.
 
To change the heart of a nation, we have to change the hearts of its people.  Let's start today with a spirit of forgiveness. 
 

Abby Sunderland

"The least of learning is done in the classrooms."   ~Thomas Merton~

"Truly great madness can not be achieved without significant intelligence"    ~Henrik Tikkanen~

My oldest daughter, now 25, was born with a passion for horses.  I swear her first words were, "Where's Doc?.  (Doc was a horse that lived across the street).  At a very early age she took riding lessons and then began to "show" in 4H.  She did things like Western Pleasure and Showmanship where you either led the horse by a halter or approached speeds barely beyond a slow trot along the rail of the arena.  The horse she rode was blind, but he was also slow.  Showing in 4H was safe.  And to tell you the truth, it was boring beyond words. 

I remember exactly where I was standing the day she came up to me and said, "Dad, I want to run barrels."  My adams apple made it all the way to the back of my throat as I mustered my most supportive face.  "You do know that barrel racing is fast, right?", I asked.  That was as dumb question.  Of course she knew barrel racing meant going fast.  That was entirely the point.  It turns out showing horses in 4H was as boring as watching and she felt the need for speed.  I didn't exactly try to talk her out of her latest need for adventure, but I didn't exactly encourage it either.

Shortly thereafter, she was atop one of the fastest and most seasoned barrel horses in the area.  (I remember where I was standing the day I wrote that check also!)  He was a powerful animal with trophy after trophy to his credit for winning speed events.  In my estimation, he was clearly too much horse for such a small girl.  He was also exactly what she needed to learn and compete in speed events.  I watched for a full season while this young girl, wearing a helmet, was taken on ride after ride by a horse she couldn't yet handle.  I also spent an entire season no longer bored, but terrified!  It was so hard to watch this 90 pound girl strapped to a 1000 pound horse. 

By the next season they were like one.  She "grew" into him and she won local event after local event and qualified for the National Little Britches Finals for a couple years.  Seeing her conquer her fear and rise to the challenge of riding that horse is one of he most gratifying chapters in my life.  I wouldn't change a thing.  It was worth every penny spent on horse, feed, gas, and entry fees.

Which brings me, of course, to Ms. Abby Sunderland.  Abby is the 16 year old young woman who recently attempted to sail around the world solo.  Prior to her departure, the event drew a great deal of press.  But her departure didn't invite an ounce the attention  her "failure" to complete the mission did.  Somewhere in the Indian Ocean, Abby was met with 30-50 foot swells and near-hurricane force winds.  After being repeatedly tipped on her side and rolled under water, the mast of her vessel broke and she sent out a distress beacon.  She had lost contact with her folks via her satellite phone and no one knew for sure if she was alive.  A search plane made contact with Abby and determined she was "safe" and a French fishing vessel, which was closest to her location, was sent to pick her up.  At this writing, that rescue should be complete. 

For the last two days, I have listened to various discussions regarding this young girl's attempt to sail around the world.  The comment I hear most often is, "Where were her parents?"  I've heard variables such as "What were her parents thinking?"  and "Who would allow their child to DO something like that?"  I'll tell you one person that would let her.  Me.  And apparently I am in a vast minority of folks that would do so.  In fact, besides Abby's parents, I may be the ONLY one.

But let's be clear about this and I think Abby's parents have made this point already.  This isn't just a 16 year old girl.  She is an accomplished seaman with advanced knowledge of sailing and navigating and survival.  The Sunderlands didn't just throw their kid out into the ocean in a rubber raft.  They coached her and trained her and most importantly............they supported her in pursuit of her passion. 

It does raise a multitude of questions doesn't it?  Would I let my younger daughter walk a tightrope over the Royal Gorge?  No.  Would I let her get behind the wheel of an Indy Car?  Of course not.  She's 13.  Would I let her set sail around the world on her own?  Not on your life!  She's never even been on a sailing vessel.  Her dream is to move to New York City and dance at Julliard.  I ask you.  Do you think New York City is any less dangerous than the Indian Ocean?   I guess that's open for debate, but I can assure you this.  I will do everything in my power to support her in pursuit of her dream.........her passion.  Isn't that the greatest gift we can give our children?

Of course none of us out there would purposely put our children in harms way without a really good reason.  I think the Sunderlands had one.  I can only begin to imagine how they might have felt if Abby had died while at sea.  But I believe there is something that could have been much worse.  What if they'd refused to let a seasoned seaman like Abby fulfill her dream?  What if they'd said, "When you're an adult you can make your own decisions."?  Now let's take it one step further and assume that next month or next year or the year after that, Abby was killed in a car crash, her dream unfulfilled.  For me, that would be the greater tragedy.  There are things worse than dying.  And the longest life isn't necessarily the most fulfilling.

I, for one, applaud the courage of Abby Sunderland.  But even more than that, I offer a standing ovation to her parents for allowing her to pursue her dream.  It had to be excruciating to let her go.  This one had a happy ending and I can't say what they did would be best in every situation.  But I can say this.  If we're going to raise courageous kids that know how to do more than pass a math test, we have to consider not just their age, but their ability.

Sometimes you just gotta let 'em go.

Just Paint

“Imagination is the beginning of creation. You imagine what you desire, you will what you imagine and at last you create what you will.”

~George Bernard Shaw~

“The secret to creativity is knowing how to hide your sources.”

~Albert Einstein~

Last weekend I had the honor of watching my daughter's dance recital.  Although she was only able to participate in one number this year due to injury, I still loved watching this form of art.  For me, dance is the greatest form of self-expression.  I marvel at the talent.

After the recital, my daughter came to stay with me and was instantly drawn (no pun intended) to an easel and paints Linda had recently given me as a gift.  I asked her if she'd like to paint something and to my surprise she said, "Yes!" 

She sat down at the table, a full array of paints at her disposal, and began to ask questions about what she should draw.  Those questions were followed by such things as what kind of brush she should use, what color I felt like would go best here or there, etc.  It was a great bonding time and yet I could feel she felt some apprehension about trying a new craft.

"I'm not very good at drawing or painting," she said. 

"Oh really?  Says who?", I inquired.

"You know, Dad, the professionals!"

To which I quickly answered, "What do THEY know?  Just paint."

She became a little more comfortable playing with different colors and brushes and you know what?  She's pretty good!  She stopped being concerned about what others might think about her art and just painted.  She finished the weekend with three creations and I loved them all.  You can see two of them above.

I'll be the first to tell you I know absolutely nothing about "art".  In other words, I've never been formally "trained" or taken an art class.  But I can tell you this.  If I were to teach any form of art I would tell my students this.  Put away your books.  Banish any preconceived notion you have of what constitutes art.  Stop trying to imitate Picasso or Renoir or Monet.  Quit worrying about depth and shadows and lighting.  Take your brush in your hand, close your eyes, and just paint.  Hum while your painting.  Sing out loud.  It doesn't matter.  Just paint your heart.  I wish our school systems would catch on to that notion.

The closest thing I've ever had to formal training in regards to writing is English Literature 101.  I took it as an elective when I was a college Freshman.  I LOVED that class!  I don't know whether the words I pen are in the right order or follow some code or appeal to the masses.  I just write my heart.  I don't write for you.  I write for me.  And that's what makes it so very special.  My writing (as well as a sculpture I did which at present is in pieces because my welding is defective) is my gift to myself.  It's a way for the deepest part of me to live on in some way forever. 

I'm wondering.  Do you know why Stephen King is such a gifted writer?  I'll tell you why.  He's gifted because he allows himself to take his mind where most are afraid to go.  And then he puts it on paper.  Can you imagine the stuff this guy CAN'T print?  He's fearless.  Not everyone likes it, but I'll bet deep in the heart of Stephen King's soul, he doesn't care.  He writes his heart.

That's my appeal to you....my hope.....my plea.  If you have a passion, whether it be singing or dancing or painting or playing an instrument or designing clothes or writing the great American novel, ask yourself what's holding you back.  Stop being concerned about the "Greats" and what they did.  Who cares?  Devil wears Prada?  Who cares?  Create a clothing line with passion, from the heart, and you could make sun dresses from gunny sacks and you'd sell a million of them.

So do it will you?  There's a whole world out there starving for your creations.  Put down your books.  Stop studying.  Close your eyes...................Take a deep breath.....................See it?  Feel it?  Now.......

Just paint.

Unfinished Business

"The woods are lovely dark and deep, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep."

~Robert Frost~

"Some of the world's greatest feats were accomplished by people not smart enough to know they were impossible."


~Doug Larson~


When I was 19 years old,  I was returning to college after taking a semester away to "find myself".  My motivation was fueled by being accepted as a "walk-on" to the University of Nebraska's Track Team.  I considered it a privilege and an honor to be on the same field with some of the nation's most elite athletes.  Although I was never scholarship-worthy or NCAA All-American caliber, I still got to breathe the same air with those that were.  I LOVED it!

Less than stellar genetics relating to my foot structure and a very long-to-heal injury later, what was once a dream gave way to the reality I was at school to learn, not run.  And that's really where this little story begins. 

After I was no longer able to sprint or hurdle, a friend from college suggested I start running for fun....you know, long distance stuff.  My first reaction was to remind him I'd never "run" more than 400 meters at one time and the thought of doing miles and miles made me nauseous.  He continued to prod until I invested in my first pair of running shoes and signed my entry form to the "running craze".  As it turns out, like sprinting, I loved running too!!

At my peak, I ran anywhere from 8 to 10 miles nearly every day.  "Light" days were 5 to 6 miles.  You probably see where this is going.  My friend eventually convinced me to sign up for the Lincoln Marathon, which I did willingly.  It sounded like fun......FUN!!  Are you kidding me?  In March of 1983, I ran a half- marathon as part of my training.  When I reached the end, winded and sore, I thought to myself, "I'm only half way!"  Now today I would know to tell my self-conscious, "I'm ALREADY half way!", but that was a different time.  At any rate, with the marathon two months away which happened to be only a week before a major life event, I decided to pull out.  I'd been reading the stories about people taking weeks to recover, defecating on themselves, etc.  I just felt it was a bad idea.  I never tried again.

The other day I was jogging/walking and it occurred to me I had unfinished business.  27 years ago I started something I never finished.  At almost 50 years old, it's time.  I am 40 pounds heavier, 27 years older and a bit creakier than I was at 22, but it's time I put that behind me.  So, on May 1, 2011 I'll be entered in the 34th running of the Lincoln Marathon; the very race I was registered to run so many years ago. 

I won't be going it alone.  Linda already has a marathon to her credit and has agreed to coach, encourage and run with me.  It's almost a year away, and I already feel a little scared.  I'm not running to win some age division or even set some personal mark.  I just want to do it.  I want to finish.  And by the way, I'll be opening a new blog site dedicated to my training.  Don't look for any great tips, it'll just be a diary of the journey from here to May 1st.  http://www.diaryofamiddleagedmarathoner.blogspot.com/. 

Let's do this.  I have unfinished business.

Breaking The Silence

"Nothing is predestined:  The obstacles of your past can become the gateways that lead to new beginnings."  ~Ralph Blum~

"Success is to be measured not so much by the position that one has reached in life as by the obstacles which he has overcome."  ~Booker T. Washington~

"Forgiving does not erase the bitter past.  A healed memory is not a deleted memory.  Instead, forgiving what we cannot forget creates a new way to remember.  We change the memory of our past into a hope for our future."  ~Lewis B. Smedes~

"Your history is not your destiny."  ~Alan Cohen~

What you're about to read is unlike anything you've ever read on my blog.  It's raw.  It's genuine.  It's honest.  And it's courageous.  Some of you may find it uncomfortable.  Read it anyway.

Everyone has a path, don't they?  The real question is, "How do we tread the path we're on?"  And even more importantly, "Do we have the courage to change that path if it doesn't define who we are or feed our spirit?"

Linda is a woman that truly lives what she counsels.  She always seeks Peace.  She is the epitome of Love.  She lives in Joy and she strives to exist in Harmony with every living creature.  But it hasn't always been that way.  This is a true story of her selfless journey from what most would consider Hell, to the vibrant, amazing woman she is today; worthy of love and honor and goodness.  I believe her open and honest story is not just for her own healing, but for yours.  She isn't alone.  You shouldn't be either.
 

                               BREAKING THE SILENCE
                                         by Linda Faris

Everyone has a story to tell. Let me rephrase that…everyone has many stories to tell. I’d like to share my story with you today. I’m not sure why I chose today to share this with you, I guess I could wimp out and say, “It’s complicated.” Because, actually, it is complicated. In a way. In other ways, it seems extremely simple.

This is my story that I have carried with me all my life. It may not be a very pretty story to you, but again, I tell you, it is MY story. And even though it brings tears at times and other indescribable feelings of worthlessness…it is MY story.

I am almost 49 years young. I am at peace with myself and with all other people.

It has not always been so.

My earliest memories are of my father fondling me sexually while I was laying in my crib. I estimate that early memory to be between 2 and 3 years of age based on where my family was living at that time.

My next memories are of my father fondling me sexually while I lay in my bed at ages six to nine. He would come into my bedroom in his underwear and lean over me in my bed with heavy breathing. He would only be wearing his underwear. I played possum. I would pretend I was asleep and hope and pray that he would go away. Sometimes his visits were shorter and sometimes longer. His hands would go down into my panties and his fingers would go places that I was taught were off limits. Then his fingers and hands would pull my pajamas up and he would play with my breasts. It was awful. Just putting this to paper brings back the complete essence of those times. The darkness of my room. My sister laying sound asleep next to me blissfully unaware of what was happening. My dad’s heavy breathing, his smell….sometimes with alcohol, sometimes not. His tobacco breath. How his fingers felt. Ugh.

As I matured, my dad’s interest grew. I don’t remember how he actually “woke” me up, but eventually these interactions changed to my dad talking to me. First he would come into my room and begin to fondle me…he would pull my panties down and put his fingers in me, then somehow, I would be awake and he would begin to tell me all kinds of things, such as:

“I need to teach you about these things, so you know what to do.”

“Your mother won’t let me, so you have to.”

“Don’t tell your mother.”

“All I am is a meal ticket, no one loves me, if you loved me you would let me do this.”

“You are a hot number and you like this.”

“Someone popped your cherry, who did that? You are such a slut.”

“I won’t get you pregnant, I have had a vasectomy.”

These are just a few of the endless refrains I would hear throughout the night. I had very little sleep growing up.

There were daytime violations as well. For instance, the time I walked into the bathroom and my dad was in there with his erect penis out and at me. He forced me to touch it. Ugh. You had to be there to know how mind altering it was. There is not a room in our house where I was not violated in one way or another by my father.

The next day after his nightly visits, he would usually act like nothing happened. Sometimes, though, guilt would overtake him and he would apologize to me. What’s a girl supposed to say and do in these instances? There wasn’t a handbook on how to deal with a pedophilic father in those days. In fact, I don’t know if there is one now. Pedophiles, especially when they are your own father are a particularly wily group of men.

Back to the memories. Ick. Sorry, if this is hard for you to swallow…it is MY story. I am sure some of you reading this can relate to my story on some level. And for those of you that can relate…I want to extend my love and compassion to you. For if you have survived sexual abuse from someone who is supposed to be your protector, then you have true grit and I salute you.

The first time my dad actually “raped” me, I was 11 years old. He made me stay home one evening, while my mom and sister went to a school function of my brother’s.

He made me take off my clothes and basically did what rapists do. I’m not feeling like being overly descriptive here. But, this was the point of my loss of virginity. Not just my virginity, but my dignity and my self esteem and my self love and oodles and oodles of good feelings that should not have been robbed from me. It was indeed, extremely painful and traumatic. I did, indeed, afterwards, wipe up the blood and put my clothes back on and act like nothing had happened. I was a pretty good actress by this time.

My mom and sister came home and I was holed up in my room with a book. Sigh.

The next times of “rape” are intermixed with memories of him cajoling and begging me for sex thoughout the next 3 years. See me if you would like more details, otherwise I think I will spare you.

At age 14…as I continued to mature, I noticed my father was taking this same sexual interest in my 9 year old sister. This would not be. I would not allow my sister to be violated the way I had been. I love my sister more than you can imagine…I did then and I do now. This new behavior of his gave me the strength and energy to figure out what to do to prevent him from hurting my sis.

I went to the high school guidance counselor…which in 1975 was a joke. However, it did serve its purpose and within 2 weeks, a group of law enforcement personnel came to my school to “interrogate” me. Fun!!! I was taken out of my 9th grade geography class and taken to a small office where these people (who meant well) interviewed me for 6-7 hours straight with no breaks. I was a wreck. But, I did my best to report to them all that I could remember while they furiously recorded my life’s events.

At the same time, they clucked and grimaced over the details of my childhood. This was a very painful and confusing time.

At the end of this debilitating session, I was taken to the home of a nice church lady. My father apparently was met when he returned home from work by the state patrolmen who arrested him.

The story continues….but I feel like resting on the abuse portion for now and switching to some of my thoughts that I think are more appropriate for us now.

The first thought I would like to share with all of you is I did nothing wrong by being sexually abused by my father. I understand it makes you uncomfortable to know about this and to talk about it, but your silence has made me feel like I did something wrong. In fact, in 1974, the counselors advised me to NOT tell anyone about what had happened to me. I suppose they were considering the cruel things that people say and do to others who are in a less fortunate situation, but at that time, they made me feel like I had done something wrong because I was supposed to be quiet about it…as if I should be ashamed. And yes, I was ashamed. I was ashamed because my father convinced me that what he did to me was my fault. And I was ashamed because this wasn’t happening to my friends. Their fathers were nice. My father was scary. But I digress. Please, please understand that any child that has been sexually abused is not guilty and at least for me, your reluctance to talk about my abuse computes to my guilt. Irrational? Perhaps. It IS a complicated story.

Despite the horrific things Dad did to me, I still inexplicably loved him. I wished he was dead most of the time, but I knew that when he was dead, I would miss him in the way that he was my father. That’s a hard one to explain. For those of you that have lived this nightmare yourself, you know what I am talking about.

I completely “forgave” my father for his abuse of me just this year. It was a MAJOR breakthrough for me. By the way, my father died in 1988 at the age of 49. Even though he has been gone for over 20 years, his wounds on me left deep scars.

The scars now are so slight, you can hardly see them…they had diminished over time, but when I “forgave” my father, completely forgave him, my scars rapidly shriveled to being barely perceptible.

I do not take my joy in life for granted…it is a gift from the universe. Just as the lessons I learned in my childhood and adulthood are gifts from the universe.

I do not judge anyone. I love everyone. Each and everyone of us are all deserving of complete love, forgiveness, compassion and kindness. Including my father. And I love my father. I may not love what he did, but I love my father.

Slick Information and Slight of Hand

http://www.livescience.com/environment/090520-natural-oil-seeps.html

"During the course of the seven years I played scenes with an oil slick, I played a scene with a grain of rice. Sometimes with indescribable creatures. I remember having a conversation with something which was simply a smell, that's all. It was part of our job."

~Patrick Stewart~

Does the above quote throw you off a bit?  Yeah, me too.  But have you ever done a search for quotes about oil slicks?  The supply is limited my friend.  In sticking to my usual M.O., there is now a group of pictures and a quote that includes the phrase "oil slick" to examine before you read on.  That is, assuming you CHOOSE to read on.

Unless you've been living in a cave or under a rock, at some point in the last few weeks you've seen or read about the oil that is currently spilling (well, ok, LEAKING ) into our Gulf of Mexico.  Our present "disaster" is the aftermath of an explosion on an oil rig located about 40 miles off the coast of Louisiana that resulted in the death of 11 employees aboard the rig.  The Deepwater Horizon was/is owned by BP and they are being held accountable for the financial burden of clean-up, etc.

If you read both government and private reports of the incident, you'll note that the amount of oil leaking into our ocean has already far exceeded that of the 1989 Exxon Valdez.   Estimates are somewhere between 5000 and 100,000 barrels of oil are leaking each day.  In essence, millions of gallons of oil have already leaked into our oceanic ecosystem.  So far, BP has attempted capping the leak with a giant cement box and are now attempting to stick one pipe inside another pipe which will fill a container which can then be pumped to the surface.........all at more than a mile under water!  Child, please!  My brother is a commercial plumber and he's convinced this would be a miraculous union at sea level.  He's right.  They're blowing smoke and expecting us to inhale it.  No way.

So I understand this is going to have an enormous impact on the coastal economy and will, indeed, cause the death of countless marine animals.  Many fishermen will be put out of business and the list goes on and on and on.  It is tragic in that regard.  People are shaking their fists at BP for ignoring some test.  The government is spending hundreds of millions to investigate the cause of the explosion.  Still more business owners all along the coast are lining up at the front door of every lawyer in the South, poised for the lawsuit of the century.  It's true, this is going to cost billions in lost tourist revenue, clean-up, unemployment, lawsuits, ad infinitum.  Some are even calling this a global, life-ending event.  It's a big deal, right?  In one regard.....right.  But not so fast. 

This whole thing has me wondering whether such an enormous event has ever occured naturally.  I conducted an internet search and was inundated with information regarding such events.  If you click on the link at the top of this blog, you'll find just one sample of what I found.

Did you know 20-25 tons PER DAY of crude oil has been seeping from the ocean floor off the coast of Santa Barbara for OVER hundreds of thousands of years?  Experts estimate that to be the equivalent of up to 80 Exxon Valdez spills.  It's happening each and every day.  And that's only in Santa Barbara.  If you do the math, 25 tons is about 50,000 lbs.  If oil weighs an average of 7 pounds per gallon (I looked it up), then just over 7,000 gallons of oil has been leaking into the Pacific Ocean every day for hundreds of thousands of years.  At only 100,000 years, that's approaching 1 BILLION gallons of oil!!!  Surprise!  We're still here.  It turns out a great deal of that oil is eaten by microbes and the rest becomes sediment.  Why the microbes don't eat it all is still under scrutiny. 

My point is this.  I completely understand this spill in the Gulf will impact millions and I feel their pain....I do.  But this isn't some cataclysmic event from which we won't emerge.  This kind of thing has been going on since the beginning of time.  Mother Earth has a mechanism to deal with this.  The only reason it feels so big is because in this millenium, people and their means to make a living are involved.  So I'm asking, before you build a bomb shelter and stock up on canned goods, do a little research.  Tragic as this event is, it's happening every single day.  But the media isn't telling you that part, are they?  That wouldn't make a good story.

And just one more little thing to think about while we're playing the "blame game".  You can blame BP all you want, or our government or anyone remotely tied to the petroleum industry, but the real blame lies with us.  Every single time you get behind the wheel of your car, you create a demand for the very thing BP was searching for when disaster struck.  Sure, sure, I know.  That's the way society is.  We're mobile and we need cars and trains and planes and heaters and plastic and every other thing you can think of  requiring petroleum.  But if that's what we're asking for, we can't really blame the people trying to give it to us now can we?

Read between the lines when you watch the news or read the paper.  You're only getting a fraction of the story.  The rest of the story is right here on Ramblings.  Thanks for stopping by!!!

Born To Be Kind

"Sometimes our light goes out but is blown into a flame by another human being. Each of us owes deepest thanks to those who have rekindled this light."

~Albert Schweitzer ~
 
This week, Linda and I joined 100 other firefighters at 6 Flags Over Texas for Denton State School Days.  Denton State School is an institution in North Texas that cares for and houses 580 severely to profoundly mentally retarded (their phrase, not mine) individuals.  http://www.dentonstateschool.org/.  Once a year, these mentally challenged individuals get to spend a day at the amusement park, escorted primarily by Dallas firefighters and their families.  Our job is to assist in lifting, joining them on rides, etc. 
 
It works kinda like this.  We all stand in a line and wait for the residents to get off a bus and we "choose" one of them to chaperone for the day.  Some are reasonably self-sufficient.  They can walk and communicate fairly well.  Others are wheelchair-bound and can barely speak if they can even make a sound.  It's difficult to choke back the sadness at times, but then you see them get off the bus for that annual day of excitement and the smile on their faces says it all.
 
I'll call the resident we escorted this year, "Lucy" to protect her identity.  Lucy was a 50-something woman with horrible teeth and graying hair pulled back in a cute little pony tail.  Lucy was "hearing impaired" (I'll get to that in a second) and used her own sign language to communicate.  Lucy could not speak, but was able to make loud, um......groans.  She walked on her own and was actually pretty quick on her feet.  Sometimes a little too quick.  But the most incredible thing about Lucy wasn't the quickness of her feet, it was the depth of her kindness.  Lucy loved to hug.
 
When she was first introduced to Linda, Lucy gave her a hug that I thought was going to require a rescue.  Then I received one of a similar nature.  Lucy randomly selected people from all over the park, and gave them a hug or shook their hand.  There were hundreds of high school kids at the park that day, and many were lucky enough to receive a hug from Lucy.  And if you're wondering what kind of kids we're raising today, I can tell you.  Not one single kid, although clearly surprised at first, was unresponsive to Lucy.  They were quick to hug back or shake her hand and give her a smile.  In fact, everyone I saw who came in contact with Lucy left with a smile. 
 
Lucy was a "teacher" and I learned much from her.  Some of it was actually comical.  First of all, Lucy COULD hear.  I would call her hearing "selective".  She used a precious form of sign language that most of us were able to begin to understand by the end of the day.  And if you DIDN'T quite get it, Lucy was quick to smack you three times on the shoulder and point to what she wanted.  She was very effective. Lucy taught me that everyone can offer kindness and everyone deserves to receive it.  She wasn't prejudice in her gift of hugging. Everyone was welcome to Lucy's embrace.
 
I've been a participant in Denton State School Days many times throughout my career and I've noticed something each time.  This isn't a scientific study, but has certainly been my observation each and every time.  Almost without exception, the people from this institution, profoundly challenged and unable to care for themselves, are kind.  They are warm, loving, and just plain adorable.  Why is that?  Have you ever met a child with Down's Syndrome that wasn't also sweet and loving?  So I wonder, of course, why is it that people of this sort are so kind?  Are they born that way?  Is it part of the genetic mutation that caused their retardation?  Have they been sheltered from the perceived cynicism of real life? 
 
I don't know the answers to those questions, but I do know this.  If someone confined to a life-long institution without the ability to even feed themselves or form a sentence can be kind, so can I.  I may be a little shy yet to just walk up and hug a stranger on the street, but wouldn't it be nice?  I can still offer a handshake or even a smile and leave an impression like Lucy.  She gave me so much that day.
 
Kindness..............let's honor Lucy by passing it on.

Pull To The Right And Stop

"Sometimes the best thing we can do in a crisis is nothing."  ~Matt Leatherwood~

So you're driving down the road one day in your fancy new convertible, top down, iPod blaring on your new grand stereo.  You're bobbing your head, pounding on the steering wheel to ZZ Top and just letting the world go by.  Telephone poles go by like a picket fence and the dots on the center lane look like stripes.  Come on!  You know the feeling!  We've all been there, right? 

Suddenly, seemingly from out of nowhere you spot a giant red monster in your rear-view mirror;  sirens wailing, air horn blasting, urging you to make way for an emergency. You panic and begin asking yourself questions marked by milliseconds.  "What do I do?  Where should I go?  Oh my God!!"  You may speed up.  You might move to the left or stop in the middle of a busy intersection.  And God forbid, you may even slam on the brakes! NOT a good idea, by the way.

I've been a firefighter now for over 17 years and I see it each and every time I climb on the seat of an apparatus enroute to an emergency.  I witnessed it daily as a paramedic and as a station officer, I have a front row seat to the antics of drivers caught unaware by emergency vehicles.  GETTING to the scene of an emergency is easily the most dangerous thing we do.  It's more death-defying than running in to a burning building.  I promise.  Check the stats.

If you've ever taken an exam for a drivers license any time in your life, or even read the manual, you should know that the appropriate response to an emergency vehicle coming from either direction is to safely move to the RIGHT and STOP.  Don't creep along.  Don't block an intersection where we might have to turn and DON'T slam on the brakes.  That's an excellent way to get a mega-ton piece of steel installed in the front seat next to you.............or on top of you.  It's simple.  It's painfully simple.  Pull to the right and stop.  Pull to the right and stop. Pull....to....the....right....and....STOP!

So by now you're hopefully wondering why I'm offering a lecture on driving etiquette.  It too, is simple.  The above-mentioned examples regarding emergency vehicles are an excellent metaphor for life.  Every single one of us, at one time or another, has been cruising along life's highway without a care in the world.  Top down, hair blowing in the wind, stereo blasting............no worries.  Then from out of nowhere, someone hits you with an emergency and everything changes.  You begin asking yourself all the same questions you ask when confronted by a big red fire engine.  "What should I DO now?  How can I FIX this?  Where do I GO from here?" 

There are occasions when an emergency requires action.  I wouldn't be much help as a fireman if I showed up at a fire and went, "Yup, it's on fire alright.  Let's just watch."  The same holds true for life.  Sometimes a crisis requires action.  At other times, in the midst of a storm, when you're asking yourself all those questions wondering how you'll ever get back to your peaceful cruise, the best action is to do nothing.  Gently let go of the problem, pull to the right.....and stop.  Our panic often gets in the way of a solution.  The solution is already at hand.  The universe spins in perfect harmony and NOTHING, absolutely NOTHING happens by accident.  There is a reason for everything...........even an emergency.  If it's painful, it's because you're resisting the natural flow of things.  Let it go.  Pull over.

Just try it once.  You may not have the answer you seek immediately, but I'm banking the right answer will come much sooner than if you fight it.  And just as surely as the big red fire engine, your crisis will pass if you'll just get out of the way. 

Simply pull to the right and stop.

Stroke Awareness Month

"He had a massive stroke. He died with his tie on. Do you think that could be our generation's equivalent of that old saying about dying with your boots on?"

-Stephen King-

"Flying back from New York, the flight attendant said 'God, I wished you were here yesterday, we had a stroke on the plane. I said, if I have a stroke on a plane, I hope the pretend doctor isn't the one on the plane. I want a real doctor."

-Anthony Edwards-


On June 4th of this year, it will be seven years since a man of only 42 years of age suffered a major stroke while teaching, of all things, a CPR class.  Funny, right?  He had actually just finished  presenting a series of scenarios to his class where he actually acted out different types of symptoms for different maladies,  asking his class members to identify the probable cause of said symptoms. It was a fun exercise and everyone did exceptionally well.

Upon completion of the previous exercise, lunch was delivered and everyone began to eat.  The instructor, our stroke victim, had ordered a California Club from Jason's Deli.  Surely you've had one.  They are absolutely phenomenal and are laced with avocado.   As the instructor took his second bite, he was overcome with a very distinct and clear sensation of perfect double vision.  Not blurred vision.  As he describes it, there was a crystal view of everything and everyone in twos.  The man had suffered from Classic Migraine most of his life and dismissed it as the probable onslaught of a migraine. 

Two things happened next.  First, one of the class members asked him if he was ok and if this was "a drill".  Next, the young instructor regained consciousness on the floor, feet elevated and hooked to oxygen.  Coming through the door were paramedics who began to assess our patient's condition.  Upon asking how long he had been unconcious, the instructor was told it had been a period of about five minutes.  Odd.  Here one minute, back the next with nothing in between.  The paramedics finished their assessment and encouraged our stubborn patient to go to the hospital, but he refused.  He eventually relented and was enroute to a local hospital when he heard the paramedics call medical control to determine the closest "stroke center"

This story can go on forever, but in short form, upon arrival at a large Dallas hospital, our patient who was now completely paralyzed on one side was told he had suffered a CVA or Stroke and was a candidate for a clot-busting medication.  Again in stubborn denial, the man refused the treatment, not once, but twice!  Surely he had misunderstood.  With some coaxing, the man eventually accepted his treatment option and within an hour had regained full use of his left side with very little or no deficit.  By that evening, there were no signs of stroke save one small infarct in his brain left dead by lack of oxygen.  It was a miracle recovery from a life-threatening clot.  After 5 days in the hospital and hundreds of tests, the man was released and for all practical purposes, had completely recovered.

The man in this story is me, plain ole Matt Leatherwood.  At 42 years old, I suffered a massive and life threatening stroke caused by a clot to my brain.  No warning, no signs, no clue.  The cause was later determined and corrected so I am truly cured.  At one point my brain no longer recognized I did indeed have a "left side" so I had complete paralysis and facial droop, slurred speech, etc. etc.  Classic.  Due to the diligence of my well-trained class, sharp paramedics from Farmers Branch, Texas, and a top-notch medical staff at Presbyterian Hospital, I made a complete recovery free from any deficit.  A true miracle of modern medicine.

May is Stroke Awareness Month.  Visit the attached link to the American Stroke Association and familiarize yourself with the signs and symptoms of stroke.  There are clots as well as bleeds, but both need immediate attention for the victim to survive and recover.  I thank the universe every day for my miracle.  Many have not been so lucky and are confined to wheelchairs or have chronic deficits of one kind or anther.  Many stroke victims die.  Rapid recognition of the signs and immediate medical intervention is key.

Be a life saver.  Learn the signs of stroke and don't wait.  Don't be brave or stubborn.  Your life depends on it.  If you or someone you know exhibits signs of stroke, call 911 immediately.  If those before you hadn't been diligent in my treatment, I'd be typing this with one hand. 

Thank you!!!    http://www.americanstrokeassociation.org/

Peace, Love, Joy, Harmony (Part #4)

"But what is happiness except the simple harmony between a man and the life he leads?"

-Albert Camus-

"Harmony is one phase of the law whose spiritual expression is love."

-James Allen-

"Harmony is pure love, for love is a concerto."

-Lope de Vega-

"He who lives in harmony with himself lives in harmony with the universe."

-Marcus Aurelius-

What is it about the human spirit that makes us feel the need to prove we're right?  What is it that makes us want to show we're faster, stronger, better, smarter, prettier?  Why do we feel such a strong desire to "look out for number one" or "protect our own"?  How is it that we long to compare ourselves to others and see them as "less than" or more importantly, ourselves as "greater than"?

The State of Arizona recently passed an immigration law that, among other things, requires immigrants to carry proof of their status.  It further allows police officers to ask for proof of immigration status to those they suspect are "illegal".  Additionally, there are stiff penalties for companies that employ illegal immigrants.  I'm sure there is much, much more to the law, but frankly, I'm not interested.  This law has Democrats and Republicans alike in an uproar about the constitutionality of the law and government officials from both sides of the isle are concerned about its far-reaching ramifications. 

This is the fourth entry in a series entitled Peace, Love, Joy, Harmony.  By now I hope you've realized, this one is about Harmony.  I searched for an appropriate definition of Harmony on my handy online dictionary and most were about music.  And although there may be some parallels, none seemed to define what I'm about to try and say. 

Since the beginning of time, humans have been at war with each other over things as simple as food stores or territory and as complicated as religion and politics.  Even the beloved Native American Indian, who I have generally admired as living in Harmony with Mother Earth, were at war with each other over things like hunting territory and food supplies. It has taken me 49 years to get to where I am today, but here it is.  I just don't get it.  No matter how you slice it, every single thing that keeps us OUT of Harmony revolves around MY turf, MY food, MY religion, MY political party, MY need to protect my freedom, ad infinitum.

Recently, I have been enthralled by the many new and intelligent friends I've met on Facebook.  It really is a fascinating tool for learning new things and I've been known to try and add my two-cents-worth on a variety of topics.  The mental exercise is stimulating and I truly am enamored at the depth of people's knowledge.  In fact, many times I feel like a mental midget (ok, little person) and cower from conversations because I feel intimidated.  But at the same time, I've felt a strong urge to explain things from my perspective; to show people what I know.

Today, while in the Walmart parking lot, I was struck by a spiritual baseball bat.  I was thinking about dozens of things from recent conversations and how I might rebut, when I realized with total clarity, "It just doesn't matter."  If I'm going to live harmoniously with my fellow man, then my opinion about things really doesn't matter.  Neither does yours.  Ouch!  Here's the thing, and I'm amazed that it really goes back to the second post in this series.  You'll even see it in some of the quotes.  What's important isn't who's right or wrong or who does the most research or believes this way or that.  What matters is love.  (I will NOT relinquish my Man Card!) 

So let's reexamine the legislation from Arizona.  The reason we're concerned about immigration in America is because people from other countries, here by "illegal means", compete for our finite resources.  To care for them, our government needs to be bigger.  Our taxes soar higher.  They use up our oil, water, medical care, etc. etc.  I get it.  I do.  But as you may have noticed from previous posts, I think for us to survive as a species, we have to stop thinking about resources in terms of "theirs" or "ours".  They aren't America's resources.  They are GLOBAL resources and our survival as a species will require that we all share.  I have NO idea how that will all materialize, but I do know this.  It WILL materialize in a way we can't yet see and everything WILL unfold as it should.  This isn't a problem for the United States or Great Britain or Mexico.  It's an opportunity for the universe to unfold precisely as it should, precisely as it will.

A friend of mine recently told me my writing style and perspective on things had changed.  She's right.  It has.  And I'm happy about that.  From a Midwestern staunch conservative has emerged a humanist that thinks the answer isn't about walls or sides, or right and wrong.  It's about love and living in Harmony with each other.  It's about accepting each and every person exactly the way they are, WHERE they are.

Share what you have today.  Accept someone's perspective on things and don't argue your point.  Don't steadfastly hold your ground or insist you're right.  Just try it.  Just for today.  In the overall scheme of things it just won't matter.  The universe is unfolding exactly as it should.  Thanks for reading.

I feel much better.