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Personal Essay Portfolio

October 03, 2011 ShaunieL

Cloudy, With a Chance Of Redemption....

Seasons Of The Day

Me, Myself & The Fly

Flying....

Cloudy, With A Chance Of Redemption....

Thunderheads dressed in bright white and silvery gray rise in lofty scalloped layers, floating like clipper ships on the ocean sky high above the heat parched land. The air molecules around me are wrapped in drenching humidity. Gazing up at these lofty towers inhabited by their impending promise of moisture, I am swept up in their grandeur. Though I long for them to unload their precious cargo and gift the earth with soothing rains, I am compelled to pause and immerse myself in their glorious royal presence. Sweat seeps from my pores, salting the corner of my eye. It burns, tears rise in my eyes; I blink to clear the sting. Cloudy, a favorite song written by the brilliant Paul Simon drifts into my mind. Cloudy...my thoughts are scattered and theyre cloudy They have no borders, no boundaries. They echo and they swell... from Tolstoy to Tinkerbell... Down from Berkley to Carmel... Got some pictures in my pocket and a lot of time to kill. Hey! Sunshine...I havent seen you in a long time... Why dont you show your face and bend my mind! These clouds stick to the sky, like a floating question why. They linger there to die. They dont know where their going and my friend, neither do I... Cloudy.... Cloudy.... Cloudy....

The last two lines pluck at my senses. I know I have been on a quest all my life... but I dont know where or why exactly that I am going. Sometimes I despair of ever knowing. What I do know is that I am driven to keep searching. More tears, an ancient unresolved sorrow is tapped that intends to use this opening to finally escape the solitary ignominy of Psyches dungeon. Memories come in an overwhelming flash flood of conflicting emotions. Anger, fear, confusion, shame, guilt, rage, envy, betrayal, abandonment, longing and loneliness all vie for my attention and for answers. I have none and there is no one to ask. Frustration adds to the swirl of inner conflict. A scream rises in my throat... I release a whimper. I am unwilling to disturb anyone or attract undesired attention. This is mine alone to resolve, nothing anyone may say or do will help. I just have to feel this... let it have its say. Let it have its day in court... and then I will be free to leave. Trace it, face it and erase it. If not all of it, then at least perhaps the lions share. In my teens, I began to study anything that might help me to understand the underlying reasons for the extremes of dysfunction in The Family of my birth. I have compassion for them, I hold no conscious grudges and I love them as much as they will allow. Though I had come to understand The Family dynamics from a detached and objective point of view, I was now encountering a backlog of suppurating emotions. These toxic feelings were perpetuated by the overwhelming childhood traumas that I lacked a way to properly process and bring closure to at the time they occurred. Extreme emotions take on a life of their own when suppressed and these had been haunting me with their stifled cries for years.

The wind began to find its way down the corridors of time to blow open the stagnate tangle of emotions that clutches my throat. I felt my voice rise to converge with memories of

the emotionally crippled people and painful events that are boiling over within the cauldron of Psyche. In the minds eye, I see Mother tossing and fighting with something in her dark dreams as she naps on the couch. It scares me. I voice what the child knew she had to silence, Whats wrong? Why are you moaning and whimpering in your sleep? You are scaring me! Are you all right? Are we going to be all right? Why do you stay with him when he is so mean to you all the time? At that pivotal point in time Mother was married to the man that The Family had blackmailed her into marrying. They had threatened to take Sister and me away from her if she failed to acquiesce. That Man was a handsome and sometimes charming construction worker of German descent from North Dakota. He also happened to have great admiration for the Nazis. Drinking brought out that side of him. He would lose his temper, begin throwing things. Mom would sit in paralyzed silence and it would escalate until he turned his ugly alter ego on her. Some of the beatings she endured.... Mother was with That Man less than a year, then took out a restraining order while she filed for divorce. She hadnt quite seen the last of him though. He caught her out behind the bar where she worked, after she had finished closing for the night. Grabbing her from the shadows, he wrapped his hands around her throat and began to strangle her. If he had wanted to kill her, she would now be quite dead. Ironically, his twisted psyche saved her. Choking off the air until she passed out, he would then slap her back to consciousness and start it all over again. That Man desired to torture her more than to kill her. She fought loose and crawled under a car, he dragged her out from under it and continued. I dont know how long this went on, but someone had alerted the police and when they arrived, the District Attorney was called to the scene. He told this psychopath to leave the state and then informed him, If you ever set foot in Montana again I will have you committed to the state mental

hospital in Warm Springs. Even though That Man never hit me during the short time Mother was married to him, he would pinch me inappropriately and tease me unmercifully until I was in tears. Mom was no help, she was scared of him too. She simply told me what she had been taught, When someone teases you, it means they like you. I wish he hadnt liked me so much! Oh, how vividly I recall one sunny afternoon down at the local bar. That Man had me crying once again, when he suddenly got a strange look in his eyes and chuckled. Then he confessed, If you wouldnt react that way, I wouldnt do it, as if to say it was all my fault that he was such a cruel man. In that moment, I shut down and began to withdraw behind a tough sarcastic front. After that, even though someone might get to me, I refused let anyone see me have an honest reaction or response. If I showed no emotions, no vulnerability, no one could use it against me to shame or tease or humiliate me. What I now feel the need to confess is that I was abusive to Sister when we were young, occasionally physically, but most often verbally. Grandmother favored her and let her do whatever she wanted to tease me or interrupt what I was doing. If I complained, I was told that I had to put up with it because she was younger. The only time she got in trouble for what she did to me was when she threw a large stainless steel ball bearing and hit me in the temple with it. Mom attempted to reason with Grandmother about the situation, but Grandma was oblivious. That dynamic made the two of us competitive opponents rather than loving sisters. Sister used the power Grandma allowed her to pester me endlessly, but I paid her back when we were alone together. Though I was only copying the examples set for me by the grown-ups in my environment, it took me a long time as an adult to stop cringing whenever I thought about how badly I had treated her. She was only five and a half, just a cute little girl whose innocence was also being stolen... and I helped.

As for me, I was around eleven when That Man so harshly verbally raped my natural innocence and enthusiasm. It caused me to abandon a most essential part of myself and throw Her into the dungeon. Unfortunately, when children are abandoned by those who are meant to be loving supportive caretakers or role models, the children learn self abandonment. Children learn to dismiss their true needs and honest self expression in favor of whatever malignant behavior patterns the adults adopted to survive their childhood environments. The abandonment of my self went so deep that it took me years to dismantle most of the solitary defense mechanisms I adopted on that one pivotal day of bright sunshine and black shadows. In truth, that which protects, also isolates.

All these scenes and their hungry restless ghosts were haunting me as I babbled on. Emotions I could no longer hold back flowed down my face, Why did you do that to me? All I wanted to do was love you but you were so scary. Why did you have to be so mean all the time? What happened in that short span of months captured and distorted an accurate view of my entire childhood. Thirty years had passed before the opportunity arrived that allowed me to finally put it into perspective, shrink it down to its proper context within the matrix of mind, memories and emotions. In casual conversation Mother said something about only being married to That Man for less than a year. Less than a year? Time stood still. Microcosm expanded back into macrocosm. Old misleading perceptions about my childhood and long after, rapidly rearranged themselves. Less than a year? Eternity is what it felt like to me. Because That Man had been trapped in the dungeon right along with me... all those years ago. There is something else of crucial importance that I finally realized somewhere along the way. For me, the most confusing and painful thing as a child was not that The Family did not know how to love me. It was that they did not know how to allow me to love them. Love and

joy is all that small children really have to give. When no one is able to receive those most precious of gifts, it is quite excruciating and swiftly narrows children into an ever shrinking expression of their true potentials. They are deprived of learning how to freely give those priceless life enhancing gifts to themselves and others, leaving them handicapped when it comes to forming healthy intimate relationships with people outside their family circle. Thomas Wolfe was famous for writing the book You Can Never Go Home Again. In the case of an abusive childhood, you can never leave home unless you do the work to heal yourself... no matter how far away you go. I tried, so I know.

My eyes turn to the sky for comfort, for a respite from the intensity. Gray clouds are piling up and and crowding out the bright azure of the sky. More unexpressed confusions come tumbling out in a cathartic rush. The next ones are directed at The Family, Why did you make her marry him? Why did you give her the old house and then take it back and tear it down? We had nowhere to go, you took away our home. You took away my home! How could you do that! You were always taking things away from me. Why did you give away all my stuffed animals, Grandma? They were my only friends. You took away my friends. Why did you lie to me and tell me you were having them cleaned? Why did you take my rabbit back and kill it? She was mine, you gave her to me. She was my friend too. Why? Why? Why? Why did you have to kill her just because she couldnt have babies any more? Why? Why did you go into my room and take things I loved and give them away? Why did you give my horse shirt away? It was mine, you had no right to do that! I had drawn a picture of a horse that Mom then embroidered on the back of a fancy cowboy style shirt. It hung in my closet because I had outgrown it. Nonetheless, it was one of my treasures, a rare moment of bonding with my overworked and emotionally distant mother. To me it was a small magic and a great joy, then

it disappeared. Grandmother had stolen it from my closet and given it to my cousin Doug. She often did that to me and I never felt like I could fight back. She only went into my little sisters room once and rearranged things because Sister had such a temper tantrum when she found out. Things as well as people often vanished suddenly from my life without any explanation. Adults in my reality had the ignorant notion that children were too young to understand, or so Mother said. Maybe they just wanted to avoid conflict; they did not handle that very well either. No one around me in my youth knew how to assert themselves in a healthy manner or how to have a calm discussion about pertinent matters. The fine art of listening and asking questions to make sure you had all the information before drawing a conclusion was not understood. They were either too aggressive or too passive, depending on the situation and who seemed to have the upper hand. It was a political arena with everyone vying for appreciation and validation and control, but unable to share any of the same. The subtle art of controlling by not controlling, by knowing when to hold on and when to let go, was not known to them. Though well intentioned, they simply did not know how to respond in the most effective, mutually beneficial manner. Ironically, I remember often hearing Grandmother state, The road to Hell is paved with good intentions. I can definitely testify to that.

The wind dies down, but I sense it gathering itself. Now I whisper inanely as bottled up feelings and confusions breach the surface in a fountaining of sorrows, Im sorry, Im so sorry! Dont be mad at me, it hurts when you are mad at me. What did I do? Why are you always mad at me? It scares me. You are all so scary when you get mad. Why are you so sad? Im so sorry you are sad. I wish I could help but Im just a little girl. I wish I knew how to make it better. There has to be away to make things all better. Why cant we all be happy? It hurts

when you are so sad and mad. I wish you would talk to me so I know things are okay again. Being given the silent treatment was torture for me when I was a child, as was being shamed and made to feel guilty. The worst part was that they never allowed you to redeem yourself. Mistakes were brought back and held over your head whenever the stinging lash of a convenient manipulation was required, or they were arbitrarily applied just because someone happened to be in a treacherous or depressing mood. Memories of Grandmother sitting next to the wood stove in the dark basement drinking Black Velvet whisky rise up, along with more tears, Why do you drink so much? Why do you drink until you cant stand up, until you fall down and hurt yourself? It scares me. Why do you look at me when you are drunk and tell me that you wished you were dead. I am terrified that I will go in your room someday and find you dead. What will I do then? Please stop drinking so much. It makes you so sad and theres nothing I can do to help you. It hurts so much. Please stop, please, please, please stop. Grandmother did not start drinking until she was forty-three years old and long divorced from her insanely jealous husband. He had a horrible temper and yelled from the moment he came home, nothing was ever good enough for him. Grandmother would just sit and cry, and cry, and cry. Never did I know Grandfather, he went away to become the caretaker of a hunting lodge in Alaska after Grandmother finally divorced him. While there, he was shot by an old business partner, but it was ruled self-defense rather than murder because Grandfather was wearing a gun at the time. He was so crazy and had a horrible temper. His mother had been in and out of insane asylums all her life, so I guess he came by it honestly. Maybe his craziness finally caught up with him in Alaska.

The winds return in great gusts as all the thunderheads roll over in the ocean sky and

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begin to toss lightning at each other. Thunder fills the air and rumbles through me. The feeling is an odd comfort, like the guttural growl of a cornered wolf before it lashes out with utter ferocity and breaks free. Walking blindly as I mumble incoherently, I finally allow myself to take shelter under the leafy branches of a large tree. The tree welcomes me as I embrace it and lean my face against the smooth bark. Trees have often been a comfort to me. When I was young, we lived outside of town on one hundred and twenty acres of land perched on the slopes of the Rocky Mountains overlooking the Blackfoot River. Nature and her beings around me was the saving grace of my childhood years and as I cling to the trunk and my sanity, more of the insanity pours out, Mom, why did you promise me you would come visit me and then you never came? You never told me you werent coming. I was so excited inside. I waited all week until Saturday, and then I waited all day. Why didnt you call me? I walked halfway down the road to watch for you. You never came, I cried so much. Why didnt you come like you promised? I missed you so much and you didnt come. Where were you? Because of the sociopathic maniac Mom had married and was trying to get away from, I spent the last half of the fifth grade living with Mothers older sister and her husband. Aunt and Uncle owned a Hereford cattle ranch on the windblown alkali dotted flat lands of eastern Montana, between Fairfield and Choteau. They were an endless one hundred and fifty miles from where Mother was in Missoula. I couldnt go to her; no explanation was to be had. Nor were any words of understanding or empathetic hugs of support forthcoming from Aunt And Uncle. The Family was not able to be affectionate, not in speech or in physical demonstration. They were all so emotionally crippled, no hugs, cuddles, endearments or heartfelt I love yous. The only time I love you was used was if they were trying to coerce you into doing something, If you do this for me, I will love you forever. Love was used as a tool, a weapon or a way to keep score.

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Once again, I gave the childs confusion a voice, What do you mean? I thought you were supposed to love me no matter what, even when I make mistakes, even when I need to be my own person, even when I dont act just like you want me to? Some of your demands are so arbitrary and crazy. They scare me. If I zig, you want me to zag. Theres nothing I can do to please you, I am never good enough. No matter how hard I try or what I create, you take it away from me or just suck all the joy out of it. What about loving me just because. Because I exist, just because I am a little girl, just because. I feel like a bother, a burden. You only love what I do or dont do, not who I am. Wind howls around my body and my haven, here out in the open. Thunder rolls through me. It feels shivery, empowering, a feeling I allow myself to enjoy. The weather matches my mood.

As the storm rages and wrestles within itself, I recall some of The Familys history. None of Grandmothers six offspring had ever felt loved for who they were, for just because. Just because they were alive and a member of The Family, just because they were part of the Creators Family. Life was such a harsh struggle for survival. They were only valued for what they contributed in the way of effort, time, and resources. They showed they loved others by doing something for them, feeding them or by buying them things. Sometimes the money could have been utilized more effectively elsewhere. There was no sense of how to handle money either. It was paycheck to paycheck and more often than not, too much of the hard earned money was passed across the well polished bar of the local watering hole after work and on weekends. Alcohol is a greedy insatiable master and alcoholism an insidious self-destructive disease that savages everyone in its path, whether they join in the revelry or not. Eventually it severs a person from loved ones, and then lays claim to their very soul. Mother no longer drinks, but I

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wince when I remember the demons that possessed her when she did. She used to terrify me, not so much because of what she did to me when she drank, but because of how she hurt herself. One drunken car wreck left her with a piece missing from her collarbone and three toes permanently damaged on the right foot. It took Mother some fifty odd years to escape the malevolent gripe of those gremlins and reclaim her personal sovereignty. I am quite proud of her... and I am oh, so, very grateful! Sobs claw their way out of my chest on the way to freedom and it hurts to breathe. The pain I am fielding is physical too, but mostly emotional. How can a person be in such agony and yet have no visible physical damage? Pulling myself loose from the trees supportive embrace, I turn and lean my back against the bark. Bending at the knees, I slide my spine slowly down to the base of the trunk, feeling the gnarled roots rise to meet me. The most lucid part of me chuckles in spite of the intense cathartic release of emotions that I am caught in, Getting down to the roots, now how appropriate is that? From my lofty vantage point on this throne of roots, I gaze up at the storm tossed ocean of sky and just let the tears fall free. Lightning flicks the gray with bursts of pure bright illumination. There is no more resistance from within me and the tears slip silently down my cheeks as if guided by the touch of angels. I feel more peace and less pain. In this moment of grace I understand there is nothing to redeem, nothing to atone for, nothing to blame or shame for, neither myself or them, the prison guards of my youth. All were victims of victims going back generations. Inhabited, inhibited and circumscribed by the wounding they had endured in their own lost youth. The Family had been scarred emotionally, mentally, physically and spiritually by the patterns programmed into their very genes. In spite of this, we were still all in this together, all children of the same magnificent, beneficent, unconditionally loving, all forgiving Creator. It is only mankind who is cruel, judgemental and unforgiving.

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We are One and at the same time, each a unique individual and a necessary expression of that vast Oneness. Each of us is a powerful, yet physically fragile and emotionally vulnerable cell in the body of Creation. We are forgiven for our mistakes, our miss takes on life, before we ever make them. Mistakes are precious tools if we are not afraid of them. They are the rainbow learning curve that leads us to succeed by making more and more refined choices. Our mistakes allow serendipity to enhance our life in surprising ways through unexpected means. They allow us to be more present in the moment and to become more aware in each moment as we slowly find our way back to a fuller awareness of the Creator. Even if we fall off the path and lose ourselves in the labyrinth for a time, we are still forgiven, still loved by the Oneness with great compassion and understanding. I am being handed a sparkling opportunity, one for which I chose to incarnate into this lifetime of great struggle and despair, of fleeting joys and moments of divine grace. This is one of those moments. Slowly I work my way back up the trunk of the tree that has been so kind to me. Standing, I turn to hug the tree and thank it for its serene presence in my time of need. As I turn back to the storm, the wind playfully teases the strands of my hair. I am glad it likes me so much. A few tentative raindrops are falling. Closing my eyes to center myself, I breathe in great clean breaths of lightning charged air and chant a prayer of blessing and appreciation to the storm dragons. Facing the chasm of all that had been shattered and hidden away, I allow the elements to encourage me with all the glorious joy of their uninhibited expression. Words of the song that triggered my internal tempest come drifting back, but my thoughts are no longer scattered and in this infinite moment of grace... I do know where I am going. At least for now, and thats all that matters. It is the journey through life that matters, not the destination... and I have had quite the journey.

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Only one thing is now in need of redemption here, all the lost innocence. Through me and my hard won understanding of The Family, I am about to reclaim some of that stolen Innocence both for them and myself. Stepping from beneath the cozy shelter of my friends great green canopy, I stand with my face turned to the sky, wrapped in the power of nature, of the Creator. The Heavens open. In that timeless space rain begins to sweep across my face in a sweet blessing, a baptism, a rebirth. Raising my arms wide to the sky, I stand in the loving arms of the Infinite, perfectly poised at the edge of all The Family sorrow, of all that was taken from them, not only in Montana but from families all over the world. We are all One and the rusty door to Psyches dungeon has been flung wide. Tears of joy are now falling and merging with the rain as I take a deep breath and step forward, into the abyss, Forgive them. Oh, please forgive them. For they know not what they do... and please, oh, please, please forgive me too!

The lightning flashes; thunder cracks; it is directly overhead and I feel it. The energy of it send chills through my body. I laugh out loud for the thrill of it all. I laugh and I cry, because I know my prayers had been answered before I ever asked. Ask and you shall receive. All I had to do was ask and allow myself to receive the gifts that had been waiting for me, for all of us. We are Love. We are loved and it is all good... it is All good. It is All very good... even when its not!

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Seasons Of The Day

Mantled in his shades of warm gray, I watch morning twilight standing poised between the velvet black light of night and daylight bright. Softly he begins to sip the darkness, slowly trading the the blue white bright stars and velvet black light of the night for his soft gray light as he seeps toward the day. Now the palest tints of color are absorbed onto the sky. A subtle strand of violet plays harmonious notes on a cloud strung across the horizon. Palest pink and gold join in the music as the lines of daylight are softly plucked onto the canvas of the dawn. The escaping moon takes flight, yielding the velvet black light of night to the vigilant rays of the lemon white sun in his realm of blue sky and bright white light.

Walking the reservoir path on a sunny summer afternoon, I listen to the birds and the humming of bees; feeling the breeze; watching butterflies flit amongst jewel toned blossoms on wings of shimmering iridescence. Caterpillars are taking up residence in chrysalides as they await their rebirth. Watching the lemon bright sun winking at the water, I spy dragonflies zipping past with the swift vibration of delicately veined wings... oh, the aerobatics! Gymnasts on the wind, great globed eyes reflecting an eternity of evolutions perfection. Glossy black ravens are stalking grasshoppers in the gold green grass. This is their realm, the realm of day, of the lemon white sun, azure blue sky and bright white light.

Heat rises to permeate all with its demanding presence. The appaloosa shade of the patient trees is welcome shelter, shadow shapes dance as a breeze tickles the leaves and brings relief from the humid swelter. The trees chuckle with quiet humor as their limbs join in

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the dance, gently swaying to and fro as they play tag with sunbeams. Teasing, tantalizing zephyrs whirl in and about, exploring and testing every leaf. Trees stand so solid and strong... and yet so vulnerable. They cannot move out of harms way, they must stand, firmly rooted emissaries between earth and sky. What does the earth say that only trees are meant to hear? What messages do they whisper in Creators ear, in this realm of daylight, of blue sky and bright white.

Cloaked in her shades of cool grey, I watch evening twilight standing poised between daylight bright and the velvet black light of night. Twilight begins to tint the brightness, softly tracing herself onto the realm of blue sky and bright light, elegantly weaving threads of the day into shades of night. A chorus of brilliant colors splash the clouds, vibrating in orange and rose hue, humming notes of gold and purple and blue. The vigilant rays of the lemon white sun now yield to the velvet black light of the returning night. This day is almost done. Now comes the subtle moon to once again enigma the night, as twilight fades the blue sky and bright white light of day back into the velvet black light of night.

Walking the path around the reservoir at Waterworks Park under the cool beneficent glaze of the mysterious moon... I tread carefully the dim path of mystical light catching in cobweb shadows cast by sleepy leaves. The air is soft and cool after the extreme heat of day, running gentle fingers across my skin. Breathing in the night, I smell the clay beneath my feet, the water and the grass, an earthy perfume delighting my nose. An owl calls. Deep haunting ebony hoots assert themselves on the evening air, I hoot back... he replies just as I am about to cease my expectation of an answer. From the sound, it is a Great Horned Owl, a bird as large and fierce as an eagle, and a bird just as regal, but he rules the realm of night, of stars

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blue white bright in velvet black light.

Bats soar above the moon kissed waters in erratic circles as they zigzag after their night prey, clearing the air of various insectoid life forms, up to six hundred an hour! Be they Big Brown Bats, Little Brown Bats, Red Bats or Evening Bats, I thank heaven for small favors that they all like mosquitoes. Trying to keep track of their ever twisted and turned flight paths could literally make you go batty. Negotiating their way with high pitched squeaks beyond the capacity of the human ear, they are gymnasts of the night, guided by sonar as they perform their aerial hunting dance. Riding darkness, they celebrate the moon in their realm of shadow, under stars blue white bright in the velvet black light of the night.

Me, Myself & The Fly

Flies at first glance would seem more suited to a biology paper or an official report on pest control, not a personal essay. These much maligned denizens of the insect world would not seem a likely topic for self-realization or spiritual growth. Nonetheless, one of the most profound experiences that I ever had revolved around these particular members of the winged world.

After leaving Anchorage, Alaska in the mid 1980s, I returned to the Rocky Mountains of the Missoula, Montana area where I was born, and spent my uneasy childhood. Once I had

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settled in at a friends house right outside of Missoula, we both began to attend Unity Church. It occupied a beautiful old sorority building in the University of Montana district on the south side of Missoula. Finding a church has been a challenge for me and there are a number of reasons. Working weekends was one factor; however, the greater challenge was that traditional Christian dogma made no sense to me. Though I had enjoyed the beautiful pictures in the Bible storybooks for children, the Bible itself was confusing. You were commanded to do this and that or you would burn in Hell, with no explanation why. That made no sense to me as a child or an adult, so I had started studying and searching to find my own answers and Unity Church was truly different. Unity is a non-denominational church founded in 1889 by Charles and Myrtle Fillmore in Kansas City, Missouri. Charles Fillmore had studied many different religious philosophies and also had an avid interest in the connections between science and spirituality. Myrtle Fillmore had been sickly since she was a small girl, but after learning a new way to pray called positive affirmation, she slowly regained her health over the course of two years. The prayer she used was, "I am a child of God, and therefore I do not inherit sickness." People were quite curious about her transformation, leading the Fillmores to begin using their living room to host casual prayer meetings. These humble beginnings grew into the present organization, which has branches across the world and its own seminary at Unity Village in Summit, Missouri. Unity uses the scriptures as a metaphorical way of understanding your own inner and outer growth. Condemnation is never applied to ones actions at this compassionate church. All mistakes, or miss takes on life are seen as opportunities for further growth. This empowers people to take responsibility for their actions, rather than having to defend themselves in an effort to avoid those mind numbing, gut hollowing sensations that come with being crucified on

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the cross of guilt and shame. Something, I must confess, with which I am all too familiar. In short, this lovely church had a philosophy with which I could be at peace. The fact that Reverend David MacArthur used not only the Bible, but such subjects as Winnie The Pooh, Zen, and friendly dragons to infuse his weekly sermons with lively wisdom, only added some whipped cream and rainbow sprinkles to the angel food cake. While enjoying a church for the first time, I was also connecting with people of like mind. Gentle souls seeking safe spiritual haven rather than the more traditional and very conditional places of worship. At Unity I met a couple whose names were Mo and Steve Gary. Mo was short for Maureen and I used to gently tease Steve about having two first names: Steve and Gary. Maureen was a small slender strawberry blond who worked as a dental assistant and wove the most beautiful baskets. She was one of those lovely grounded people who seemed at peace with life on earth and living in a body, unlike me. Steve was a gentle brown haired man, a lanky salt of the earth type who was a self-employed carpenter. He wore a short neatly trimmed beard and had a smile on his face most of the time. We started an informal prayer group with another mutual friend we had made at Unity. His name was David Caraway. Yes, just like the seed. David was an amazing pianist, and he would play occasionally at the church. He had finished all but one semester of a formal four year degree in music, and then dropped out, a grave disappointment to his parents. But he went on to study jazz and learned to play by ear as well as by note. David hailed from Texas and had also suffered through a difficult and conflicted childhood, but Davids playing was sublime. His improvisations on the churchs small grand piano sent chills floating up my spine. David, Mo and Steve have moved on since I knew them and I have lost touch with all of them. I sometimes wonder what became of these three sweet spiritual seekers who were so different from most of the people I had known up to that

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point in my life.

One Sunday after church, Mo Gary mentioned a book she had just finished reading titled Talking With Nature. David immediately asked to borrow the book before I could chime in, but promised it to me as soon as he was finished. Even though I could not get my hands on the book, the comment Mo threw out as we parted company stuck, You should hear what the common housefly has to say! Those words aroused all my considerable curiosity, so I decided to experiment. Setting aside all previously absorbed prejudices regarding flies and how unsanitary they were, I began to reach out to them, quite literally. First, I walked over and started a conversation, Hello, how are you? I mean you no harm. Slowly I put my finger out to the fly climbing the wall. He did not zip off to the far corner of the room as usual. This small winged one tentatively tested my fingertip with his front legs... then delicately stepped aboard. Gratified at his trust and somewhat in awe, I lifted him up and found myself gazing into the spherical eyes of a tiny black house fly. A fly has compound eyes that are a marvel in and of themselves, among the most intricate and complex found in the insect world. They have many individual facets, each one a light-detecting unit. Because of this flies view the world is as if through a honeycomb and light reflected in their eyes form rainbows. Flies use the hairs on their bodies as sensory organs, providing them with smell, touch and taste. Taste testing with their feet as they walk, they put down their sponging tongues for another sample when they land on something tasty. Adult flies feed on fruit and nectar. Some types of flies also act as pollinators to help create the fruit upon which they later feed. As I watched this small bit of the creators handiwork, I saw him running his legs over his wings and other body parts to clean them. He was quite the contortionist. Flies groom

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themselves constantly, more often than a cat. As they have no eyelids to blink, rubbing their eyes with their feet clears them. Their minute feet have sticky pads that allow them to walk upside down and to navigate across smooth surfaces, such as glass. For such a very small being, his Latin name was quite a mouthful: Anthropoda Insecta Diptera. Not that it seemed to impress him, at least not from what I could tell. Sunlight reflected in tiny iridescent patterns on his fragile wings as he continued to explored the length of my index finger. Flies only have one fully developed set of wings; the hind wings have morphed into halteres. These small elongated knobs vibrate rapidly, helping the fly maintain balance while flying, much like a gyroscope. Flies are quick in flight and they need to be. They have many natural predators, including bats, birds, dragonflies and spiders. In spite of humanitys disdain for flies, they provide a valuable and necessary service, that of waste disposal and recycling. They are Creations own Environmental Protection Agency. Environmentalists no less... who would have thought!

Indigenous traditions, like the Native Americans and the Aborigines in Australia respect insects, animals and indeed all of earths many beings as powerful spirit guides and teachers. A crucial rite of passage in these wise ancient cultures revolves around the connection that indigenous tribes have with animal spirits, or totem animals. A young tribal member will go on a vision quest to discover and connect with his totem animal spirit guide. After consulting the tribes medicine man, or shaman, the youth travels into the wilderness accompanied by the Shaman. Together they search out a power spot, a place on the land that feels energizing and supportive. Once there, the shaman withdraws to a camp out of sight from the young man, but still close enough to monitor his progress. The youth gathers enough wood for several days, builds a fire, then starts to dance

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and chant the prayers for requesting a totem spirit. He is not allowed to eat or drink during this process. Hence the shamans distanced but protective presence, guarding him while he is in such a vulnerable condition. After several days of chanting and dancing himself into an altered state of trance, he begins to have visions. In the visions he is visited and instructed by his totem animal. After that bond has been forged, the shaman then comes with water and some light food to slowly break the young mans fast. This is an important rite of passage into manhood. Through this ritual, the youth is formally taken from under the wing of his parents as the source of guidance and sustenance. He is now connected to nature and the Creator as his source of wisdom and abundance. Often the young man takes a new name that includes the name of his new totem. This is a symbol of his rebirth into manhood, no longer is he the child his parents had named. He is gifted a new name by Creator working through nature and the animal spirits. All beings have something empowering to teach, whether they be plants, minerals, animal, fish, fowl or insect. In fact, insect totems are considered some of the most powerful, unpredictable and difficult totems to work with because insects are so intently focused on carrying out their assigned purpose in the designs of Great Mystery and Great Spirit, the Native American terms for the Creator. Great Mystery is the vast All of the Creator and Great Spirit brings the animating force that gives rise to manifestation.

Two of Flys wisdoms are persistence and perseverance in the face of great odds. The many faceted eyes represent the visionarys ability to see many different sides of life and how all the pieces fit together, even though others are oblivious. Fly views the world as the Creator views the world, many different facets all connected as one whole. Flies are as often vilified as not, the same is often true of the visionary or the prophet. Their great service to life is often

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misunderstood and not appreciated at the time. Flys wisdom teaches stability under adverse circumstances as well as the ability to swiftly transform waste into something of value. Have you heard the phrase, When life gives you lemons, make lemonade! That is Fly medicine talking. Fly is a symbol of death and transformation, because their larvae hasten the breaking down of dead matter so it can be transmuted into something new. Fly may show up to literally warn you that something is rotten. Whether it be a person, place or situation, the message is to be on alert and get rid what is no longer healthy for you. Fly may show up as a totem for people who need to take care of their own life first, as the fly does, and not cater to the demands of others so much. Last, but not least, Fly guides you in knowing how to assert yourself effectively and appropriately to realize a goal. Part of Flys wisdom is how to make a pest of yourself to accomplish something of importance. Fly is nothing if not persistent. Since I made friends with the fly family, they no longer come buzzing about my head or otherwise bothering me unless they have a message to deliver. One will show up on occasion and sit quietly, as if to say hello and keep me company. I actually had one appear recently to support me through a panic attack that completely sideswiped me. A little fly appeared and was sitting in my truck when I climbed into it for a trip to town. I tried to shoo him out the window, but he kept flying right back in. He just wouldnt leave! At the time I was feeling very paranoid about having my keys taken away from me at the Rec Center, where I do my student work study. There was an issue over my co-worker needing keys to open up on Sunday mornings. The director had emailed saying that he had keys for my colleague, but there was still some confusion going on. It was a minor matter at best, but it pushed a button in me somewhere. It felt like I was losing the keys to the temple and about to be burned at the stake on top of it all. Some old fear was working its way out of my psyche that made no sense in the present

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moment; nevertheless, I still had to go through it to come out on the other side. When I finally thought the fly was out of my vehicle, I drove to the store. After doing my shopping, I walked over and opened the door on my truck to find the fly perched on my steering wheel, meticulously cleaning his wings. After shooing him off with a chuckle, I thanked him for his help and drove back to campus. I was still anxious; though reason was returning. At work that night, a fly dive bombed off my nose and then flew away to perch on the wall. The colleague who needed keys came in for a martial arts class and we sorted things out. Everything was fine. I did not have to give up my keys to the temple, just like the fly was trying to tell me.

At the time I decided to explore the fly kingdom, Mo, Steve, David and I had been having informal prayer meetings once a week at the Garys house. Their small dwelling sat on a lovely wooded property in the Bitterroot Valley outside of Missoula. A bubbly pebble bottomed creek ran through the land. A small greenhouse attached itself to the side of their cozy little house and inside their home they had honeybees. Well, not exactly flying around inside, but behind a long rectangular glass box jutting into the living room. It was lovely to relax by the fire while sipping a fragrant cup of tea, with the flames making soft shadows and the transparent hive so sweetly alive, softly humming with busy golden bees. A few months later I had the busy bees all to myself, at least for a time. It was delightful. The reason I had a chance to visit with the bees was because I had a wonderful opportunity to house sit for Mo and Steve for two weeks in early summer. While there, I was finally able to read Talking With Nature. It was authored by Michael Roads, an Aussie who lived on the island of Tasmania off the coast of Australia. He discovered a latent talent for merging his awareness with all of nature. In his book he describes entering an altered trance state with

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the assistance of the great nature spirit Pan. Yes, the same Pan that is in Greek mythology. Apparently he is real, but on a different level of real that requires a heightened state of awareness in order to communicate with him. Pan began communicating with Michael Roads when Michael began meditating out in nature. With Pan as his guide, Michael was able to clairvoyantly see the great spirals of light that formed the energetic blueprint for all of nature, spirals shaped much like our own DNA. He felt the full impact of all the negative emotions of humanity that were being cleansed from the atmosphere by the huge black thunderstorm into which Pan tossed him. Merging with animals, insects, plants and trees led Michael to a whole new understanding of nature and its sentient forces, even the stones beneath his feet had something to contribute. He could also communicated with the nature spirits and elementals that create and maintain all life on earth. They taught him that humans impact nature with their fear and anger, their joy and love. Nature responds at the emotional level of feeling. If people fear something nature will bring more of what they fear to them. If they love something with no fear of loss, nature will bring more of that as well. By communing with all these beings and aligning himself with natures point of view, he began to work the land in a completely different manner. Instead of spraying pesticides, he worked out deals with the pests on his land. By agreeing to leave them a few plants to munch or small portions of the harvest, they agreed to leave the rest of the crop alone. If he was having problems with an invasive weed, he would come to an agreement with the spirit of the plant about where it should grow and where it should not. Michael Roads made the environment and its inhabitants equal partners. His family and his farm gradually began to thrive. Ironically, he initially resisted this calling, but with support, encouragement and a bit of a push from his wife, Treenie, he finally surrendered. Books he wrote on the subject sparked the

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organic movement in Australia. Oh, how I envied his vividly remembered spiritual experiences with nature, as did his wife. For some reason she could not consciously travel into those other levels of reality and I have had the same dilemma, even though I have been on a solitary spiritual quest since my teens.

On my quest, I have often felt like a fly on the wall. The observer going through the motions more than a participant, often because people were doing things in which I could not bring myself to participate. Being drunk held no appeal, I dabbled just enough to know I did not enjoy it at all. Nor did I ever have any desire to smoke. Doing drugs was of no interest and I refused to get married or have children because I never had the resources or the right man to help raise them properly. I was just enough of a visionary to see where it would end, with me a divorced mother struggling to make it without the support of an ex-husband who had never been available emotionally or financially. I could see the handwriting on the wall... and what it said terrified me. It is a small wonder that Fly Medicine showed up to help me cope with all the challenges. More than once I have had to hold onto my sanity while going through insane experiences, and I have had to be quite persistent in my search for a higher vision than the one available to me as a child. The path walked by my mother and grandmother was one that I refused to follow them down. I came to break the family patterns, not wear them. It has been a solitary and often lonely path, but far less lonely than being in a room full of people who have no concern for anything except where the next drink or cigarette or plate of food is going to come from. They needed something to ease the pain of living such narrow deprived lives. They were all starving, even when they had just finished their third helping of pie, their last pack of cigarettes

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or fifth bottle of beer.

When I first set out to open up diplomatic relations between me, myself and the fly, I had not yet read Michael Roads book Talking With Nature. Though I later read the book while house sitting at Steve and Mos home, I do not recall what Mr. Roads actually wrote about what the common housefly had to say. There is something I do remember, and it was proven by my own experience. It was what Michael had learned about nature responding to our fear and love in exact measure. At the time I befriended the fly, I was cooking and bar tending at the local watering hole in the small town of Potomac, Montana. We were constantly at war with flies that came in through the open door. Several fly swatters were handy and often in use by employees and customers. Strange thing was, after I called a halt to my part in the war on flies, they simply disappeared when I came on shift and stayed away for the duration. But when the next shift took over, the flies were right back to their same old habits and out would come the fly swatters. The war was back on and the humans had no idea that they were creating it with their very own projections of fear and disgust onto the receptive creative fabric of nature. As I mentioned before, flies are quick on the wing, and need to be because of all their natural predators. To this list I must add the un-natural predator, the humans who are come after them with fear, fly swatters, complaints and curses. Sad to say I was in agreement with those ignorant erroneous fears for awhile. But, that lasted only until that serendipitous moment of grace when I did an about face and then took the time to see eye to eye with a tiny black fly.

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Flying...
Having a rather large amount of writing to do, I craved fresh air to inspire me and some exercise thrown in as a practical consideration. Also, I had to borrow a cotter key to put a fender on the back of my bike. With a fender, I can ride in the rain without a cold wet stripe of water painting itself all the way up my backside. Now, where do I find a cotter key? I remember that the Rec Center on the MUM campus has cotter keys. So, after finishing lunch and starting a load of laundry because I had no clean socks left, I headed out the door. After all that and leaving the building twice without the aforementioned bike fender, I was finally on my way. My bicycle is such a joy, I love to ride with no hands while gliding down the long straight downhill slope of smooth pavement on the way to the Rec Center. Arms flung out to the bright sky, wind pampering my face and tousling my hair, I am flying.... In these brief infinite moments I am floating free from gravity, not only physical gravity but the gravity of all the many challenges and sorrows that weigh on the peoples of the world. Flying, perfectly poised, balancing between heaven and earth, I rejoice in this eternal moment of exquisite freedom. Trees wave autumn tinged emerald and peridot leaves at me as I flash by, the air smells wet and swampy as I parallel the small creek hidden by the embracing cottonwoods. Tense cicada sounds scrub the air and I have a compassionate smile for a lone student who walks still tethered to the ground. Arriving at the Rec Center quite refreshed by my scintillating flight, I set foot on the earth once more and go ask for the required tool. Cotter key in hand, I set to work. Simple

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enough, or so it seems. All I have to do is lift the seat and slide the fender onto the bar, then tighten the two bolts. However, this ten minute task proves tricky. The bar is too small to allow the bolts to tighten enough to keep the fender steady. I have to utilize the rubber shims that came with the fender. However, the shim first plucked from the package is too thin to fill the gap. Plan B, use two shims, still too loose. Use three shims, no good. Cut the shims and layer them, too tight. This ten minute task has eaten up thirty minutes of inspiration time and I have been doubled over the bike seat with my hair blowing in my face, painstakingly tightening and loosening the two bolts. Patience is growing thin and perseverance persnickety, they make an ugly couple. An idea dawns, but it requires an uncut shim. Reaching into the package I pull out my last hope and it turns out to be shining. This particular shim is thicker and holds the fender steady after I tighten the bolts one last tedious time. Some forty-five minutes have vanished. After a very large sigh of relief, I return the tools with gratitude. I am free again, at least for the moment. Taking a ride around the local reservoir recharges me and then I turn for home. There is still all that writing to do.... Arriving back at my room, I park my bike inside and head for my room. Hmm...what to write? I decide to take care of my laundry, so I go downstairs to put the freshly washed load into the drier. Now what can I do to avoid the computer? I am procrastinating and I know it. I pace the room as the tension builds. Finally I take a few deep breaths, do some stretching, have a drink of water and plant myself on the chair. As I stare at the screen, an idea slowly begins to form. Tentatively, I strike the first few keys and then the words begin to unfurl themselves ever more quickly onto the patient white screen. Ah... now, once again - I am flying....

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