318 NORWAY

J Let's bid welcome to Norway!

319 TWINKLE TWINKLE LITTLE STAR part 15

... As a gathering of dark clouds rolls over the sun, it’s time for Grandma to push open that screen door, so you and she can walk toward the buggy in which Janet has been napping on our back porch.

Please stay close to Grandma as she pushes open the door, steps out onto our private back porch, and bends over the navy blue buggy to rouse the ‘sleeping’ infant, so you can feel the shrillness of her scream coursing through you as she shouts out—Jennie!”
As Ella's panic, slices through this peaceful day, imagine Jack's whistle dying midstream; imagine canned goods falling out of Jennie's hands, straight to the floor, as my parents fly like arrows toward Grandma’s shrieks.

As Jennie and Jack crash through the screen door, their eyes dart from Ella’s petrified expression to their baby’s sleeping form. Janet’s lifeless body lays heavy in the buggy—just as she’d been laid to rest several hours ago—on her tummy, face to one side, long lashes sweeping down toward one cherubic cheek.

Imagine my blond, blue eyed, solidly packed, five-foot-six, startled, young father standing next to my terrified, young mother, as they and Grandma huddle round the buggy, peering frantically down at their child, who’d been bright eyed and vibrantly alive three, short hours ago—

         Imagine expressions of horror imprinting deeply into Jennie’s, Jack’s, and Ella’s faces as my mother lifts the small, limp baby out of that buggy, and Janet’s pale chin falls solidly against her chest—

         Imagine my mother cradling her child, attempting mouth to mouth resuscitation, while my father spins around—flings open the screen door and holds it for my mother, so the panic-stricken pair can dash through the dining room and down the hall—with my terror-stricken grandma in close pursuit.

         Imagine a frightened, little girl, two weeks shy of three, eyes like saucers, staring up at her terror-struck mother, who’d grabbed a powder pink blanket out of the buggy to keep her precious baby safe from the cold.

         Imagine three adults tearing through that apartment—while—pulling up the rear is—the little caboose.

         Imagine my mother crying out, “Jack! Jack!  She’s alive!  She’s alive!”  Because the baby’s body is exhaling the breath that my mother will continue to blow into her daughter’s tiny mouth—all the way to the hospital.

         Imagine my father grabbing up the car keys on the telephone table—yanking open our apartment’s front door, so he, Mom, and their precious bundle can rush into the hall and down those same three flights of stairs without a thought to grabbing their coats—

        Imagine a pair of pounding hearts running toward their car—leaping in—speeding toward the hospital as fast as the wind—

Inhale.  Exhale.  Inhale.  Exhale.  Breathe Janet.  Breathe

Oh God—please breathe, Janet, breathe!

Imagine my super-hero dad parking the car—

Turning off the ignition—

Flinging open his door—

Jumping out of the driver’s side—

Racing around the car to help his wife—

Imagine Jennie and Jack running into the emergency room—

Imagine a nurse taking Janet from Jennie’s protective arms—

Imagine Jack sitting down.  Filling out paper work—

(Filling Out Paper Work????)

Imagine Jennie and Jack pacing—waiting—praying—

Pleading with G-d—Waiting—praying—

Pleading—Waiting—Until finally—

They stand up, as ashen as marble statues, watching a white-coated doctor walk toward them—and hearts pounding—they keep hoping—

Until their last shred of hope snaps in half—

Imagine my parents absorbing the opaque expression on the doctor’s face.

Do words make sense when a stranger explains that he can’t explain why their baby is irretrievably—gone?

How does the mind make sense of words that make no sense at all—

Imagine the impossibility of any semblance of thought shaping up as hope dies as surely as did their child. 

Imagine blood pulsing against pain so crushing as to cause two hearts to constrict within my parents' chests.
Imagine the impossibility of walking out of that hospital—

The impossibility of driving home—

The impossibility of leaving their beloved daughter behind—

With strangers in a morgue—

Imagine an autopsy ordered to determine the cause of death—

Imagine a mother and father standing and staring at—what?

At each other after the doctor, expressing his condolences, walks back to his life?

Do they hold each other tight?

Do they sob?  Or has each frozen solid in denial where they stand?

My mother doesn’t remember.  My father’s not living to ask.

Imagine two robots making their way out of that hospital.

Imagine all you like.

Though we can try to imagine every emotion, we can’t imagine what Jennie and Jack felt, unless we’ve walked in their shoes and experience *Déjà vu —

All you and I can feel, today, is compassion growing strong.

Try as we might, we can’t fathom the mental pain that Jennie and Jack must endure as hours drag into days and weeks—unless our sense of empathy is aroused after experiencing the torturous emotion of our own all-consuming grief.

If Jack holds the car door open for Jennie that’s because it is his habit.
Imagine she and then he dropping heavily into their seats.

As the young couple sit, side by side, does an instinctive (protective, defensive) state of shock swallow their minds whole, thus allowing my parents some semblance of sanity as my father starts the engine, glances at traffic and pulls the car away from the curb?

Do they cry as they ride—side by side—toward their apartment, where
A small child and her Grandma, who keeps wringing her hands, waits—

—because over time, cry their eyes dry they certainly will—

Feelinghelplesshopelessconfoundeddisbelievingwhollydevastated—

How does Jack concentrate on the road?

How robotic can the human brain become?

What will happen when conscious awareness breaks through shock’s merciful, but temporary, mental fog?

How will my parents fare when fear strips their minds of security, ties their colons into knots and agony grips their hearts—

And what of their minds—
What of mysteries that remain unanswered?
What of—undeserved—guilt …
What if undeserved guilt is mistakenly adopted by a three year old child?
What might result if guilt is subconsciously repressed for decades?
What if, behind an ever-ready, eager to please smile, a puzzling mystery, in need of piecing together, goes undetected, year after year?

And if we are to reassemble the pieces of this puzzle in hopes that a bigger picture will one day emerge, then what, my friends, must the little girl grow up to understand, concerning the subconscious effects of negatively focused—*Déjà vu … 

317 MEXICO

J Bid welcome to Mexico!

316 VIBRANCY COLORS THE FALL OF MY LIFE

Four seasons of each year
Four seasons of each life
In this Fall Season of my life
Watch as I embrace the freedom
To color out of the lines—guilt free!
Coloring out of the lines is one thing
Coloring—guilt free—is another!
And as my eye delights
In the vibrant reds
And startling yellows
Which color the foliage
Amid a back drop of tall evergreens
Watch as I consciously chase black clouds away
Thus enhancing only the blues
Which paint themselves so brilliantly throughout
The sun-kissed sky above your head and mine
And since my mind has good reason
To feel as light and bright
As today's far reaching horizon
Watch as I blow away
Black and blue marks from yesteryear—
Which had darken my view of—myself
Watch as today's well earned sense of clarity
Offers me this conscious choice
Upon arising—Every Day:
Watch, as upon arising—each day
I re-center my sense of inner peace
By commemorating
And thus celebrating

Every good fortune

That has come my way!

Watch as I give thanks to my parents

For sprinkling sunshine, sweetness ...
Salt and a pinch of pepper ... over

The spring and summer of my life
Thus offering me sugar and spice to
Ready me for that which
I'll experience throughout my life

Watch as, at each year's end

I learn to send out the old

And welcome in the new

Watch as I acknowledge

A conscious appreciation

For the bounties of love, friendship and self respect

Which maketh my cup runneth over

Year in and year out

In short, watch as I learn

That the cheese, which nourishes my soul

Doth not remain in the same place

Throughout all four seasons of life

Watch as my mind opens

To befriend swarms of

Insights—

Which enable me to see

And embrace classic truths

With a DEEPENING sense of REALITY than ever before

Watch me come to see where and with whom I'd been blind

And thus, rather than watching me withdraw, shrink, and wizen

Watch as My mind grows expansive, elastic, and wiser with age

Watch as I learn how to stoke my own fires

Watch me rekindle the flame

Which energizes my heart, spirit, body and soul

Watch as Spring turns to Summer

And Summer to Fall

Watch as the Winter of my life begins to unfold

Not withered and cold

But balmy—passionate and bold

And if you ask, Annie—

How can one grow to fear loss
Which accompanies the winter season of life—less

I'd answer quite truthfully ...
In hopes of welcoming my  'golden years', gracefully

Watch as I ...

Develop my sense of self-trust, honestly, by
Exploring my subconscious fears, courageously

You see, the winter season assuredly demands
A robust, and thus, honest assessment of
Vulnerabilities and strengths
From one and all

315. MUSING OVER TRADITIONS THAT DIE HARD ...

Did I mention that in our family, traditions die hard? For example: Rolling, stuffing, and frying knishes has been one of our Thanksgiving traditions for at least five generations, so, nary a Thanksgiving has passed without popping those delicious delicacies into our mouths.

In addition to being traditionalists, we are pranksters, one and all. And thus, no one knows who shall chomp into the knish, stuffed - not with the savory taste of fried onions, mashed into buttery potatoes but - with a cotton ball, instead.

And just as we chance biting into a cotton knish, none knows what lies beneath the surface of conscious awareness until we take a bite out of each stage of life.

Here's hoping that as you take bites out of each stage of life, your knishes taste of fried onions, mashed into potatoes, more often than of cotton. And if, upon review, you find that the former has been true then your cup, as mine, must be more than half full. And if you KNOW your cup to be half full then this question may be worthy of your consideration: Do you FEEL your good fortune on special occasions - or - does your spirit rejoice over a life lived well, every day?

314. HAPPY TURKEY DAY!

A day to count our blessings
A day to consider that which makes cups runneth over
A day to give thanks for trusted friends
A day to place unmet expectations aside
A day to wish family and friends peace of mind
A day to open one's heart and rejoice with loved ones
A day to dress up as pilgrims
A day to commemorate Native Americans
A day to make way for peace in the aftermath of conflict
A day to hope for peace amongst loved ones
A day to hope that trust develops throughout the world
A day to enjoy patriotic parades
A day to baste turkeys
A day to stuff turkeys before stuffing ourselves
A day to pour gravy on stuffing with no thoughts of diets
A day for candied yams, cranberries, green beans, whipped cream atop pies
A day for gobbling up chocolate turkeys
A day to smile over thanksgivings past
A day to play 'GET LOST!' (Explanation will pop up later.)
A day for kick offs - here, there, channel surfing everywhere
A day to celebrate a well earned sense of freedom to be yourself
A day to hope that conflicts may resolve before too long
A day to open our hearts and minds wholly to common sense and love
A day that ends with: I can't believe I ate the WHOLE thing-AGAIN!

313 ITALY

:-) Welcome to Italy!

312 BLESSINGS...

I often comment on my love of writing. However, it's become apparent that the act of writing is not what draws me to the computer, every day. What draws me to write is curiosity.

I'm fascinated by the process of awareness that emerges from deep within me when my subconscious "shares it's secrets" with my conscious mind. I find it gripping to note how the writing process identifies inner conflicts, which interfere with my ability to focus as a whole on solving classic problems, which accompany change.

As a result of the writing process, my perceptions of past experiences expand, and my attitudes shift. As attitude is everything, yesterday's pain loses its power to wear on my mind or sting my heart.

And on this day before giving thanks for that which we've been blessed, I feel deeply thankful for countless, mind-clearing insights, which support peace of mind.
JYour friend, Annie

311 CROATIA!

JLet's bid welcome to—Croatia!

310 BURUNDI

J Welcome, Burundi!

309 TWINKLE TWINKLE LITTLE STAR part 14

(14)

Since any life story is written in hindsight, I’d like to show you something that none of us, especially Grandma—who'd feared a righteous God—had thought to visualize, when I was three, so please ...

Pretend to close your eyes and imagine yourself floating above the ground while you continue to read.  Now, will your body to fade away—as you float into our kitchen, transparent and unseen, on that fateful November afternoon in 1946.

Next, picture yourself shadowing my Grandma, as though you and she are one.  Imagine the two of you, gliding in synchronized slow motion, through the kitchen—past my mother and father, who are laughing at my attempts to mimic Daddy's trilling whistle.

Imagine Grandma striding—right next to your shadowy self, floating—through the kitchen doorway and across the dining room.

Once you and Grandma have crossed the dining room, you'll reach the screened door, leading onto our back porch ... at this point, please stop floating and just hover, while we freeze Grandma in place.  Now, allow your shadowy presence to push your ghostlike head straight through the screen of that unlocked door.

Wait!  Don’t look into the buggy, which is to the left of the door.  Look straight ahead at the late afternoon clouds in the sky.  While some are unthreatening, fluffy and white, most have turned chillingly dark.

Between the light and the dark, focus your eyes on two small, gray clouds, floating side by side.  Now, visualize these clouds in the process of changing—evolving, converging, shaping up differently than before, just like both sides of LIFE.

As the tail of one little, gray cloud conjoins with the tail of the other, an hourglass, lying on its side, shapes up within our mind's eye.  The reason that you and I can see this process of change, shaping up, so clearly, is because we are fully aware of each step taking place.  In short, our focus has not been diverted elsewhere.  On the other hand, common sense suggests that those listening from afar or observing, every now and then, are likely to be less aware or even oblivious of ominous changes, which are growing darkly obvious to you and me.  At this point, please stand the hourglass up and imagine the last few grains of sand, passing through its narrow channel, symbolizing the last few seconds of a family's idealistic sense of emotional security ebbing away.
   

As this small configuration of clouds continues to alter, watch the standing hourglass elongate into the slender shape of a lovely lady, clothed in a long, gossamer gown of ‘neutral’ gray.  Though the lady's given name is Fate, she answers to the nickname, Luck.  And while we pause for a moment to consider the speed with which mankind's false sense of safety slips away, let's watch the impartial mouth of the wind blowing the translucent fabric of Luck's full length gown, gently, around her shapely legs.

Now watching the wind pick up, let's bolster ourselves against whatever may come while we take a closer look at what Luck is holding in her up turned, open, left palm.  Luck is holding forth her best attempts to balance the scales of justice while the wind blows the length of her spun gold hair straight back from her expressionless, clear blue eyes.  And as the wind whips up, swinging Luck's scales up and down, let's listen as they clang against each other, like cymbals, crashing discordantly—repeatedly.

While the scales toll, like bells, ringing out an alarm, we spy Luck’s right hand beginning to rise from it’s restful place at her side.  Now while those scales continue to dangle and crash within Luck's upturned, left palm, imagine her right arm stretching gracefully over her head. Then if we watch closely, you and I will see Luck's right hand, held high in the air over her head, folding into a fist, while one finger, the pointer to be exact, frees itself in hopes of directing our attention toward those last few sunbeams, streaming through dark clouds, which have continued to gather, ominously, above her comely head.

On a clear day, the angelic grace of this lovely lady is brightly gowned in billowing clouds of white, offering the eye a heavenly sight, floating across a clear, blue sky.  As there's reason for everything, today, Luck is gowned in gray.  And all too soon, this comely lass will feel so blue as to darken her gray gown to black.

You see, before tomorrow's dawn, black clouds of mourning will grow as heavy as inconsolable grief, causing the classic features of Luck's lovely face to furrow into a frown as deep as frowns of foreboding, which are surely forming on your face and mine as I write.

While despairing grief is still several seconds away, let's picture a flock of five well nourished ducks—soaring high in the sky—until, unexpectedly—one is randomly shot down, causing this quintet of high-flying spirits to plummet to four, all of which will soon be sucked into those winds of change, which had caused Luck's scales to crash—clang, clang, clang.

Upon visualizing each bird in the flock blindsided by grief, losing sight of direction, one crashing into the next, we see the whiplash speed with which a shocking change in emotional climate swirls a family's sense of security into the eye of a tornado-sized gale.  And though each defense system tries to close its eyes to the aftereffects of this storm, in truth, the strain of 'acting' normal will drain every last grain of energy out of Luck's sense of inner peace.  So right here, I think its wise to note the importance of honoring the truth of whatever each of us truly feels, deep inside ... other wise baggage continues to accumulate, and excess emotional baggage, which weighs heavy on the spirit, is bound to affect the paths we each choose to tread as life moves forward.

At this point in my story, Fate is about to toss a small child's sense of Lady Luck aside, and her energy source will receive so severe a shaking that thoughts of this lady with her head in the clouds will be replaced with nothing more than a discombobulated sense of emptiness at her core.  And no matter how hard Lady Luck works to regain this child's positive focus, every strength she'd naturally begun to absorb between birth and three will spin, like a series of tops, out of control, until, her mind gives way to a dizzied state of utter exhaustion, because within the next few moments, life will feel too complicated to understand until such time as the spirit of Socrates hovers near enough to whisper—Know thyself—into her open adult ear.  Luckily, this child will grow into a woman whose mind remains open to learning—and because of that, simplicity of thought will one day be hers.  (If this was a fairy tale, today's story would end right here with—and the little girl grew up to live happily ever after.  However, this is the beginning of true tale of my life and since I've not even turned three ... we'd best turn our minds toward the back porch, where the painful truth waits to emerge ... 

As the danger of discovering the painful truth, lying in the buggy, is just seconds beyond my grandma's sense of awareness, let's take one last innocent look up at the sky and follow the well groomed tip of Lady Luck’s pointer until we spy something tiny, shiny, silver and round suspended several inches above and a smidgen to the right of her pink painted nail.  Can you name what this shiny thing is?  No?  Okay ... Since the last grains of sand in the hour glass are slipping away, there's no time to waste, so here are two hints in one: This tiny, shiny, silver, round shape is not a falling star— and it is spiraling—up.
Sorry.  The clock stops ticking for no one's innocence, and we need to make haste, so it's time to stop guessing and just listen up:

 It’s the dime. The dime that FATE tosses high in the air, so that we, who watch it spiraling up before spiraling down-down-down, feel our hearts clutch so tightly in our chests that it's almost impossible to breathe while we cling desperately to hope that all will work out for the best—until finally, the descending glint of this shiny coin lands and spins, round and round, on the gray slatted, wood floor of our back porch—three stories above a well manicured lawn, framed with colorful flowers—symbolizing a moment of beauty—not yet trampled, changed and frozen into a fearsome memory from my distant past.

Finally the dime falls, stops spinning and lays flat, meaning that Luck—Fate—call it what you will—has determined that—

‘Heads’—

Dark clouds will disperse, frowns will smile, spirits soar and all will be well—

‘ Tails’—

Thunder rumbles and lightening cracks as many families, living in that massive, three-story, brown brick apartment building, gather in their kitchens, pull out their chairs, sit down round their dinner tables, and talk, laugh, squabble, pass food, eat, and drink as usual—while—one family rings their hands in despair ...

Destiny, rather than responsibility and goodness, is today’s deciding factor.

No childhood inoculation provides immunity from Fate.

Deeper truth suggests that life is truly a gamble at best

As narrator, I face this choice:
I can sketch in this next scene very briefly, and you'll conceive of Janet’s death as having been exceptionally sad, but your mind will not shift into the eeriness of Déjà vu, which revives my experience of panic, shock, horror and devastation, thundering down upon my family after tragedy influenced changes in the course of family life as well as unforeseen changes within our relationships—with ourselves and each other.

Since the confounding nature of my baby sister’s death is about to catalyze a series of frightful changes, confounding us all, it’s my responsibility, as narrator, to flesh in the lasting nature of the pain that Janet’s untimely demise tattooed into the minds of her family as a whole.  And though I have sound reason to believe that three forthcoming details may explain why a three year old's brain developed specific character traits that fall out of line with those most often attributed to a first born child, I admit to feeling conflicted about reviving these most painful aspects of déjà vu, which had scared me out of my wits and into Denialand at a highly vulnerable, developmental stage when my mind was too young to understand the meaning of death.  On second thought ... what do I understand of death, now—other than the fact that once a loved one has 'passed', he or she never returns to that which we perceive as this life ... 

On the other hand this trio of unrevealed details—which instinct suggests I withhold for good reason until a post down the line—is vital to understanding why the soft clay of a three-year-old mind remodeled in such a way as to strengthen my need for self imposed emotional restraint until experience offered me reason to unload my train load of baggage—little by little—by pulling into one station after another, where insight into self awareness welcomed me to examine fear, buried right next to my core—instead of allowing my ego's unhealed wounds to fling subconscious pain around while casting blame at everyone I love for the rest of my life.  And since that's a very good thing, I guess it's safe to surmise that Lady Luck did not abandon this duckling, after all :)

Need an example of Luck smiling at me?  Lucky for me, a young cousin and niece pestered me to write this blog every time we came together.  And every time subconscious pain blocks me from divulging a detail too painful to safely reveal, as of yet, you'll watch me post around inner conflict instead of allowing writer's block to paralyze my mind.  Each time you watch me post around another subconscious conflict, you'll see me mustering the courage to instruct my sixth sense to ope a series of locked doors.  And while fishing for insight into memories, blocked from conscious awareness, in hopes of achieving moments of clarity, you'll watch how a person, practiced in the Line of Control, steadies nerves in hopes of readying my mind to release the most difficult parts of each story that I feel the need to write—and this round-about plan proves to be my mental process for two reasons:  One, I hope to free myself of as much subconscious pain—which limits my ability to enjoy today's good fortunes with attention to thoroughness—as possible.  And two, I hope to encourage others, who choose to ride sidekick through my story, to dive toward insight into freeing themselves of baggage, as well.  BTW need it be said that I hope to remain addicted to hope, forever?  :)

*Though it's true that frightful events may change the course of each life to different degrees, it's what takes place in the wake of tragedy that determines the degree of fear, which may or may not usurp control over each surviver's mind.  I mean, think about it:  I've not yet told you how Fate ripped a three year old's sense of personal safety in half.  What I do feel safe revealing, right now, is this:  Once Fate strips away a small child's sense of safety, a false sense of safety—which we all need to some degree to function successfully—will rise to the surface, and in my case, that false sense of safety served to bolster the smile I showed to the world no matter how often silent tears soaked my pillow by night.

In retrospect, I've come to understand my need to seek out, absorb and share communication skills over most of my adult life.  You see, while encouraging others, most especially my offspring, to open up honestly to themselves about themselves, I've brain washed myself to do the same.  By way of seeking insight into simplifying my complexities, I've grown aware of the vital importance of communicating openly and honestly, first with myself  before I can expect to be honest with you.  This proves a difficult feat when memories, too fearsome to bear, remain hidden behind defensive walls within my subconscious.

In order to free the conscious portion of my mind of stress at times when a vital aspect of life is barreling down hill, I've learned to sit my ego in time out for this reason:  Left on its own, a fearful ego tends to rob my memory of reality by deleting or reconstructing crucial details of my history, thereby eradicating fear or erasing feelings of accountability.  As long as an ego is free to fib to itself, clarity in terms of reality remains cloudy, and in this way do defensive thoughts block logical problem solving from taking place.  In it's unrestrained state, the ego is like a watch dog, locking deeper truths inside a vault, behind insecurity's defensive walls.

*Once you believe your own fibs, The Blame Game huffs and puffs hot winds, scattering crucial details of bigger pictures into 500 piece puzzles that make no sense at all.  Each time any aspect of my life grows so puzzling as to dizzy my mind, I recognize a need to retrace my steps in hopes of identifying strengths, which I've claimed as my own but, in truth, remain in a half baked state.

For most of my life, I'd 'seen' my childhood as simply happy.  I accomplished that feat by blocking the after effects of Janet's death, by numbing my reactions while being bullied on the Hebrew bus and by accepting Joseph's heart-piercing 'hatred' quietly instead of recognizing that after pushing him away, I'd never spoken to him, suggesting it likely that both of us misunderstood each other's reactions.

Since my smile sparkled throughout each day, who could have had a clue that behind my defensive walls, I'd harbored subconscious memories, which gnawed instinctively into my spirit's sense of peace?  In yesterday's world, who knew of my need to uncover pain, buried raw, so deep within my subconscious that emotional distress emerged only in the still of the night, when, itching to get out of my skin, I'd scratched until tell-tale blood marred the white of my pillow ... in today world, that's all a pediatrician would need know ...

As fate would have it, today, I seek out guidance when my mind feels so sadly confused that an unknown weight causes my high flying spirit to sag.  As luck would have it, I love to write, and while diving into my mind, my sixth sense stumbles upon insights, which encourage me to reflect ever more deeply into those times when life had been a bitch.

As one insight leads to another, old perceptions are reviewed in a newly expanded light until—lo and behold—another subconscious dark spot is illuminated in so surprising a way that undeserved guilt, otherwise known as baggage, slips away.  As baggage lightens, self trust strengthens until my spirit feels as re-energized as a mind is able to relax while vacationing from stress by enjoying a string of sunny days at the beach.

It's important to note that in order for old perceptions to change a person's reflective powers must deepen.  For example, at this point I am actually glad to know that my mind took refuge in denial for this reason:  As fear forced my mind to focus upon the sunniest aspects of life, I habitually bitched less often than most—on the other hand, I currently appreciate the advantage of having learned to balance my sunny outlook with quietly seeking insight into my past.  If asked why I think to turn my face, most often, toward the sunny side of life, today—I reply—what we think we become, pointing to the fact that though I'd once seemed one dimensional, today, my outlook embraces the entire spectrum of emotion, suggesting that you'll not find me giving lip service to embracing the concept of balance in all things :)

Though life scared me half to death, early on, I've watched my spirit inspire both sides of my mind to conjoin in hopes of enticing courage to overcome fear, thus allowing me to take flying leaps of faith out of the tower, where a person's false sense of safety holds memory hostage.  Each time I've worked to peel away a defensive wall in hopes of staring a fearsome experience in the eye, I've landed, smack in the middle of a safety net, held aloft by loved ones, who know my mind so well as to humor my vulnerabilities while respecting my strengths.  And feeling cradled within such loving support, this lucky duck continues to work actively but quietly at exposing raw wounds that my ego had secreted away at times when my conscious mind had felt too fearfully defensive to face truth, squarely, head on.

Each time my sixth sense suggests my need to soak my mind in Walden Pond, I check into old memories in hopes of unloading baggage.  Each time I strike another mother load, my spirit re-charges, and my heart feels light enough to frolic along a path where new adventures entice me to experiment with expanding the elasticity of narrow comfort zones, again.

If asked to divulge which insights were the most difficult to swallow, here is what I'd say:  I've come to see which amongst my loved ones had developed the strength to hold up their end of my safety net when I was blind to myself vs those who had not developed the inner strength to help me up rather than  striking at my vulnerabilities when I fell down.

Twinkle, twinkle little star
Up Above the world so high
Like a diamond, spirit sparkling in the sky ...
Until tragedy hits so surprisingly hard that
Dark clouds, heavy with dread
Flood mind and heart with
Such an abundance of confusion and fear that
Denial sets in and all a child's mind chooses to see
Are bright beams of sunlight cascading, all around—because
The mere possibility of storm clouds thundering down, again
Might cause this child's mind to lose control over
False sense of safety, again ...
Sooo ... each time life proves too complex to fathom
This child's defense system creates a state of sunny simplicity
Suggesting that with a shrug of one's shoulder
Dark clouds, casting shadows of self doubt, are gone and
Lightening storms, crackling with doom, gloom and inner conflict
Are dismissed ... and once ensconced in Denialand
This defense mechanism will serve a dark haired, blue eyed child well until
She grows up to find the perfect storm arising...
Tearing straight through her spirit's eternal lightness of being
At which time ...
My blindness to that which I'd needed to know about myself ...
Could not deny subconscious truth, boiling over defensive walls
Arousing an inactive volcano to erupt with such lava-like angst
That my mind saw the wisdom of seeking the path of self discovery, at last ...

Twinkle, twinkle clear-eyed mind
Posting daily, hoping that you, too, may choose
To open your eyes and ears to insight into deeper truths
Hiding behind defensive walls
So that your spirit may begin to live larger rather than smaller
As no child escapes from childhood utterly unscathed
Common sense suggests that some threatening presence
Will haunt your sense of inner peace until
Truth speaks through your walls as it slips through mine:
Bottom line:  That which you choose not to know can hurt you
Every bit as much as sticks and stones breaks your bones
On the other hand, as more of us choose to work mindfully toward
Mustering the courage to be true to one's deepest self
We'll come to understand the importance of
Considering the needs of of everyone we love ...
Including our own :)

Bottom line:  Each time my conscious mind thinks to buddy up with my subconscious, a new found sense of mindful wholeness frees me to express my needs in wholesome ways that enrich my sense of inner peace.  As inner peace increases in direct proportion to my newfound sense of wholeness, I feel inspired to hunt down scary secrets that I lock fearfully away from my conscious self.  Since secrets arouse curiosity and life overflows with mysterious goings on, my spirit feels eager to see where each next train of thought takes the story of my life, next ...

P.S.  For the life of me, I could not figure out why so many paragraphs in this post refused to indent!  On the other hand, life offers us such taxing puzzles to figure out, I chose to stop worrying my mind with small stuff, like this.  And guess what happened, next?  That positive mind shift lessened my frustration, immediately—and as soon as my mind felt unstressed, intelligence kicked in.  So instead of indenting, I simply chose to space each paragraph that refused to cooperate apart from the last.  This suggests that conscious mind shifts catalyze two positive changes:  First, we enhance our ability to accept that which we do not yet understand.  Secondly, creativity pops up, suggesting we alter a path that offered nothing other than more frustration.  And if, sometime later, the mind fathoms questions left unanswered then more power to those who work at deepening awareness, one patient step at a time.

Once I became aware of Mother Nature empowering me with the gift of choosing to shift my mind sets, my sixth sense kicked in, and I stopped feeling like a caged gerbil running on a wheel.  Today, when an experience confuses my sense of direction, I choose to dive deeper into my mind until my sixth sense feels a need to question one of my mind sets.

While reading my posts, you play witness to trains of thought questioning mind sets until my trust in my sixth sense settles upon examining a mind shift in need of changing with the times.  Example?  During the sixties, I'd not dared to have lived with a man I'd loved before marriage.  Today, common sense suggests the wisdom of taste tests before vowing to accept unchanging baggage for an entire lifetime.

With each step I take on this path, where diving more deeply into memory frees me from misperceptions that limited my choices, I listen closely when my sixth sense cajoles me to expand my sense of adventure by taking another courageous leap of faith ... and since I've not yet taken another person to an unhealthy place, I continue to believe that self examination has been elemental in determining the successful path of my life—thus far.  And that thought brings to mind the end of a nursery rhyme, enjoyed by the instinctive mind of a dark haired, blue eyed, three year old child who grew into a woman, whose independent mind smiles at this thought ... twinkle, twinkle—lucky star ... seeking insight into deeper truth in hopes that lucky duck enjoys sunny days where peace of mind conjoin with itch free nights of restful sleep :)

308 WHY DOES LATENT ANXIETY EMERGE DOWN THE ROAD?

So, if this story had been written and saved to a file, years ago, then why must I bolster my spirit with courage before pressing the mouse in order to select-copy-paste-edit a scary part into my blog?

Here's the short answer to that complicated question:
Repressed emotion is like a tattoo, deeply imprinted into our memory banks.

Each time a new situation feels similar in some way to an experience from the past, our instincts have 'reason' to associate today's experience with whatever emotion that memory has aroused.  And as our sense of fear or love or admiration or what have you rises to the surface of conscious awareness, we feel as though whatever has passed is happening, right now.  Thus does instinct catalyze past emotion to grab hold of us, again.  And not knowing that this spell of inexplicable anxiety is associated with repressed, and thus unidentified fears, our minds disengage from what's actually taking place, today.  (This may be one reason why those who fear the unknown 'see' adventure seekers as 'dare devils'.)

Originally, while writing this story, I'd perceived of this experience as my parents' tragedy.  Caring deeply about their grief, my concentration had focused solely on what had happened to them, meaning that my conscious mind had clearly 'failed' to see family tragedy as traumatic for everyone involved.  On the other hand, my subconscious has often sent me signals to examine that which my defense system had suppressed when the confounding nature of such a fearsome trauma overwhelmed me at three.  And story by story, you'll watch inner conflict needle me to relieve myself of this fear, each time latent anxiety has reason to emerge, again...

For example:
Each time my train of thought closes in on the part of a story in which a fear may have been repressed, my anxiety heightens.  Why?  Because ...
Anxiety is an instinct, alerting my conscious mind to a feeling that my subconscious needs to unload.

Today, I work to embrace this signal as suggesting that latent fear, long suppressed, is trying to open its cage and expose itself to my conscious awareness, at last.  If courage is not mustered, the insecure side of my ego figures out how to suppress and ignore that fear, again.

Upon expanding my understanding of anxiety and readiness ...
Insight offers me reason to embrace anxiety as friend rather than foe.


Wakefulness in the dark of night signals me that my mind is carrying too much weight to relax.
Upon making good use of my jar of insights, my train of thought pulls into each station ready to unload more baggage.  And having stoked my energy source, I adventure forth with a lighter heart, mind and spirit than before.

As my mind feels less pressured, less constipated, more relaxed, I sleep like a well-nourished baby, whose filled diaper has been emptied and changed.

If you ask:
What causes a NON-specific fear to manifest, consciously, at last, I'd respond—
During recent years, I've  had reason to examine the long lasting effects of our tragedy on everyone in my family—and everyone includes me.

On the other hand, working to embrace anxiety does not mean I can bowl it over at will.
That's not how the interactive parts of our brains work.  No fast food served, there.
Encouraging both sides of the brain to cooperate in tandem requires the same degree of painstaking work ... as taming sibling tantrums.

If the definition of courage is to face the unknown by walking past one's fear then the fact that you seek me out and witness my process may inspired us both to approach whatever fate has in store for us, next, with a deepening sense of self confidence.

As self confident people do not feel the need to put others down, bonds of mutual respect, necessary to nourish friendship's sense of trust, continue to develop.

Fortunately, I have the inclination (and ample time) to work at exorcizing latent fear.  And my choice to write this blog offers us countless opportunities to observe thoughts, processing through a filter where facts and fear part ways.

So please make no mistake ...
I do not excavate subconscious fear for the heck of it.
Or because I have time to kill.
I work, conscientiously, each day
To unlock an innate sense of freedom
Which had felt as caged as my furry little pet.
And just as I'd once thought to collect crusts of bread
Which had nourished my rebellious little friend
Today, I awaken, eager to collect puzzle pieces
In hopes of reviving slices of self esteem
Which had fallen under a spell, long ago ...
And in hopes
Of nourishing and befriending—oneself
Please join me in embracing
The arousal of latent anxiety
Which may focus our attention
Upon retrieving and developing strengths
That we'd no clue of having lost

Bottom line:

As we come to know the sum of our vulnerabilities and strengths, we step toward the unknown less fearfully.
And ...
What is life if not an adventure through the 'great' unknown?

Once again, Helen Keller's perspective comes to mind:
"Life is perceived as a great adventure or else it is nothing."

Having secured a strong sense of positive focus, thus steadying my mind to dive more deeply into a scary part of my past, that's quite enough to chew on for today.
Hoping to see you soon,
:-)Annie

307 TWINKLE TWINKLE LITTLE STAR part 13

Now that I've mustered the courage to reflect over this stormy time in my family's life,  let's see if a negatively focused mind set emerges, which may have caused me to misperceive some aspect of myself.

Uh, on second thought—let's pause to remember this, first:  Insights, like sunbeams, streak through storm clouds, thus providing us with moments of clarity.  Or you may prefer to imagine insights as light sabers, flashing across a clear blue sky, empowering each mind to rid itself of latent fears, which darken our views and limit flexibility as painfully as walking through life with stones in our shoes.  Either way, insight signifies self empowerment.

As it's healthy to exorcise each dark spot of fear that twists our perspective of a sweet life into a salty pretzel, let's unlock yesterday's fears by embracing the spirit of one-for-all-and-all-for-one.  I mean which would you rather do—hunt for lost keys, all alone, pretty much forever, or buddy up?

Come-on, admit it—how often have you asked yourself:  Where the heck did I toss my keys?  Can't you see that each time you lose sight of your keys, your subconscious is needling you to unlock a significant piece of your memory?  Seriously, what may result if you work to retrieve a whole set of keys, one by one, over time?  You just might unlock a cage into which slices of your self esteem had disappeared when you were too young to see them slip away!  And what, I mean, what could feel more self empowering than redirecting your 'fate'!

Guess what?
Looks like ...
Insights can be seen as sunbeams of clarity.
Insights can be seen as light sabers, empowering us with courage.
Insights can be seen as keys, unlocking caged portions of self esteem.
Insights are worth working toward, n'est pas?

Can you think of a better time than now to identify negatively focused mind sets, which lock your freedom-of-choice inside a cage, guarded by subconscious fear?

Do you have a clue which mind sets stop you from rejoicing over shared blessings with loved ones?

As no person is an island, together, we stand tall and strong; divided by insecurity, we tend to fail and fall down—repeatedly.


Isn't it a relief to know that you need not set out on this quest, all alone?

If common sense suggests that your good health and mine depend upon exorcising latent fears, which twist the sweet life into pretzels, heavy on the salt, then let's dive straight into the deep end of TWINKLE TWINKLE LITTLE STAR part 13 and see if another fear or negatively focused attitude pops out of my mind, somewhere down the line ...

Right after my parents left to shop, I spun away from our apartment’s solid front door and ran down the length of the hall, sliding my fingers along the wall, like children tend to do.  While zooming past the open doorway of the bedroom that I shared with my Grandma, she walked out and—BOOM—we collided.

Instinctively, Grandma caught me close, so I wouldn’t fall down, and we burst out laughing.  Next thing I knew, Grandma grabbed my hands in hers and danced me down the rest of the hall, through our formal dining room and into our spotless kitchen.  I mean with two women in the apartment and help on Fridays, everything was well organized as well as spotless.  As Grandma was always eager to feed the people she loved, I found myself lifted onto a shiny chrome chair, upholstered in red vinyl, resembling paten leather.
If you glance around the kitchen while Grandma is busy pushing my chair toward the white, enamel, rectangular table, your eye might follow the red, white and black plaid wallpaper into the pantry where an old-fashioned icebox keeps our perishables fresh.

I have a secret under that ice box.  You see, the gerbil that Daddy had surprised me with (to Grandma’s consternation at sharing our abode with a rodent) had disappeared from its cage.  Since my small, furry friend couldn’t have felt very nourished after chewing on the drapes, I’m pretty certain that it has found a safe place to ‘nest’.  You see, after freeing itself of its cage, my gerbil can't starve under the ice box, because that’s where ‘someone’ shoves bits and pieces of sandwich crusts, every day.

Once we're ensconced in the kitchen Grandma asks if I’d like a slice of American cheese, but the lingering aroma of home-baked goods that wafts through the air suggests that cheese is not what I have in mind.  So while peering up at Grandma, looking as angelic as possible, I point hopefully to the pan of home made, mouthwatering ‘milchekah boulkahs’ (sweet rolls) on the counter, next to the braided challah (egg bread), which Grandma withdraws from our oven, every Friday without fail.  Since Grandma can’t resist a compliment offered up to one of her many home-making skills, and since I am an adored grandchild—I got it.

LIFE is lots of fun with my vivacious grandma.  Along with Mommy and Daddy, she takes good care of six-week-old Janet and almost three-year-old me.  After downing some milk and planting a juicy kiss on Grandma’s cheek, I scamper back through the dining room and up our apartment’s long hall.

Upon zooming past our apartment’s front door, I squat down and crawl between two of the eight ornately carved legs, which support the top of a large, black lacquered, gold trimmed, octagonal Chinese table.  It’s my habit to pretend that the tabletop is the roof over my favorite place to play house with my dolls—of which I have many, because Mommy had none.  Or else I glance through picture books, or just lie down, curl up, pop my left thumb into my mouth, wind a dark curl around my finger, and catch a nap.  It’s always my left thumb—no choice about it—because sucking my left thumb is a tough habit to break.  Whenever I’d try my right thumb, something doesn’t feel right.  And once a mind set shapes up, concerning what feels right vs. what feels wrong, the only thumb that seems to fit perfectly into my mouth, thus providing me with a sense of comfort, is the left.

If you stand in front of this octagonal Chinese table you’ll face a wall, which is pretty close to our apartment’s front door.  If you have x-ray vision and stare past the table and through that wall, you’ll see straight into my parent’s bedroom.  As people are not equipped with super powers, let’s walk past the table and stand in the doorway of their bedroom for a spell.

Now, let's peer into the room and crook our heads to the left, so we can see my baby sister’s crib hugging the same wall, separating the bedroom from the table in the front hall.  While I’m curled up, sucking my thumb, under the hexagon Chinese table, that wall is the only thing separating me from Janet’s crib.  About an hour before my mom and dad had left to go shopping, Janet had been fed, burped, and put down to nap ...

—Please—stop reading forward for a moment because I’d like you to re-read that last paragraph.  Next, I’d like you to pause and think—more deeply—about what you've reread.  Now, please tell the truth:  Did your mind draw a picture of me, under the table while Janet naps in her crib?

If so, you imagined a detail that did not exist.  And I set out to set you up for that mistake in judgment in order to highlight this next point as clearly and concisely as possible:             Misperceptions occur for many reasons.   Human nature formulates premature judgments.                                   

If we want to get the facts of a story straight, we're charged with consciously developing the patience to listen attentively and consider whether crucial facts may not yet have been disclosed.  Unfortunately—rather than listening with an open and thus neutral mind, the thought-processing center of a listener’s brain jumps from one function to another:

Our thought processors leap too far ahead and imagine.

Or we formulate closed minded judgments based upon the little that has been said.

Or we associate with what's being said by wandering to thoughts of our own.

Sometimes we get bored and drift into a daydream

Sometimes we feel defensive, which fearfully blocks out common sense.

Sometimes we belittle that which the speaker has sound reason to feel.

All too often, we think in terms of generalities.

When thinking in generalities apples are all too often mistaken for oranges.

Whenever a listener's thought processor switches tracks before a speaker’s train of thought pulls into the station, misperceptions force conversations to climb up hill battles until clarity feels trapped beneath an avalanche of chaotic frustration.  Since many problems with communications are based in the fact that listening skills are skimpy—or intermittently sketchy, at best—let’s put your patience to the test by asking you to 'listen up' with a deeper perspective than before.  In this way, we'll authorize my train of thought to take whatever time it needs to pull into its final destination for today ...

While I am crawling under the table in the front hall, Janet—who had been fed, burped, and put down to nap on her tummy by my mommy—may be found in her buggy on our private back porch, which is adjacent to our formal dining room.
This back porch is a sturdy wooden structure.  Though three sides of the porch are made up of solid wood planks, painted a medium gray, its fourth side is open to the air and fenced in for safety by a series of gray, wooden pickets.  These pickets attach to a wooden railing that stands quite a bit higher than a three-year old child is tall.

If I lean against that picket fence, during the summer,  and peer between the slats, looking down at the ground, three stories below, I see a large rectangular well-groomed lawn that’s neatly framed by several rows of brightly colored flowers.  However, this story takes place late in November, so the lush green of the grass resembles closely cut straw.  As the chill in the air has caused the flowers to wither, the vibrance of the garden is nowhere to be seen.  Did I wonder, as a tot, where all that color had gone?  I mean, a tyke has no clue about the natural order of the life cycle, in terms of four seasons:  budding, blooming, fading, and dying.  As we'll live in this apartment for years before Dad builds his dream house, I remember this for a fact:  Regardless of the season, an unfriendly sign is nailed to a stick, which has been hammered into the middle of the lawn.  And that sign cautions big and small tenants alike to:

KEEP OFF THE GRASS!

At barely three years old, I do not perceive of that sign as symbolizing this fact:  People become accustomed to following rules within the formal structure of a lovely-to-look-at-but-don’t-touch world.  One day, the landlord will sell the building.  Under the new landlord, the sign will disappear and the garden and lawn will be trampled into a dirt playground of sorts for city urchins, such as me.  As my parents are intelligent adults, they are accustomed to the natural order of the life cycle.  They understand that as rules change consequences result—some of which feel good—we had a place to play—some not so good—the hard scrabble of daily play had destroyed the restful beauty of the yard.

As Jennie and Jack take their responsibilities seriously, there’ll be no reason—as they open the outside door and walk across the ground floor foyer of our apartment complex—for either of them to consider the fact that LIFE can change as fast as the spin of a dime.  So, let’s picture my parents carrying grocery bags and gabbing cheerfully, back and forth, as they climb back up three flights of stairs—about two hours after they’d left Janet and me in Grandma's care.

Now picture a key turning in the lock, which opens our front door.  Next, imagine my young mother and father entering the front hall of our apartment.  Imagine them expecting to find both of their children awake.  And alive.

Mom places her purse and a paper grocery bag on the Chinese tabletop in the front hall.  Then, while hanging her coat on a hanger in the guest closet, she spies me curled up under the table.  I’m in the process of sitting up and rubbing my eyes, which are still full of sleep.  Smiling sweetly, my mother approaches the table, while I’m crawling out.  As I stand up, she kneels down on one slim knee and gathers me tenderly into a hug.  Upon rising, she retrieves that over-stuffed, brown paper grocery bag, while Dad is clasping two or three against his chest.  Then, carrying the groceries in her arms, Mom turns and walks through the long hall, past the bedroom where my junior bed snuggles up at the foot of Grandma’s old-world sleigh bed, and as Mom passes through the dining room, she glances out at the back porch just before turning left into kitchen.

As Dad’s arms are full of groceries, he can’t grab me up and swing me high.  So without breaking stride, he tosses a “Hi’ya Dolly” over his shoulder along with a smiling wink, which is always followed by a double click of his tongue.  And as he follows Mom down that long hall, I try to whistle this holiday tune, just like Dad: “Over the river and through the wood …” … but as I’ll not master whistling for quite a while, all I manage to blow out of my mouth is air.  Even so, I’m content with pulling up the rear and chugging along in my parents’ tracks, just like a small caboose.

Upon finding Grandma bustling about the kitchen, my mother says, “Hi Ma, where’s the baby?” When Grandma answers that Janet is still asleep in her buggy on the porch, Mom’s eyes open in surprise, and she questions in disbelief:

 “She’s been asleep all this time?”

—I remember Mom saying that she never forgot how glibly these next words fell out of her mouth—

“You’d better take a look and see if she’s alive.”