550 COMPUTOR GLITCHES

So sorry to have been gone this long without explanation
Continuing to experience modem and router problems
Not yet rectified
Frustrating to say the least ...
 Please join me as patience is tested ...
Other than that ...
Life is what we make of it
And I've been having fun in the sun
With people I love ...
Some who live close by
Some who live cross country
Some who flew half way 'round the world ...
And plan to come to play sometime later, today!
Life is good
Hope the same is true for you ...
Your friend,
Annie

549. WHAT IN THE WORLD ARE COCKLES?

During times of disillusionment

Insight into both sides of human nature guides me

Toward carving out new paths inside my head

Which I'd never thought to tread

Nothing new about two sides of human nature

Pretty classic, in fact
What may be new is this ...
Accepting that both sides vie for control of my mind

On the other hand, during dark times

Those who TRULY know me

Don't call me Pollyana

For nothing

As you shall see
The fires of idealism

Warm the cockles of my heart
For this reason:

I'd rather err with idealists

Than listen to bah humbug
Or watch put downs
Fall out of my mouth

Want to know
Who I am by choice?
I am one
Who wishes you well

I am your
Optimistic

Growing more realistic

Friend, Polly-annie

PS  What in the world

Are 'cockles', anyway?

548 NO WHINING!

Active lIttle girls

Born to lean families

Don't get fat for nothing
This is not baby fat, I'm referring to
This child had need to feed a hole in her self esteem
That had reason to spring a subconscious leak

At least I believe that to be true of me

If asked how I know, I don't; I believe

And though believing and knowing are not the same

Somehow—I sense that with time spent in reflection

Believing with visceral feeling will close in on knowing
Over time

As for now

I am simply woman who needs to write daily ...

While roaring from time to time

BTW—Roaring  is not to be confused with whining
Whereas whining relates to neediness
Roaring taps into the spirit's inner strengths ...
And that difference makes all the difference
If one hopes to heal subconscious wounds
At long last ...
So wish me luck, sayeth your friend, Annie
Who never gives up
On a goal worth achieving
Or a value worth upholding
:)

547 FIRE! FIRE! FALSE ALARM! :)

As high school stories continue to resist reveal

I thought you’d get a kick out of this true tale from my 50th high school reunion :)

My 50th HS reunion weekend was exhilarating in every way
Enriching memories and funny stories, abound
Imagine this, for example:
I can't walk many stairs—chronic injury ...
My room is on the 8th floor of the hotel
No problem—close to the elevator
Electrical storm
Elevators conk out
How to meet a quartet of girlfriends for lunch?
Sherry Schwartz walks up —eight flights and then down
Lets the rest know I can’t join them
They will not hear of it
The quartet walks up 8 flights
Meaning one dear friend ascends, twice! 16 flights!
We are no longer young!
Truly above and beyond
We order room service
Exhausted employee with lunches on tray
Climbing flight after flight—all day
Shares unwelcome news
The elevator will not be repaired that night.
Having thoroughly enjoyed our class’s dinner on Friday 

I accept missing the gala on Saturday ... however ...

My friend, Dodi, will not entertain that possibility
Marching to the phone, she calls the manager and

States—My friend can't walk stairs
No way is she going to miss her 50th reunion!
Manager proves compassionate, but what can he do?
Well, says my dear friend of 50 years ...
Firemen save kittens from trees ...
Please call them so my friend can party—Oh! And—
She'll need a room on the lobby level, of course

I am surprised as I don’t remember

My loving friend Dodie being so assertive

Management rises to the occasion
A knock at the door
I open it and feel like a Lilliputian to see
Five, tall, strapping, muscular, handsome

Young men cheerfully offering me a seat on a chair
They strap me in like a babe in a car
And down we go, one flight at a time—
Eight in all—
Quartet of dear friends  not far behind
During that night’s gala I hear someone ask
Why was the fire dept. summoned, today?
Though my spirit is chuckling—
Knowing they'd saved a damsel in distress—
I just smile till the conversation dances away
So—thanks to the thoroughness of our committee
The weekend was spectacular
Thanks to dear friends
Each heartfelt moment memorable
Thanks to management for such caring concern
Thanks to firemen for taking turns

Carrying me down eight flights, two guys at a time
On Saturday another dear friend (Susan Lieber)

And I enjoyed a sleep over at the hotel
And just like teens, we talked the night away!
Other than summoning the fire department
And—flunking Facebook

(Another reunion story for another day) ...
I can't wait to push repeat whenever
Our next reunion rolls around!
☺ Great memories create great big smiles
Oh, btw, during the gala, I found out that while

In HS I was less invisible to the guys

Less of a wallflower—
Than I'd remembered myself to be as

More than one admitted to crushing on me
Proving, yet again, self esteem

And attitude are everything ...
:🙋🏻‍♀️😊Annie

546 Part 6 PREQUEL TO HIGH SCHOOL ...

Upon reflection, what did Annie learn after her defense system pummeled Joseph's fumbling preteen passion?  Unfortunately, nothing.

If asked, today, what did Annie need to learn back then, I'd reply, lessons that come once we muster the courage to choose a path where childish defense mechanisms do not block us from maturing into self aware adults ...

Annie needed to learn about dark spots inside her mind where she'd kept secrets from herself, concerning experiences too terrifying to remember with accuracy.

Annie needed to learn how often these haunting specters pummeled her self worth.

Annie needed to experience a series of open sesame moments where insight offered a clear view of experiences that had blocked her from being true to herself for decades.

Annie needed to identify reasons why undeserved guilt had shaped her into such a selfless creature as to set the needs of everyone else above her own.

Annie needed to learn that denial and defensiveness are indivisible.  Get a clear view of one and the other appears just like magic.  Get a clear view of both and suddenly, the maze of your mind spies a fork in the road, where a new path offers experiences in which distorted visions of self perceptions straighten out, leading you toward discovering unmet needs, languishing within your core, which may have been sensed but not identified ... And once awareness breathes life into these needs, never again can they be dismissed or denied.

Need I remind you that at twelve years old, Joseph and Annie did not know that love in its purest form is less about being appreciated and more about enhancing your appreciation of the positive side of life, generally speaking?

Being twelve years old, Annie and Joseph had not developed the emotional maturity to comprehend that love, in its purest form, creates an active state of compassionate forgiveness.

In lieu of emotional maturity, neither Annie nor Joseph could actively rein in their defensive reactions.  Rather than wearing inner sadness, offering forgiveness on our faces, we clung to defensive masks.  And thus we were not true to the depth of emotions, hidden within.

Before any person can be true to another, one must muster the courage to confront the depth of turbulent emotions rumbling deep within.  At twelve, I could not reveal the depth of my emotion for Joseph without having explored the depth of meaning that our connection had come to mean to me.

At twelve, we had no clue that being appreciated is a passive state, whereas developing an awareness of accepting each other's vulnerabilities challenges an active mind to conjure up positively focused reactions.

At twelve, we had no clue that a person who responds to a negative situation with a hopeful attitude demonstrates a conscious awareness of self control based in a strong sense of emotional maturity.

*If attitude is everything then emotional maturity (self discipline) acts as the hub of a well oiled mind.  Another way to say well oiled is—well organized.

A well organized mind does not resemble a junk drawer.
A well organized mind compartmentalizes lessons learned, so that old lessons do not confuse issues, which tend to grow complicated, over time.

A simple example?
When my kids were young I limited (controlled) their intake of cokes at parties.
When my kids were teens, I hoped they'd choose coke more often than beer.
If you think me naive ... I agree :)
On the other hand, I recognized their need to experience lessons in maturing toward self control, just as I did.

Today, in order to live up to my values without awarding myself sainthood, I continue to consciously evaluate choices that life offers me in hopes of living within a set of limits that allow necessary parts of me to breathe as naturally and freely as a responsible ... yet vulnerable ... human being can do—without declaring myself a saint. 

If asked which traits act as spokes, attached to this hub of a well organized mind, I'd reply:  courage to seek clarity when confusion erupts; humility to see painful truths as they exist; compassion for the plight of those whose needs conflict with my own; generosity of spirit, which extends forgiveness toward those who can not expose vulnerabilities in need of strengthening within.

I believe the need to feel appreciated creates tension.
I believe tension, due to feeling unappreciated, blocks us from loving generously.  Once we concentrate on loving rather than on being loved, fear of not being loved enough diminishes.  And now that you know why I love wholeheartedly, let me admit this.

This attitude that I've chosen to adopt of loving whole/heartedly rather than than defensively is not easy!!!!  It's not passive.  This is an active exercise I choose for myself—every day.

If a person hopes to achieve an uncommon level of loving, openly, courageously, honestly and whole/somely— meaning with a greater sense of purity (not to be confused with sainthood) then that person's thought processor (Neo cortex) must gain control over the reptilian, reactive portion of the brain (the amygdala), where ego, fearful memories and negative attitudes reign supreme.

To love generously one must consciously choose to think generous thoughts ...
To think generously one must choose to feel well nourished
To feel generously nourished one's attitude must focus on the positive
To focus on positives that life has offered each of us ...
One must offer others, who love deeply but defensively, the benefit of the doubt ...

We say attitude is everything for this reason:

Attitude shapes what we feel, think and choose to do

Gosh!

You have no clue how long I've been waiting for a vehicle (story line) to pop out on your screen and mine that will express how often both sides of human nature vie for space inside every mind—every day!

Though this next line, found within a fortune cookie, made its way into a previous post, I believe this thought stands repeating—btw this fortune is taped to my computer:

The desire of love is to give; the desire of lust is to get

It takes more courage to love others openly and honestly than to satisfy desire whenever lust raises its head ... and speaking from experience—truer words were never spoken ...

If I could find Joseph, today, I'd apologize for pummeling his fumbling lunge-grab-kiss during our first shared experience of preteen passion.

Standing before Joseph, I'd openly admit to my quest to learn why his lunge-grab-kiss scared me enough to beat the poor guy all around his unsuspecting head.  Tried to google him.  No luck.  No show at any reunion since high school graduation.  Can't remember his being at graduation.  Remember him wounded in Viet Nam.  After seeing him on crutches, I encountered a strange conversation with his mom.  That story to come.  Some day.

As for now ... in addition to making a conscious effort not to knock anyone else around who may care for me, deeply but quietly, I focus on figuring out why the sudden lunge of a preteen boy scared me so thoroughly as to have made me miss the affection inherent in his impassioned reaction to my answer—yes, I'll go to the party with you—yes, I'll long to run out to meet you and walk with you whenever I can—yes—I'll miss you, forever, because feeling as close to you as I did when I was twelve felt more natural to me that I can describe ... and decades later, I'm still trying to figure out what emotional complexity caused my defense system to strike out instead of simply and naturally kissing you back  ...

If life's connective mysteries are in need of sleuths, eager to seek clues that make sense of what, on the surface, seems like nonsense, I am one of those sleuths.  Why?  Because generally speaking ...

I believe today's mysteries are based in past experiences, which may seem unrelated but, in truth, are interconnected,  and that is why I faithfully remain ...
Your detective friend,

:) Annie

PS  though you may see my attitude as naive ...
Some how naiveté works wonders for my spirit ...
Especially when I'm not well and my spirit is working to dig itself out of a dark spot by searching for a bright insight that may lighten my mind and warm my heart—when something makes me feel ill or lonely, deep inside ...

545 Part 5 PREQUEL TO HIGH SCHOOL ...

 If asked to pin one vital point of this series of posts to a bulletin board, this is what you'd see:

A family tragedy during the early stages of development, can split the layered strengths of a child’s sense of self awareness straight down the middle, like a streak of lightening splits the layered trunk of a healthy tree.

So high spirited, independent Annie had reason to develop into an cautiously watchful child, who will feel fearful of not pleasing people wherever she goes.

At those times when Annie sees herself as not pleasing, she’ll seek safety in invisibility … for this reason:

Invisibility feels less painful than abandonment … and thus when high school stories finally flow from my memory, naturally,  we'll watch Annie unwittingly reject herself, repeatedly … 

544 Part 4 PREQUEL TO HIGH SCHOOL ...

The fact that I was less than three when Grandpa and Janet died, four when a second baby sister arrived, who looked exactly like the first, and not yet five when 6 month old Lauren fell into a coma-like sleep (which traumatized my mother, yet again), inspires me to believe that during this formative stage of my emotional development I became sensitized to the fragility of enjoying the simple securities of life.  Though we all know that horrific turns of events can ring our bell at the spin of a dime, subconsciously traumatized, I held my breath, daily, waiting for the other shoe to drop, and joined the vigil of the other women in our house, who spent every waking moment making sure that no child died on their watch.

However, rather than focusing on my fears, a sense of watchful compassion developed, heeding the needs of others—keep them safe and I'll be safe, too.  As favor smiled down on my need-based, acquired, care taking skills, my ego’s need for attention was satisfied in this convoluted manner:  I'll meet your needs with a smile and in return, all you need do is smile at me.  Ah!  How I love a simple plan!

         In short, any whole-sense-of-self got ‘all screwed up’ in this way: As long as my attachment to selflessness was appreciated, I felt secure.  However, each time I felt unappreciated while ministering to the needs of others, lightening struck my sense of security, causing my strong spirit to hollow out and collapse as fast as a party balloon pops with the prick of a pin.  As all of this took place subconsciously there was no way to know that no matter how many strengths I’d continued to acquire, there’ll be one response that my strengths can't withstand:

Ignore me and watch my spirit collapse as fast as kryptonite weakens Superman’s strengths

         With thoughts of kryptonite in mind, let’s take a peek at two experiences, which will showcase the strengths and vulnerabilities that early childhood tragedy instilled in me.  First, we’ll glance over that kindergarten classroom where the strengths of my spirit effortlessly reassured crying classmates that they’d not been abandoned.  Then, skipping over several years, we’ll peer at me as the new kid in school, who having being bullied, repeatedly, can’t fathom the fact that the heart of the leader of the pack has singled her out as girl friend material .  And thus, before high school begins, it’s easy to see how readily the self-confidence of a sparkling spirit, which splits into two separate parts, can be swiftly shot down. 

543 Part 3 PREQUEL TO HIGH SCHOOL ...

             Few first-born children in their right minds enjoy being dethroned by the next heir in line.  Common sense suggests that number one secretly, or not so secretly, wishes that number two would disappear.  This is where beware of what you wish for proves true: When the first born’s wish actually comes true, who can measure the subconscious guilt that drowns a young child’s spirit beneath tidal waves of grief, which imprison every heart within the extended family upon which this merry little girl depends upon for sustenance and love.

                 Many years later my white haired mother and I will gaze at my mountain while swaying side by side on my sky blue, softly cushioned patio swing.  And while swinging peaceably, Mom will disclose that one day, months after my sister Janet's death,  she emerged from her fog of pain just enough to recognize the depth of my misery, as she watched me wandering wanly around our apartment, eyes dull and down cast, thumb woefully in mouth.  At this, Mom’s conscious awareness of my unmet needs drew her back to life.  “I remembered,” she said, “that before Janet’s birth, you’d been the sun, the earth, the moon, and all the stars in the sky to Dad and me, Annie.  So, I forced myself to smile and laugh and play and dance and sing with you in hopes of inspiring your spirit to thrive, again, too.”

        The power of love is quite the phenomenon, because in the aftermath of family tragedy, it’s not uncommon to resuscitate our spirits for the sake of those we love rather than for the well being of one’s own mental health.  However, here is a serious problem that commonly arises when one must remain ‘selfless’for too long:  When one forces the spirit to stretch too far to save a loved one from drowning in sorrow—and ifone’s best attempts are unsuccessful—then he or she doing the saving may be theone who, emptying of energy, goes down for the count.

        Throughout my life, I’ve often heard my mother say, “Annie, you were always anexceptionally good child.  You kept yourself busy and rarely said,‘No!’  You were always my eager little helper.  Since you’d oftenwalk away, scratching while fulfilling my requests, I discussed that concernwith your doctor, who said:  ‘Jennie, you can raise a spoiled child with perfect skin, or a littlegirl who scratches but behaves well.’ ” And thus did scratch and smile develop into my M.O.

        Years later, after I’ll have had time to put two and two together, here’s whatdawned on me:  Having lost Mom’sattentiveness for a considerable length of time and fearing any response on mypart that might add to her unhappiness, I’d internalized my negative emotions whilecomplying with her requests.  Withtime, I couldn’t fathom feeling angry, so my defense system tried to get me totune into the fact that I’d scratched my skin like crazy instead of ‘actingout’ or throwing tantrums.  During this crucial time of developmental whentykes are known to assert their independence in trying ways, my spirit split inhalf, and the eczema that I’d inherited genetically before Janet’s birth became my Achilles heel after herdeath.

        In recent years, I’ve come to realize that a family tragedy can split a child’s sense of awarenessright down the middle in the same way that a streak of lightening splits thelayered strengths of a healthy tree.  So, in addition to developing a highspirited, self directed smile, I’ll have grown to be an extremely watchful,overly cautious child, whose subconscious made self protective decisions tocomply with the needs of loved ones over asserting my needs.  In this waydid I acquire a compassionate, care-giving role, which in truth stemmed morefrom a fearful sense of watchful self-preservation thancasual observers might conceive.

542 Part 2 PREQUEL TO HIGH SCHOOL ...

Whenever a family moves into unexplored territory, changes occur, which are often too subtle for most to notice—at first.  As subconscious changes take place beneath the surface of conscious awareness, they may go unnoticed for decades.  However, as years pass, emotional wounds—left unhealed—unfailingly grow into complex problems, which, eventually, shape up into patterns that ensnare everyone we love—as well as everyone we are destined to love in the future.

As long as everyone remains blind to the classic nature of slow growing changes that filter into the evolution of each family's life,  none has a clue as to what may have catalyzed a caring group of people to veer off track and wander into a tunnel where a dark hazy maze waits to swallow them up, one by one.  As one change develops into another, sight unseen, thus is family life bound to become more confusing until, one day in the far distant future, the pall of darkness is glaring to all.  In lieu of insight into the evolution of change, misunderstandings based in tunnel vision darken each person's view of the others.  Sadly, if no one thinks to look into a mirror to see both sides of human nature staring back, the lily white innocence of love's purity muddies up.  Once love's purity muddies up, negatively focused, defensive thought processes must grow objective on all sides or the muddiness wins and any thought of positively focused win-win is lost in that tunnel where the co-chairs of confusion and misunderstanding reign supreme.

When unhealed wounds, hide inside pockets of the subconscious, an invisible wall of denial shapes up.  With the passage of time, no one realizes that something ‘dark’ continues to grow behind that wall, which serves as a mental block against revealing unresolved pain.  And thus is true that a person’s most serious problem may go unrecognized until the weight of this invisible problem consumes so much mind space that the darkness crashes through the defense system’s wall, knocking down a person’s high flying spirit in an utterly unexpected, self-destructive way.  

Though my mother and father remember my dancing, they could not share my earliest memory, which Dad did not film, because visiting hours had ended, so at the time when this memory occurred, my parents had already kissed me goodbye and gone home.  No one was there to see two year old me, crouching down, burying my face in the corner of a darkened hospital room, while hugging a brand new baby doll as close to my heart as possible. (Or—being less than two … had I huddled in the corner of a hospital crib rather than crouching in the corner of the room—can’t be certain about less memorable details like that, because minutiae grows fuzzy over time.)  I named the doll, Mugguns, after myself.  For some strange reason, I didn’t name her Annie.  Instead I named her after my last name.  And at two, Mugguns was the way I’d pronounced Goodman.

         It’s our most poignant memories that imprint with photographic clarity, like my memory of crying in fear at having been left alone at night in a strange place for the first time in my life, and since I don’t remember if hospital staff came in to soothe me, I imagine crying myself, quietly, to sleep—Just as I would at every stage of life when I’d felt abandoned. (Feeling abandoned and being abandoned being two different things.)  At any rate, my two earliest memories (dancing joyfully with abandon and crying in fear of having been abandoned) suggest that a ribbon of continuity connects the masks of comedy and tragedy throughout all four stages of each person’s life—for sound reason.  The earlier the sense of loss of self, the greater the fear of abandonment, again.)

         Dad’s camera lens shows my spirit to have been as high-flying as a bright, shining star until I was close to three.  Then, quite shockingly, laughing eyes, clapping hands, and dancing feet were replaced on all sides by fearful glances, sorrowful cries, and a deeply pained, disconcerting state of disorder and guilt.  Though we don’t know exactly how much the minds of three-year-olds absorb, I have a strong feeling that the fact that lightening struck my family—twice—Grandpa and Janet—within the space of four months—influenced the dichotomy that caused my high-spirited, bright shining star to fall as fearfully fast as the quick change artistry whereby sun beams are replaced by storm skies, which thunder down upon our lives, mercilessly, for what must have felt like an endless length of time ...

541 Part 1 PREQUEL TO HIGH SCHOOL ...

Since I can't get a high school story to pop out in its entirety, let's see if by back tracking, we can jump start my story teller:

My two earliest memories?
One is of dancing
The other, crying

It’s easy for my family to remember the dancing, because Dad was a home movie maven.  So, his camera lens captured me cavorting animatedly around a porcelain vase, which I’d take down from a bookshelf and place on the carpet in the middle of our apartment's living room, quite often.  At four, I’d throw my arms overhead, leap in the air, and pirouette around it.  No question about it—I’d thrived in my starring role as first-born child.  (this evening I flew from the southwest to Chicago to surprise my mom for her 99th birthday.  And as we sat, reminiscing, she smiled and said, i always picture you as that adorable, dark haired little girl, twirling around the vase on th floor, words flowing, non stop.  You were such a little motor mouth, Annie.'  Now that my children are grown, I know exactly what she means.  No doubt about it, I didn't have a shy bone in my body.  Place a stranger in front of me and watch the smile in my eyes bid a trusting welcome to a new friend.  Ask me a question and get ready to hear the unabridged story of my life.) 

If you and I sit down to watch the comic nature of that film, today, we’d see Grandma Ella's lively eyes, clapping hands, and tapping feet encouraging me to keep time with whatever music played inside my mind.  For all that our family was made  up of dancing fools, we were not nearly as rambunctious as the family of my carrot topped friend, Max, who lived on the second floor, one story below our third floor apartment.  Max literally swung from a trapeze, hanging in the doorway of his parents' bedroom, and after swinging freely through the air, he'd land, fearlessly with a bang on the floor, near his apartment's front door, which led out to the second floor landing of our apartment building's communal hall.

Max moved in when I was about seven.  From the moment the spark in his eyes met with mine, we'd put our heads together and get into trouble.  I remember the day when Max's mom was minding me.  He and I decided to climb the coal pile in the alley.  We thought it funny until we climbed up the wooden staircase, leading to his back door and kitchen.  Need I say that we found ourselves stripped and dumped into the tub, immediately—wearing filthy under pants, because he was he and she and was she.  At least no one got the evil eye.  Max's mom laughed and said, kids will be kids.  Thank goodness I wasn't with Max when he decided to experiment with throwing rocks out the window, directly at people's heads.  His mom didn't laugh quite as much, that day.

Max's parents were college professors, who’d encouraged my friend and his two younger sisters to enjoy a free-spirited environment, meaning that they paid little mind to Mrs. Jabonick, an elderly neighbor, whose smile was as tight as the severe, little bun that pulled her grey hair into a knot at the back of triple chinned head.   So, while I’d dance throughout our third floor apartment or ride my red trike down our hall and Max swung from chandeliers one floor below, this elderly widow banged her broomstick up against the ceiling to no avail, which brings to mind two thoughts:  First off, the closer people live in proximity the more their needs clash.  Had my spirit not bounced back after tragedy, the minx in me would have missed lots of fun with my friend, Max.

Though it would be a stretch to see me as a graceful, twinkle-toed sprite, Dad's movies showed my spirit soaring, again, by the time my second little sister, Lauren, made her debut, when I was four.  In fact, by the time I was five, home movies show me practicing what I'd learned while taking ballet and tap.  As that story goes, here's what took place when Mom inquired about registering me for the next series of classes, causing my dance instructor's head to shake gently from side to side.  “Perhaps we can reconsider that possibility at a later date,” she’d offered generously.  “Right now, Annie’s too self-directed to follow my directions.  While I lead the class, she’s off choreographing—who knows what!  Though Annie is always good natured, her antics are distracting the others.”  Guess that same trait saw me on the bench in the hall during grammar school.  “Though Annie is always cheerful, she’s in need of lessons in discretion.”  Unfortunately, the bench didn’t do the trick.  I found lots of people happy to converse with me in the hall.  All in all,  Dad’s movies and family stories paint Annie as a child in love with people and life.

It becomes apparent that at some point during the year, which had passed between Janet’s ‘disappearance’ and Lauren’s birth, life did what it always does—everything (on the surface) ‘appeared’ to go back to ‘normal’.  In truth, life never ‘goes back’; life always moves forward toward unexplored territory as well as unexpected change ....

540 t.s.eliot

When expressing myself
I'm known to need
At least a page or two
Whereas a guy can say the same
Without mincing words:

The end of all our

Exploring will be to

Arrive where we started 

And know 

The place for 

The first time

t.s.eliot

:) Thank you for making me aware of this poem

539 MOLTEN FURY RELEASED—WHEW!

A shift of great magnitude is taking place inside my brain

The magnitude of this shift will not allow my psyche

To remain stuck against my will, ever again

The magnitude of this shift feels too surreal

For stories to flow out of my memory

And onto your screen as of yet

Common sense suggests that during an earthquake

It's impossible for the storytelling side of anyone's brain

To open and flow

While white hot lava is in the process of

Bubbling up, boiling over and pouring forth

Past experience with earthquakes—

I mean mental shifts—suggests

That it's impossible to know

What may open up and flow out of me

When this breaking down of defensive layers

Has had time to settle into a brand new place

Where personal growth

Has room to rebuild and expand

On the other hand

I can tell you this—

Since this is not the first mental earthquake

That I've experienced

Fate has offered me reason to

Absorb mental shifts of this magnitude before

And each time a shift of this magnitude settles

In a new place where Annie has had need to grow

Insight into half-baked strengths

Offers her vulnerabilities

A series of opportunities in which to shore up ...

Once defensive layers peel away

And raw vulnerability sees the light of day

Insight will take this storyteller

To a place in the past

Where fear had forbidden Annie

From understanding herself before

And as each shift in terms of personal growth

Settles in wherever it's meant to go

Experiences that led me from who I once was

To whomever I'm in the process of becoming, today

Will flow out of my storyteller naturally and openly

For this reason:

Knowing that this not my first mental shift

My self confidence feels fully intact

When asking my friends to muster patience

While believing that stories to come

Will be worth your wait

In fact instead of sitting around, waiting

Why not stand up, rally round and

Acknowledge the importance of shocking oneself

Into welcoming mental shifts in general

Why not stand up and cheer on a friend

Who's in the midst of working through

A mental shift, vital to the good health of

her spirit—right now ...

Because with or without your support

I aim to plow through narrow thought patterns

In hopes of expanding comfort zones

Which have remained sadly limited

And angrily stuck, over long

No more narrow mind sets ...

Fearing the resuscitation of yesterday's pain for me

No more mental blocks, harboring skeletons

That haunt my dreams

Keeping the fertile fields of my mind fallow, in chains

Like bolts of lightening from on high

Molten anger, hot as lava

Creates this flow of liquid lightening

That strikes my heart—

Like white hot fire, coursing through my veins

With such vigorous energy

From head to toe

That I can't sit still

Not for one second longer

And so bolting out of my chair

Into the parking lot

I go

And since it's as hot as blazes outside—

Though not quite as hot as the white hot flame burning within—

Common sense finds a shaded place

Where back and forth I pace

One step forward at a time

Creating invisible figure eights

Symbolizing the spirits of sages

Speaking to successive generations

From forever until infinity, repeatedly

In hopes that instead of boiling, our processors

Will cook up healthy plans of action

Once the greater part of tightly coiled, molten anger

Has been unleashed at least enough

For stories, glowing with insight

To course through my blood stream

And flow out of mind and on to your screens

More freely, visibly and on target than ever before

Today, though still reeling and feeling surreal

I see myself carving a new path

By which cognitive trains of thought

Inspired by insight, will chug through my mind

Until true stories

Which long to be told—

(No wait ... not told

You see, these stories, which are no one's but mine to tell—

Have yearned to be heard—really heard

By those who have no reason to say—

That never happened, Annie,

Forget it

Don't worry—

Don't worry about what?

About not being true to myself?

Now stop it, Annie

Let's get back to

Forget it

Don't worry, be happy

Let a smile be your umbrella

Dwell here, in Denialand

Where we lobotomize our brains

To any pain too great to bear or bare

Look, Annie, why can't you just shut up, already

If you can't feel happy

Just act as complacent

As the nice and sweet, good girl, loved by one and all

Okay?  And by the way

Please stop scratching to get out of your skin

It's unsightly, you know

God—is it any wonder why

Anorexics can't eat?

Or the over weight stuff?

Or drinkers drink?

Or cutters cut?

All they're trying to do is relieve pain

That no one wants to believe runs that deep)

And so ...

Today, though still reeling and feeling surreal

I see myself carving a new path

By which cognitive trains of thought

Inspired by insight, will chug through my mind

Until true stories

Which long to be told

Will pull into stations where the baggage handler

Waits to help me relieve myself of baggage simply

Because his thought processor believes in me

And the more he believes in me

The more I believe in myself!

If no man is an island

Neither is a woman ...

That's why strong support systems

And strong mental health

Walk hand in hand

Whenever facial expressions filled with innuendo

Try to severe my connection to common sense

Indicating that I have no clue of

What proves to be MY TRUTH

Today

Here is the trio of replies that

You can be certain to hear me say

With the utmost of clarity, today—

First I'll say, NO WAY, JOSE!

If not heard, I'll say, NEVERMORE!

And finally, if the depth of my pain is unheeded, over long

Please be prepared for this—

I AM WOMAN—HEAR ME ROAR!

You tread your path

I prefer mine

I hope you have a nice day—elsewhere

Whew!  I must have needed that!  Seriously!

Gaining on it ...

Riddle:

Makes me wonder if fury

Pressed up against defensive walls

Must be shocked into release before

Scary secrets we keep from ourselves

May be freely exposed at long last?

Answer to riddle?

As with everything ...

Patience, my friend, time will tell

As for now—that feels better!