2018—HEAD ON COLLISION Part 1e

Some posts are not easy to pen with clarity intact
Suggesting why I've felt need to revise
HEAD ON COLLISION Part 1d—repeatedly in hopes of
Clarifying strings of interrelated insights concerning
The subtle nature of power struggles if not to
Perfection then at least to my satisfaction

2018—HEAD ON COLLISION Part 1d

I’ve yet to write 1978 HEAD ON COLLISION Part 2, because an unexpected drama arose while I was on the coast, catalyzing need to refocus my think tank away from fun toward brainstorming with family until our team spirit came up with a workable solution, which emerged from our sense of logic in hopes of nipping this emotion based drama (born of a passive-aggressive power struggle) in the bud.

In short, our family had to come up with a plan to ensure that an emotionally immature control freak would not misuse an innocent child as a pawn in order to frustrate Marie’s maternal instinct so as to arouse her defense system to engage in a power struggle by feeling need to strike back reactively rather than aiming her think tank toward need to develop a line of emotional self control that will guide her to consciously withdraw her thought processor from the field of battle in favor of refocusing her smarts away from engaging in a mental wrestling match with a bully who, time and again, proves too bullish to keep his children’s best interests in the forefront of his mind much less his heart.

As this scenario played out before me, this week, it became clear that Ray’s mother’s heartfelt awareness had need to recenter her sights toward reacting wisely in order to calm the added frustration born of the court’s blindness to the damaging effects on a child’s psyche when one parent’s bullying attitude is dismissed, over long.

For the child's sake, at least one parent is charged with identifying the subtle nature of passive-aggressive power struggles so as to stop participating unwittingly in a tug of war so as to free the child’s dizzied mind from feeling forced to assume the role of monkey in the middle of a tightrope, doing his level-headed best to stay clear of falling into a battlefield where no one wins, everyone loses, because the key to regaining a balanced sense of clarity has not yet been grounded in either home.

In order to choose mental clarity over emotional chaos, one parent must consciously loosen his/her grip on the rope, which tugging at heartstrings, will otherwise wrap itself ever more tightly around the smarts of everyone within both households where decisions made between a rock and a hard place get to feeling so crushed within a vice as to muddle the clarity of the monkey in the middle too much to excel in school. Why?  Well, if a child’s personal choices continue to crash into solid walls of parental domination that make no sense, the child’s psyche grows ever more confounded, angered or depressed .

Once young minds react like gerbils spinning on wheels in cages, day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year—the only lives that are personally enriched by custody battles that rage, on and in, prove to be two adversarial divorce attorneys, both of whom charge by the hour.

As long as the scenario above holds true, no key to resolving the child’s sad dilemma will be found.  Why not?  Because gerbils' brains do not house higher thinking powers, leaving everyone on both sides feeling so defeated as to long for the answer to this riddle:  Who holds the key to outsmarting the bullish mind of the most emotionally crippled parent so as to free a bright child's thought processor from growing up to be yet another caged gerbil, running in circles on a wheel getting no place better, fast?

Thinking caps on straight?  Good.  Because here comes the answer to the riddle (which is found in parenting texts that reference how best to detour a power struggle from  overwhelming logical solution-seeking skills):  One parent must hold his/her thought processor accountable for dislodging a loose brick within his/her defensive wall of denial, because walls of denial, which exist within every human brain, has a loose brick.  And behind each loose brick is found the key that unlocks the portion of the mind, which naturally releases our think tanks’ intuitive problem-solving powers.

Charging oneself with finding the key to unlocking intuitive thought processes, which guide us toward consciously taking a time out on the spot to calm down heightening levels of frustration serves to empower our brains’ connection to logic before emotion overwhelms clarity of thought.

While raising my sons, I chose to train my conscious awareness to recognize physical signals that suggest my need to consciously call forth my line of self control to direct my defense system to sit in timeout so as to free my processor to think smart so as to re-center a positively focused attitudinal change within myself.  Why?

Because the only person I can change for the better is me.  And thus do I hold myself accountable for role modeling the high degree of self disciplined emotional control that I am teaching my kids to emulate.  (What would you think of a teacher who disciplined her class by yelling at the kids while spewing words that insulted their intelligence and crushed their fledgling self esteem?)
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As deeper truth suggests that one positive change leads to another—eventually—negative cycles reverse for everyone involved.   And here is the beauty of the plan of action described above:  No one has need to understand how negative cycles reverse except for the person who has consciously assumed the role of positively focused leader. (This plan is yet another example of deeper truth talking through the clearly intuitive portion of my mind.)

As it's necessary for a positively focused leader to comprehend how that miracle of change is accomplished, little by little, he or she will hold the key to becoming the change we wish for the world.

He or she who works to become the change we wish for the world guides our children to walk into the promised land holding hands with adults who no longer feel need to feed subconscious (passive aggressive) tendencies to fist up around hot wired grenades that blow love up into emotionally fractured particles, strewn all over kingdom come, until all that's left of the peaceful life that—coulda-shoulda been—is ashes, darkening the bright light of everyone's spirit, young and old.

In short, it's not enough to yearn to relax our tightly wired state of hyper vigilance in order to freely embrace an emotionally safe, angle of heartfelt repose.  Leadership must work conscientiously at creating attitude changes born of common sense, at home.

As no one's darkened mindset will lighten up until tug of war for the child's love is a thing of the past, leadership must remember to continue to remove his/her blindfold, so as to see that loosened brick within one's own wall of denial behind which awaits the key to unlocking the cage that exists within every human brain in which gerbils, devoid of brainstorming skills, continue to power struggle so subtly as to get no where that feels better, all around.

 Once clarity concerning the subtle nature of your power struggling brain has been gained, self awareness will heighten, freeing intuitive thought processes to begin to emerge.

As intuitive powers guide us to drop the rope so as to relax tightly wired, reactive mine fields that usurp control over our think tanks, a child’s on-going need for emotional safety, which had seemed non-existent, may be won in one household, saving a sweet child’s openly loving nature from feeling so angrily or sadly confused as to go underground

Hopefully, having read today's post, you can see why this week's head on collision redirected my mind from story telling toward brainstorming in hopes of inspiring one household to clue into the fact that inflammatory interactions on both sides serve to catalyze sad changes in personality development, which worsen for children and adults, over time  ...

Not on my watch—no siree!

One morning, I had coffee with my dear friend, Katie, (one of my disciples, who'd moved to California to be wed, and years later was divorced from the father of her two sons).  Once Katie listened to my sadness, she reminded me to consciously re-center my processor, and as my heart and mind conjoined; inner conflict between emotion and logic lessened, relaxing the tension I'd felt, opening my mind to challenge my frustration to land peaceably on the planet of Create Change For The Better by fully embracing an attitude based in love rather than engaging unwittingly in war behind my wall of denial.

In short, I consciously chose to reset my course of action so as to calm my inner conflict in favor of wholly reacting to oppositional bullying tactics if not with love than with neutrality, which, with patience and perseverance, proves stronger than any form of kryptonite known to weaken Superman.

And thus do we come to see that just as kryptonite weakened Superman's powerful physicality, the subtle nature of emotional power struggles weakens humanity's mental hold on logic-based, intuitive powers no matter how self aware our processors become, suggesting the primary reason why need to open one's mind to embrace yet another personal growth spurt, no matter our age, never ends.

At this moment in time, I am, once again, wholly mindful of refusing to refuel a head on collision between opposing attitudes of emotional anger and logical clarity, which had re-ignited a war-like state of inner conflict inside the subconscious portion of MY brain, thus heightening my sense of inner tension, which weakened my processor's natural connection to intuitive strengths— non-productively.

Closed mindedness?  On my watch?  No siree!
And thus with a little help from my friend
My attitude changed for the better toward
Making love not war!

I've learned that once my disciples 'get it', leadership, captaining the fleet, cycles round, resulting in no one's ship slipping ever more darkly, thus blindly, toward an immovable iceberg, otherwise known as one's own solid wall of denial ...

If deeper truth suggests that everyone hath a wall of denial and every wall of denial hath a loose brick, then holding oneself accountable for retrieving the key to re-centering attitudes in one home will eventually save a sweet child from playing monkey in the middle, over long.

Geez—some posts are not easy to pen with clarity intact!
Suggesting why I've felt need to revise this one in hopes of clarifying calming insights—for myself—which proves necessary whenever my emotional reactiveness feels sound reason to get riled up ...

1978—HEAD ON COLLISION Part 1c

Yesterday’s train of thought, titled 1978—HEAD ON COLLISION Part 1b, proved too complex to express with my sense of clarity intact, which is why intuition awakened the conscious portion of my mind, this morning at 5am, in hopes of simplifying that post before Barry’s active family life sweeps me out of bed, feeling eager to enjoy moments shared with loved ones whose professional commitments feather their nests far from Will’s and mine.

Presently, it’s 6:45 am, and we plan to leave for Ray’s school assembly by 7:30 to cheer for my six year old grandson, who earned the principal’s award for ‘team’ spirit, after which Marie and Barry will head off to work while I meet my dear friend, Katie, for coffee at 9:00, followed by enjoying lively conversation with David who plans to drive down along the coast in time to arrive for lunch, after which we’ll all reconvene to watch Tony’s football practice.

As the boys will spend the next five days with their father, we’ll hug Tony and Ray close to our hearts, indicating how much they’ll both be missed, followed by stopping at home to clean up before going to dinner after which bedtime is bound to beckon, so hugging, all around, we’ll wish each other a good night sleep and having outlined the busy nature of the day ahead  (and as sounds of Barry and Marie stirring in their bedroom can plainly be heard), I, feeling ever so fortunate, had better ready myself to enjoy one pleasure-filled love fest after another, and with this list of well-organized plans in mind, you can see why free time to write will prove scarce once today gets underway, and hours, spent actively enjoying loved ones living far from my desert home slip all too quickly away ...

1978—HEAD ON COLLISION Part 1b

If you wonder why my children’s bedtime routine proved peaceful (rather than frustrating) as a rule, I’d reply:  That evolved once leadership chose to role model and make sound use of a set of rules, which, if broken, saw logical consequences meted out with an air of calm and loving self-controlled consistency that served to reinforce the development of mutually respectful and thus cooperative (rather than obedient) attitudes, which were absorbed as ‘thinking patterns’, all around.

And it’s a safe bet to believe that my power of intuition will know when to pen and publish a detailed description concerning the step by step progress of self discipled thought processes that took root within all three of my sons’ think tanks as we worked ever more ptoductively to create a mutually enriching nightly routine that ultimately satisfied the needs of parents and children.

As for now, let’s head back and observe events that followed in the aftermath of the head-on collision, which caused my natural weight of 110 pounds to shrink down to 90, over the next two years when emergency surgeries came close to putting out my lights and dimming my spirit’s inner strengths, which thankfully re-energized, overtime, due to the fact that I’d conscientiously worked to absorb a powerful trifecta of attitudes relating primarily to positive focus fortified by common sense, both of which strengthened my heartfelt determination to continue to provide my children with a living example of what it takes to resuscitate an overwhelmed human spirit so as to overcome adversity by adopting the attitude of mind over matter, day after painful day, while simultaneously maintaining my role as instrumental overseer of you sons daily lives as all three continued to carve out their existential paths, each of which was (and is) comprised of a series of stepping stones leading toward the development of a self disciplined sense of responsible behaviors, which are maintained by emotionally mature adults, and my decision to absorb that trifecta of attitudes so as to consciously role model self confident traits during trying times in hopes of inspiring each child to develop a personal sense of well balanced success by training his mind’s eye to focus upon reaching for each next star no matter what hurtle was cast in his path, little by little, a trio of imaginative, naturally rambunctious boys became three self disciplined, charismatic adults, whose self confident attitudes would continue to develop and expand over various aspects of life just as had been true when my intuitive nature, took talking stick in hand while guiding all five of us to gather around the kitchen table where family meetings were conducted so as to discuss far-sighted bigger pictures, which, over time, would actually materialize as the classic nature of change for the better matched the step by step plans that continued to shape up within my mind, over time, and knowing that all five of us would continue to age, I took note of my need to consciously relinquish the role of primary, experiential counselor, little by little, as all of us celebrated and embraced milestones based in personal growth spurts so that, with open-minded attitudes intact (to differing degrees), we five gained the grace to value the counsel of each other’s personal strengths and highly diversified expertise whenever ordeals arose that proved deeply complex, and though it’s true that my conscious mind had not thought through so much as a fraction of this long-term plan at the time of my lengthy recovery from several emergency surgeries associated with that life-threatening accident, hindsight has finally turned its spotlight of insight upon the trifecta of attitudes that had intuitively (if not consciously) permeated my awareness with this feeling:   Many will love my sons if I die, but no one in our extended family or social circle has researched or consciously worked toward developing the host of open-minded attitudes necessary to role model the on-going, step by step, absorption of upstanding character traits that I hold myself responsible for processing mindfully, every day.  And from that time to this, I’ve held myself accountable for serving as a living example of attitudes that my sons would observe during my difficult convalescence, suggesting why my mind, body and spirit felt inspired to work wholly toward healing from wounds, deep within, while on the surface I rejected anger in favor of rejoicing with an intuitive sense of appreciation for each small step taken toward my eventual recovery no matter how many times fate saw fit to test my endurance to peaceably tolerate personal pain without extinguishing my spirit’s smile by casting the serious nature of emergency abdominal surgeries across my path, repeatedly, over the next several years ... and when asked why anger did not overwhelm my cheerful nature, I’d reply:  Anger never dawned on me, because I feel so grateful to be alive

Photo to follow, because presently I’m on the coast, planning to enjoy Ray’s first grade play, and the truth of the matter is this:  Scrolling through photos, which number in the thousands, on my iPad can be a royal pain.

PS
While I’m feeling lovingly embraced by everyone who makes up Barry’s household, Will’s at home in the desert, because his work ethic as expert witness before The Industrial Commision ran interference with his feeling free to fly out and enjoy Ray’s first grade play with me.  The night before my flight, Ray FaceTimed us, asking Papa, sweetly, to reconsider his decision. and though Papa clearly expressed that sometimes work wins out over everything else, I could tell that his processor’s open minded spirit wavered with second thoughts for this reason:  As birthdays add up, life shortens up, and since no one (especially at our age) knows when good health will change offering the grim reaper reason to turn up as unexpectedly as I’d found myself recovering from emergency surgeries, multiple times, which may have highlighted the reason why my reflective sense of hindsight suggests that the less regrets that add up, over time, the better ...

1978—HEAD ON COLLISION Part 1a

1978—HEAD ON COLLISION

THE FIRST IN A SERIES OF STORIES CONCERNING EMOTIONAL GROWTH ON BOTH SIDES
Part 1a

Within less time than a blink of an eye, years seemed to fly by, so that Will and I had become the proud parents of three bouncing boys.  (Let’s stop for a moment to consider this insight:  If change is the only constant in life then we’re always in the act of becoming.).

At the time of our life threatening auto accident, Will had become a 35 year old, husband, father and solo practicing, Orthopedic surgeon, living far from the Midwest as we’d chosen to raise our family 'neath the blue skies of the Southwestern sun, where summers were hot as blazes.  If you glance through our copious photo albums (Mom!  Put your camera away!  We just want to play!), you’d see that I’d become a 34 year old wife, mother and certified instructor of family communications, teaching at the college level; Barry had become a highly imaginative, nine year old boy, whose strong-spirited energy level was non-stop; Steven had become Barry’s constant sidekick (and sometimes punching bag) while simultaneously becoming his own, unique, existential being, and David, at 18 months, had grown from babyhood toward becoming a toddler, whose adoration of his older brothers was as clear as a sunny day—his face beaming with joy and his entire being bouncing with a bursting sense of happy anticipation, matching the eagerness of a puppy ever ready to join in whatever fun lay directly ahead whenever one or both of his best buds walked into the room, flashing an inclusive smile in his direction as if to say age differences matter not at all.  Seriously, how many children have a sibling so adoring as to happily become enslaved to satisfy his brothers’ every command?—uh—I meant to write wish ...

On school days, at the appropriate hour, I’d say:  David, your boys will be home, very soon.  At my signal, David’s wheels would spin, lickety-split, plastering his button nose against the large picture window of our family room, offering his bright blue eyes a clear shot of the curb so that as soon as the dynamic duo dashed out of whichever neighbor’s car had been scheduled to be that day’s bat-mobile, to and from school, our family's caboose would chug-a-chug as fast as his little legs could carry him toward the front hall, so gleeful was he to welcome his gods—who’d never failed to race each other up our walkway where, upon reaching the front door, one rapped loudly while the other rang the bell continuously as though their pants were on fire while inside the foyer, we'd see David, leaping up and down in puppy-like fashion, yipping away:  My boys are home!   My boys are home!  (Are third children destined to be born sharp as a whip, or does the encouragement of four cheerleaders inspire the team rookie to catch on fast in hopes of catching up so as not to be left behind?)

The moment I’d open the door, a whirlwind of high spirited, emotional energy, infusing every particle of air with electrical vibrations, swirled any attempt to regain peace and quiet out of the house, and knowing that peace and quiet would not so much as even try to slip back in under that door until our three munchkins, having tuckered each other (and me) out by the end of another adventurous day, much of which had seen the older two at school, working valiantly at suppressing their natural source of physical energy, which by 3PM had begun to wriggle with need to be set free from sitting at desks where their mental absorption of bite-sized portions of reading, writing, and arithmetic had been satiated in school, tumbled into our kitchen so hungry as to gobble up whatever healthy snack had been purposely placed on the table before dashing outside, where, upon running round the backyard, like a litter of pups in need of releasing tightly wound coils of energy, they'd play with neighborhood pals before homework, team sports and dinner saw the last few sunlit hours fly by, landing three active minds, one at a time, in the tub, after which freshly washed hair was brushed, water gulped, teeth brushed, pj's pulled out of dresser drawers and bedtime stories were read just before a private Three Minute Miracle, one-on-one time was enjoyed by each one with me, as all three had been trained to discipline his brain to await his turn patiently in his own room, after which a trio of sleepyheads were seen to settle peaceably on pillows, bodies tucked up to their chins under colorful comforters in the aftermath of our bedtime routine, which had rarely deviated from ending with hugs, kisses and smiles, all around, so that I, having witnessed my trio of strong spirited, power houses of energy close their eyes and fall peaceably asleep in record time, breathed a sigh of release, freeing me to gather together books, handouts and props in readiness for whatever lesson, concerning family communications that I’d planned to present at the college in the morning, followed by readying myself for bed where, upon climbing in and pulling the comforter up around me, I’d gently kiss Will goodnight (if he'd not been called to the ER)—why gently?  Because, generally speaking, the conscientious nature of the tired surgeon with whom I'd shared very few hours, day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year, was known to fall asleep within seconds of his head hitting the pillow—and so, it had become my habit to climb into bed, lean over to kiss his cheek and pick up whatever parenting tome was on my nightstand while Will, breathing with an even cadence that assured me of his having caught the dreamland bus, after which, I'd absorb additional knowledge concerning parenting lovingly and effectively, knowing that before too many pages had been turned the Sandman would circle back and beckon to me, and for the most part, this snapshot of our daily home-life (whew!) pretty much illustrates the mutually enriching way that our union would continue to fertilize an emotionally sunny environment in which two unique individuals, both deeply rooted in family values, planted a family tree that bore fruit, which upon multiplying continued to taste so sweet as to inspire my conscious awareness to satisfy my think tank's insatiable hunger to expand my personal library of parenting books, though I'd had no conscious clue, that while building my professional library, the well-organized shelves of my memory were being stacked with an expansive sense of emotional intelligence as naturally as my conscious connection to scholarly information had continued to fill the floor to ceiling bookcases within our home office.

As years passed and children of both genders, all ages, colors and ethnicities entered our home, they were spontaneously embraced within the welcoming presence of open demonstrations of love and laughter, building heartfelt interconnections, flowing naturally from one to another, as though an unspoken heartfelt pledge had become as self-evident as was the creed of The Three Musketeers:  All for one and one for all with this difference—within our home two had become three, then four, five and more as the expansive nature of our family circle of love knew no bounds, being that I'd mothered every child who’d befriended my sons.

On Saturday and Sunday mornings, it was not uncommon to see me awaken, slide out of bed, tiptoe across the floor, open our bedroom door and stick my head out in order to glance around our spacious family room while getting a body count of six or seven sleeping bags lying every which way on our wall to wall carpet, offering me a clue as to how long I’d be flipping pancakes, dotted with chocolate chips, on the island’s griddle in the middle of our kitchen, knowing that once this crew awakened, hunger pains, rumbling in unison, would clamor to be fed before this passel of teens was seen leaping into our backyard pool, followed by wrestling all over the lawn (planted as an oasis in the desert precisely to cushion the physicality of boyhood play), or they'd be seen dunking the ball on our sport court until need to cool off saw them diving head first into the deep end of our pool—seriously, I didn’t call the acre of land surrounding our five bedroom home The Kidz Resort fer nothin ya know—and—with our friends’ tennis court, right next door, just beyond the shade provided by our grapefruit trees—uh—wait a second—look what just happened!

All I did was gingerly crack open the door to my memory, and whoosh—moments in time leaped up and out like jumping beans escaping from a newly unlidded jar, suggesting that I've gotten way ahead of today’s storyline, so let’s hit the brakes, throw the gear shift into reverse and back up this runaway train of thought so as to return to those precious days of yesteryear when David, the toddler, can be seen leaping, puppy-dog style against the front door of our first home, yelling:  My boys are home!  Mommy!  My boys are home!  And all was well until—

One Sunday morning an unsuspecting band of brothers, small fists still rubbing the sandman’s magic dust from their sleepy eyes—suggestive of the fact that they've just awakened from a peaceful night's repose—are seen staring down at a confounding situation while lining up according to height in step-like fashion in front of their baby sitter, who is stretched out on the family room couch, eyes closed, body wrapped up to his neck under a throw too short to cover his bare feet—no parents in sight—our bed still neatly made—leading my sense of hindsight to hint at the fact that something has gone terribly wrong during the still of the night while a trio of pint sized Mouseketeers had slept soundly—each feeling safely snuggled within his own bed—throughout the dark and starry (not yet scary) night ...

PS
While reflecting over our daily routine, did I think to mention—cookingfoodshoppingcleaninglaundryerrandsholidaysdoctordentistappointmentsreconcilingthecheckbookcoldssniffleschickenpoxgermanmeaslesearinfections?  No.  Why not?
Because more often than not, my memory releases countless moments when
Love, laughter and a joyous sense of fun were enjoyed, all around

SOUND REASON TO MUSTER PATIENCE WITH MY PROCESS HAS ARISEN, YET AGAIN

I highly recommend rereading the last paragraphs of FLU Part 2, again (beginning with the train of thought preceding the photo of the little girl whose party hat and bandaged arms symbolize inner conflict secreted from conscious awareness behind her ever=ready smile), so as to thoroughly absorb insights added by my intuitive voice upon awakening, this morning ...

1973— FLU IN REVIEW: ADDITIONS BEFORE WE MOVE FORWARD

You might want to scroll back and glance over the last post published:
1973—FLU PART 2:  HEALTHY OR NOT, I’D HAD NO CONSCIOUS CLUE OF REPRESSED FEAR DEMANDING MORE STRENGTH THAN I'D HAD TO GIVE until you reach the first photo that was added at which time I highly recommend reading in depth so as to thoroughly absorb newly inserted trains of thought before I post the first in the series of true tales that I’d promised to pen once readiness to write them, one at a time, is mine.
Hint:  A picture is worth a thousand words ...

"The task is not so much to see what no one has yet seen but to think what nobody has yet thought about that which everybody sees."
       —Erwin Schrodinger

1972— FLU Part 2: HEALTHY OR NOT, I’D HAD NO CONSCIOUS CLUE OF REPRESSED FEAR DEMANDING MORE STRENGTH THAN I'D HAD TO GIVE

Here's why my last post credited my intuitive powers with releasing insights that enhance my ability to reconsider personal misperceptions, concerning my injured self image with an ever deepening degree of objectivity:  Hindsight suggests that when it came time for me to raise children of my own, my intuitive powers proved magical.

1971
As a young mother (and teacher) of two, intuition coached me to set defensiveness aside in favor of seeking knowledge by freely attending parenting sessions offered by The Family Education Association, associated with The Alfred Adler Institute of Psychology, where I was inspired to read CHILDREN THE CHALLENGE by Rudolph Dreikurs, M.D., in hopes of raising each of my sons to develop a well balanced, self disciplined sense of self worth (while, ironically,  I’d remained blind to the subconscious nature of wounds to my self image).

2018
Both Barry and Steven, who (presently balance their personal lives with the same commitment to excellence as is true of their professional lives) have grown up to be awesome helpmates and fathers at home as they are lawyers.  (As to David, born in 1976 and still single, today, his devotion to family is in keeping with his dedication to screen writing.

In order to illustrate this sense of balance of which I write, let's consider the decision-making process of one of my sons, over these past two or three months:  Steven felt need to hire a nanny in order to be assured that his wife and child would both be well taken care of in the aftermath of Celina's abdominal surgery, which was recently diagnosed as necessary.

During the weeks when Celina, whose pain was great, was getting the runaround from our chaotic medical system (which serves the interests of big business, first), I’d cared for Ravi until the flu bug that just wouldn't quit kept me bed bound for over a month, at which time, Steven, making good use of facebook, asked friends and family for recommendations of nannies, and the woman they hired, who'd come highly recommended, made matzoh ball soup for my son’s family on her very first day, which proved to be the day before Celina's surgery.  As Steven had been coached to develop a conscious awareness of need to balance his personal and professional lives, during his youth, his intuitive, proactive approach to life and love took matters in hand so that directly before and after Celina’s surgery, his wife’s recovery and his daughter’s high spirited energy level were well cared for, freeing his mind to attend to his law practice, during the day—Kudos, Steven, once again, my respect for your multiplicity of tools, concerning making good use of your brain’s well-organized file cabinet of astute and compassionate solution seeking skills, is well founded in reality.

As to how I know that Steven is admired by many of his colleagues:  Will is hired by a variety of lawyers when medical expertise is sought by the Industrial Commission, and when asked if Steven (having the same last name) is his son, Will is commended for having raised such an upstanding member of their community.  As an aside, when these same lawyers speak with Steven, they tell him that as doctors go, Will, serving as an expert witness, calls it how he sees it rather than twisting his judgement to suit whichever lawyer is paying his fee—and so, once again, we come to see that apples do not fall far from the tree ...

Now, with thanks for your patience, that little snippet depicting Steven’s awareness of need to create and maintain a conscious awareness of balance concerning both sides of his life leads us straight into my story:

1972
Many years ago, when Barry was closing in on three and Steven was just turning one, I fell ill.  At that time, we lived in a walk up, second floor, spacious apartment in a suburb of a major Midwest metropolis where Will, being an orthopedic resident, was rarely home.  When he was home, Will was exhausted after working fourteen hour shifts unless he was ‘on call’ meaning that after his fourteen hour work day, he was the resident on duty in the hospital, over night, pointing to the fact that he'd worked straight through toward the next day’s fourteen hour shift.  Like I said ... Will was rarely home.  And when Will came home, he'd felt so exhausted as to pretty much sleep standing up, so it's easy to see why my good natured vigilance catered to his every need.

Actually, having grown up to be an over-achieving-people-pleaser since the age of three, I'd catered to Will’s every need with the same dependability that we expect the mail to be delivered, daily, rain, sleet, ice storm or shine.  I didn’t realize that that had become my M.O. just as Will didn’t realize how much he took every task for granted that I'd chosen to take on at home in hopes of easing the brevity of his 'free' time, spent with Barry, Steven and me.

Eventually, people feel entitled to whatever is habitually given away for free, so Will had not become accustomed to taking care of the boys or me.  Generally, if I did not feel well, I’d kept that to myself.  Except for this time, when I was too sick to get out of bed, and for some reason, I don’t remember anyone offering to help me with the munchkins, who certainly couldn’t take care of themselves.  Oh—I just realized why no one had thought to offer help.  Most likely, I’d not thought to make good use of my voice to say—I’m really sick—because that would have meant disclosing a vulnerability—right?  I mean, disclosing vulnerabilities might cause people to value me as little as I'd valued myself.

Needless to say, this latent insecurity, concerning my sliding self image (having been repressed since the age of three), offered me no conscious clue that my loved ones, who'd most assuredly loved me, would have lent a hand had I’d thought to open my mouth and let a vulnerability slip out. (Another secret I’d kept from myself was my motto, which proves universal for people pleasers, the world over—Grin and bear it—no matter how bad ‘it’ gets).  This is how it is when we grow up ‘feeling’ so defective as to subconsciously emotionally abuse oneself.

Thus does it become clear that children—whose sanity depends upon living in 'Denialand' where secreted insecurities concerning self worth are denied entry into conscious memory—develop mental blocks, depriving our conscious awareness of any remnant of knowledge of having suffered abuse, due to this fact:  If, during your earliest stage of personality development, your self assertive voice had been choked off by trauma, leaving your complacent good natured smile as your only shield against internal uprisings of terrorized anxiety gnawing at your slippery connection to personal safety then we can see why baring unhappiness that was too great to bear becomes such an impossibility that self deceit becomes the subconscious suit of armor within which we stuff every dark emotional reaction along with every negative life experience that proved so scary or anger provoking as to solidify the opinion of having no conscious clue whatsoever of having been a recipient, who’d suffered silently through sexual (or physical or emotional) abuse, repeatedly.  And you can believe me when I say that after decades of self protective self deceit, my choice to work toward dismantling my many-layered mental blocks, which thickened the opacity of my wall of denial, continues to be my personal quest’s most challenging, mind bending feat of courage to complete ...

Good thing that, one day in the far distant future, my inquisitive nature (which had challenged my intelligence as a parent to role model the reactions and behaviors that I'd wanted to receive from my sons) would challenge me to work toward proactively identifying and consciously strengthening the injured portions of my self image so as to name, tame and lighten up my darkly colored stains of insecurity so that whenever one of those hot buttons gets pushed, today, my line of control can stop me from turning so beet red in the face as to feel pressured from within to free deeply repressed emotion to surface, overwhelm my smarts and rain on my own parade.

Thank goodness, all I need do to suppress my need to yell out loud is to rely on my well trained brain to take an immediate time out on the spot to cool down my natural rise in temper at least long enough to consciously open my well stocked, mental toolbox, filled with the same set of well organized personal strengths as are housed within each of my son’s solution seeking think tanks in which their positively focused communication skills remain well organized in similar fashion to the way that I'd coached each of my young to clean up their rooms:  “Take out whatever you have need of; make good use of it; put it neatly away—or watch it disappear into the bag kept in my closet” ... same goes for discretionary listening, speaking and astute solution seeking skills—practice saying the little that needs to be said in front of your mirror so your facial expressions will match your hopes of clearing misunderstanding out of the air.  Otherwise, human nature's defensive attitude may sneak out, peppering the emotional climate with inner conflict that proves contagious."  Needless to say, I didn't say all of that when my sons were small and in need of good natured guidance while developing effective habits concerning social grooming—all I'd said was enough for each of them to get my drift in hopes that before lunging into fist fights at school, they'd have had practice taking time-outs on the spot at home so as to develop the mental habit of thinking smart before reacting, elsewhere.  After all is said and done, people are creatures of habit, suggestive of the fact that we tend to take mental habits acquired at home wherever we go.

When my small sons would show me their completed homework assignments, before glancing through them, I’d offer food for thought by asking each one to reflect:  Is this your first job or your best job, because if it’s not your best work, you’ve just wasted your free time away—suggesting that instead of relaxing with the family while watching a favorite TV show after dinner (like Happy Days), they’d be sitting at their desks, reviewing their mistakes before returning their daily assignments to their backpacks in readiness for school, the next day.  Eventually, as years passed, this logical consequence did the trick, meaning that being coached to consistently train their think tanks to accomplish their best work, first time around, won over just getting homework done as fast as possible.

(As Steven says, today:  You don’t have to be a genius to win the judgement that your client deserves—you just need to be more thoroughly prepared when presenting evidence than is true of the opposing counsel, who has not done his homework to the best of his ability.)

At any rate, back to 1972:  It was the rare weekend when Will was not on call.  I know it had to be the weekend, because otherwise he was NEVER home from the hospital before 7pm.  As I was too ill to get out of bed, Will had to parent (not babysit) the boys (both in diapers) throughout the weekend, and as their energy level knew no bounds and their needs were many, multi-tasking, which I'd grown accustomed to doing with a smile, everyday, utterly frazzled my tired, unprepared, stressed to the max husband, who, by Sunday night, had not one thin thread of patience left, at all.

When Will fell into bed that Sunday night, after putting the boys back to bed about umpteen times, I reached for his hand, which he did not give me, signaling me to feel at fault for being too sick to take proper care of my family, including him, and rather than making good use of the self assertive portion of my voice, which got stuck behind the lump of latent anxiety that had constricted my throat (and as I'd not yet become aware of my need to consciously develop a line of emotional control, I turned away, curled up into a ball, hated myself, and silently soaked my pillow with tears, flowing from a faucet, connected to my well of lonely, repressed (undeserved) guilt until a natural need to cure my illness saw me drifting off to sleep, saving me from feeling exactly as I had at three years old, when I’d drifted listlessly around a walk up apartment that proved so heavy with grief as to see me feeling undeserving of love unless my confounded frown of sadness was swallowed whole in favor of sweetly (though anxiously) fulfilling the needs of others rather than exposing emotional vulnerability, which was my own.  And thus did I grow up, habitually going to any lengths to win a wan smile while itching to get out of my skin.  Irrational?  For a woman in her twenties?  Raised during the forties and fifties, when a man’s home was his castle?  Who said subconscious insecurities, tattooed into the brain cells of a child at the age of three, are rational any more than our nightmares make sense unless we learn to look beneath the surface of conscious awareness so as to analyze how the ocean of strange wild life, which swims through the dark sides of our minds, proves inter-related ...

Below we see a picture (circa 1948) worth a thousand words in which
A well cared for, deeply loved, little girl with balloon

Enjoying the fair with her adoring daddy, smiles for the camera

Her long braids swept up in crown-like fashion are pretty much hidden under

A gay party hat just as

Deeply repressed fears, undeserved guilt and personal sorrows, deviling

Her self worth, can not be seen other than the fact that

Her arms (tarred and bandaged) will have been

Savagely scratched, night after night—for many years to come

Between that bout with the flu, circa 1972, and today, forty-six years have passed, and just as much has changed throughout the western world concerning gender roles, much has changed for the better between Will and me—as well as between Will and Will—as well as between me and me—suggesting that our separation, more than twenty years back, happened for sound reason just as we’d married for sound reason, circa 1966.  My goodness, our think tanks have had so many deeper truths to consciously absorb about ourselves and each other while we'd identified lessons, which prove classic in nature, concerning love and life, and the fact that we will each encounter additional opportunities to become ever more self aware as each next chapter of our lives unfolds will always be true.

As to all of the insight-driven changes, which continue to sweeten our relationships with ourselves, each other and others—well, as soon as readiness releases those true tales to pop out of memory, they'll be posted as naturally as this one has (finally) appeared on our screens, one word leading to the next until another story has been penned with a greater degree of objectivity than would have been possible when neither Will nor I had become aware of thinking of ourselves and each other as beginner adults, who'd had no clue that failure to achieve heartfelt goals was life's way of offering us countless chances to open closed mindsets, which had blinded us from recognizing classic lessons that had beckoned to our intelligence, ever so patiently, repeatedly, in hopes that the day would dawn when both of us would wake up, smell the coffee and open our eyes and ears to absorb insights, which had been percolating subconsciously in hopes of filtering through Will’s wall of denial or mine ever since childhood when terrifying experiences, scalding our think tanks' ability to think clearly, scarred the emotionally wounded portions of our minds into feeling so scared stiff as to hide any vulnerability that might dare to slip out behind our walls of denial, which, upon layering up, over time, clogged our think tanks with defensive reactions, which, acting like trampolines, blocked our intelligence from absorbing any insight that might spotlight personal vulnerabilities in need of strengthening no matter how clearly or persistently the spirit of Socrates swooped down from on high to whisper this deeper truth—Know Thyself in depth—into deaf ears  ...

BTW—today’s intuitive train of thought (filled to the brim with the richly roasted aroma of realism) brings a series of true tales to mind, so please stay tuned, because memorable chapters of Will’s life and mine, which have yet to be penned, are in the process of brewing deep within my mind, and not until every significant story in our saga, illustrating changes for the better, has poured out of memory, will the happy ending that most readers hope for, appear—word by word—on my screen first, followed by yours—highlighting the magic of the mind that proves likely once your intelligence and mine have intuitively processed the deeper meaning that is consciously conveyed concerning each person's existential need to separate from the huddle of ‘group think’ in favor of expanding our mental horizons by courageously ‘thinking for oneself’  ...

1973—FLU Part 1: HEALTHY OR NOT, I’D HAD NO CONSCIOUS CLUE OF REPRESSED FEAR DEMANDING MORE STRENGTH THAN I'D HAD TO GIVE

1973—STORY PART 1:  HEALTHY OR ILL, I’D HAD NO CONSCIOUS CLUE OF REPRESSED FEAR DEMANDING MORE STRENGTH THAN I'D HAD TO GIVE

First things first—this story was penned several weeks ago, and as I've decided not to change a word and as intuition, which writes my posts, tends to dash, back and forth, across my life's personal time line, I'll preface changes in time periods with dates—so here goes:

2018
Though both infections (flu and bronchitis) have bitten the dust, my brain still feels faint when I stand up.  Good thing I’ve learned to respect my limitations so as to think twice before demanding feats of myself that prove above and beyond my current ability to fulfill as that had not been the case in the past due to this fact:  Over most of my life—until my 60th year—I’d no conscious clue that my repressed fear of disappointing others served as the kryptonite that smote my smarts so as to have weakened my self worth, causing my super-human strengths to collapse, leaving the strong spirited person I’d believed myself to be as flat as the gingerbread man, who, having failed to outrun his fatal flaw, found himself out foxed and eaten alive.

However, few were the wiser as to how flat my spirit had become, because the magnitude of this monumental change took place silently behind the stoic mask of my persona, where no prying eye could spy the heights to which my re-emergence of latent anxiety had spiked.  And thus, like the gingerbread man, whose ego had tripped him up, my greatest failing had been not knowing myself, through and through, suggestive of one whose defensiveness had need to focus only upon emotional strengths while dismissing vulnerabilities that snuck out whenever I'd felt too afraid to look inside and clearly see both sides of myself.   (Well, guess who is adding insights to that which was written several weeks ago—what a surprise—NOT!)

As this story tells of an illness that incapacitated all of my strengths in 1972, I'm relieved to note that my reaction to my most recent physical illness has, over time, developed the intuitive clarity necessary to differentiate between the re-emergence of yesteryear’s unresolved anxiety and anxiety based in a near and present danger, today.

Thank goodness, I've learned that the eruptive nature of emotional reactions has no concept of time passing, which is why my repressed fear of feeling unlovable (unless I was well enough to satisfy the expectations of others) had focused my conscious awareness primarily upon fulfilling the needs of others, leaving my basic needs hanging on the line, rain or shine.  And it's important to note that though no one expected me to meet their needs when I was physically ill—that did not stop unidentified anxiety from rising within me.

In short, I’d pushed forward to deliver the mail, no matter the emotional weather, until my transportation vehicle (my body) broke down or my spirit simply ran out of gas.  And since I'd delivered with a smile, no one had a clue as to when their expectations of receiving the mail from me far exceeded my ability to deliver without stretching too far for my own good.

So where, you might ask, do these unrealistic expectations stem from?  Well, mine stemmed from misperception concerning self worth when I was three years old.  And as to expectations that others had of me?  Well—give away everything for free , beginning at the age of three; watch expectations continue to grow; you know what I mean:  Give’em an inch watch human nature push for a mile.

One downside to habitually feeding the egos of others is the fact that their sense of entitlement, to which they remain blind, grows ever more bold.  Stop feeding the egocentric needs of those you love, and watch their defense systems bite hungrily into your cloaked (but now naked) vulnerability without checking to see why you can’t deliver that which had seemed no problem, before.

I know this to be true of human nature, because at those rare times when my spirit was so low as to be unable to muster the inner strength necessary to satisfy my loved ones’ emotional need of me, their expectations grew so angry as to fling subtle yet pointed insults (which felt like jagged bricks cast at the ego that calls my head home), and the weight of these assaults (attacking my most admirable character traits) were so passive-aggressive in manner as to cause this world class pleaser to silently hang her head in shame (because my self assertive voice had not yet developed the courage or clarity to reply:  I want to keep serving your emotional needs, but I've surpassed my over achieving, personal limits of endurance).  Why shame?  Because repressed guilt, directly associated with repressed fear, arose, suggesting my Partial agreement with assaults that crushed traits of which I'd rightfully felt proud.  In short, there's only one thing more confusing than loved ones hurtling bricks at your heart when you’re down for the count.  And that's the swirling sense of inner conflict that transforms intelligent thought processors into head spinning churns.

And so in silent (emotionally churning) response to each unexpected attack upon my character, I'd felt as if the injured portion of my ego had need to step aside so as to free my intuitive powers to burrow yet another layer deeper into my subconscious whenever a hot spot, where latent anxiety awaited to leap back to life, was pierced, anew, causing me to feel like Henny Penny, running around without her head, crying:  “OMG!  The sky is falling, and I've been such a bad girl, again, that when everyone finds shelter in which to huddle together for safety, I’ll be left all alone in time out!” Oy!  Needless to say, this is not what I'd thought.  This was a feeling that triggered unidentified and thus unresolved anxiety to strike, repeatedly, whenever the frightened little girl, hiding behind my adult persona, had been given reason to awaken feeling lost in a repetitive nightmare, anew.

Pleasers of the world, identify your role in your family so as to unite and calm your fear of not doing enough when, in truth, you very rarely fail to produce a super duper share of that which proves to be above and beyond whatever is actually needed until your vehicle of transport (your conscious mind or healthy body or both) runs out of gas, and you hear yourself called:  Weak.  Or fragile.  Or worst of all:  Selfish!  Geez!  (If anyone actually listens when you finally admit to and voice emotional exhaustion, and if that person's defenses do not tune you out then I call that person a true friend.)

Once it had been my experience to grow aware of my need to separate those who'd 'used' me from those who'd truly befriended me, my intuitive powers flipped the switch of its spotlight on so as to illuminate strings of insight that enabled me to save my sanity from feeling sucked into a swirl of emotional confusion, feeling all alone in my own private, deeply confounded, darkly despairing, spiritually depressing, solitary cell in a Hell, which had proved unwittingly, partially of my own making until I'd acknowledged need to seek out professional help from well-trained individuals who'd coached my conscious awareness ever so gently toward identifying and reconsidering my unhealthy, subconscious guilt-ridden thought patterns, and thanks to their astute diagnosis of PTSD, my spirit, drained of energy, began to sense sound reason to fire up anew, one spark of insight at a time, until I’d felt self-inspired to work conscientiously at identifying my primary need to rescue my sense of clarity from the dark clouded misjudgments of loved ones (who had feared identifying both sides of themselves), and thus did I work to save my sanity, beginning at the advanced age of 60, by fact-checking details, which encouraged me to embrace attitudinal changes for the better before I'd stumbled blindly off of the cliff where the bottomless pit of Never Never Land had been waiting to swallow my self esteem whole ever since my baby sister died when I was not quite three—and as lasting character traits develop between birth and five years of age, professional guidance proved essential to resurrecting early life memories, which having been repressed—suggests how courageously I'd had to work at restoring the hindsight that eventually redirected the existential nature of my intuitive path—pointing to the fact that between birth and three, I'd experienced sound reason on both sides of my family to develop a strong-spirited, inner sense of personal worth!  Therefore, peeling away at all of the layers of insecurity, which had piled up over the next 53 years was key to uncovering and unlocking the self assertive voice, which had been buried alive along with the sassy side of me.  (And as life long habits are hard to break, even today, my need to consciously get a grip on my line of emotional control knows to take an immediate time out on the spot to calm down anxiety that threatens to erupt before my self assertive voice feels free to clearly speak its mind to certain people, today.)  *And now you know why children, who have suffered traumatic loss, have need of professional guidance no matter how sweetly compliant they ‘act’ on the surface ...

If you’d like to know why I chose to end the paragraph above with the suggestion that my intuitive powers are credited with enhancing my brain's capacity to spotlight insights concerning my inner need to reconsider personal misperceptions, concerning my injured self image, please tune in tomorrow when hindsight will offer you glimpses of me, zooming back and forth across my life’s personal time line so as to collect memories, which may turn up in a disorganized fashion so as to need to be re-assembled like puzzle pieces in order to construct the bigger picture that heightened my self awareness concerning inner strengths and vulnerabilities, thus making up today’s composite nature of my whole.

And if you ask why these memories may be caught up into a net in a disorganized manner, I’d reply:  It's not unusual for the subconscious to cough up insights in disarray, causing our intuitive powers to throw that net and fish around until we come to see how one detailed experience leads us to react to those that follow, which—seeming similar in some way to the first—line up, one after another until a pattern of emotional reactiveness has been set in place.

In short, we’ll see how easily and often a fearfully defensive mindset confuses apples with oranges, because they’re both fruit of a similar size and shape and both grow in groves on trees, suggesting that both have so much in common that on a darkly cloudy day, one grove can be mistaken for the other.  And thus do we come to see why each gain made in terms of emotional clarity is akin to taking a step toward logically saving our sanity.

PS
When we come together, next, please be certain to straighten your thinking cap for this reason:  Though I’m going to do my best to simplify emotional complexity as my story unfolds, it should come as no surprise if an important detail or two doth not get scooped up into the net where insights, jumbled together, await being lined up in such an orderly fashion as to build an element of logical objectivity into an experience, which had originally been subject to emotional over-reactiveness on both sides ...

WELCOME AZERBAIJAN!

Let’s bid a warm welcome to Azerbaijan ...
Upon googling Azerbaijan, here is what I found:
“Azerbaijan, the nation and former Soviet republic, is bounded by the Caspian Sea and Caucasus Mountains, which span Asia and Europe. Its capital, Baku, is famed for its medieval walled Inner City. Within the Inner City lies the Palace of the Shirvanshahs, a royal retreat dating to the 15th century, and the centuries-old stoneMaiden Tower, which dominates the city skyline.”

If asked how many countries follow
My blog, my reply would reveal this fact:
I’ve lost count except to say
We surpassed eighty nations, some time back

A TIME TO LIVE AND A TIME TO GRIEVE, REFLECT AND EMBRACE LIFE—AGAIN ...

Super busy weekend, ahead, beginning yesterday, with Will's oral surgery (which had been postponed when I was down with the flu).  Upon hearing that my sister and her family planned to fly in, David decided to fly home to cavort, poolside, with Ravi and his cousin's boys, the first being three, the second being nine months old.

In the midst of family fun time, a dear friend’s memorial service for her beloved husband was planned, and I’d offered to prepare a mega salad and dessert for her extended family and friends, who’d flown in.

Yesterday’s memorial service for my friend’s beloved husband offered a heartwarming tribute to a bright young man who’d fallen in love with a bright young woman, and together, they gave life to four children.  In addition to co-creating their immediate family, which expanded to include eight grandchildren, my friend’s helpmate experienced a large slice of life regarding his professional commitment as chairman of the largest law firm in the world.

Over these past few years, I’ve enjoyed meeting my friend (neighbor and book group cohort) for coffee, and I’d listened, rapt, to stories of their life, which often proved international in nature.  Hearing her reminisce about the castle that her family called home in Chicago really tickled my fancy.

During her husband’s declining years, I visited them often at which time I observed my friend watching helplessly as this power house of a man, who’d stood six foot four in his prime, endured the physical and spiritual indignities associated with Parkinson’s, heart disease and diabetes, causing me to wonder if at the end of years of endurance waves of emotional relief did not weave into her grief.  So sad the way serious illness, leading ever so slowly toward demise, drains our spirits of joy ...

I believe that after any lengthy time of difficulty, hope for the resurrection of joy depends upon which memories are brought to mind, most often.  And following my friend’s positively focused example, that’s the attitude I plan to embrace as Will and I continue to age.

I'll look forward to enjoying countless hours of spirited conversation with my dear friend once life offers her quiet moments in which to reflect over all of the memories and friendships that her loving heart has so warmly embraced, over the years, and much of this post has paraphrased a note that I’d sent to my friend, today.  As for now, it’s time to ready myself to enjoy a day of play with family who flew in last night..

INTRO TO STORY (CIRCA EARLY MARRIAGE) NOT YET PUBLISHED HAS EXPANDED ...

My line of control is meant to calm emotional reactiveness so as to
Free intuitive memory to coach the conscious portion of
My mind to remember significant details with a greater sense of
Objectively while fleshing in bigger pictures, and as intuitive memory
Coached me, overnight, to pop additional details into
The last post published (which introduces a story concerning
A mother of two toddlers down with the flu)
That’s what I did upon awaking this morning ...

INTRO TO STORY—FEVERISH, ACHINESS, ACHOO! 1971

Ah ha! A flash of insight just made me aware of this fact:
Today will not be the day that I pen the story of
My most recent overnight hospital stay
Why not?
Because intuition has hit the bullseye, yet again!
This morning, I came to see why my intuitive powers
Cooled my desire to publish the story promised to
You, several weeks back, until readiness felt ripe
And with today’s flash of insight clearly in sight
My mind’s eye has come to ‘see’
The primary reason for postponing publication of
That specific story concerning a young mother who
Was down with the flu until after you and I had
The opportunity to consider insights penned over
These past few weeks,  and here’s why that’s true:

During recent weeks, intuitive trains of thought inspired me to pen
Strings of insight, which empowered the conscious portion of
My processor with ‘knowing’ which classic fact of life
Will be illuminated within the story-to-come, and here it is:
All too frequently, we have no conscious clue as to when
Our thought processors are focused single-mindedly upon
Achieving a mission that feels so mentally challenging as to
Be all consuming, suggesting why our intelligence is blocked from
Spotlighting moments in time when our lack of self awareness concerning
The transparency of our emotional reactions seems to slam
The door in the faces of loved ones whose spoken needs go unmet
And on the flip side of that coin we see a person who has grown to
Fear rejection so deeply as to have unwittingly erased
Any trace of personal needs, so focused is her mind upon
Satisfying the needs of others with a genuine smile

In both cases, the absence of self awareness fails to
Acknowledge need to change hats, and when
One hat remains stuck on our heads, over long, our mindsets
Tend to remain so subjective in nature as to block objectivity from
Discerning what another person may actually be feeling or needing
And in addition to that insight, here's another:
If we fail to awaken from our ‘sleeping’ spells of self absorption
We'll not come to know ourselves as well as we think
For example:  Hindsight has already offered us insight as to
Why a good, little girl, named Annie (whose home life grew
Ever more stormy in the confusing aftermath of
Her baby sister's unexpected death) had no conscious clue of
Having harbored a subconscious need to rescue
Her shattered sense of personal safety by stimulating
Her processor to stretch beyond the expectations of
Devastated survivors so as to quell her repressed fear of
Being deemed so imperfect as to be unworthy of their love
You see, if anyone happened to frown in Annie's direction
Sudden spikes of anxiety pierced and deflated her bubbly spirit’s
Cheerful smile, and as Annie had no conscious clue of harboring
This self-conceived fear of feeling personally responsible for
Causing everyone's unhappiness beginning with
Her baby sister's untimely death, a sweet little girl grew up to be
A super pleaser, whose white hat—fitting just a tad too tightly—caused
Her to feel so eager to serve the needs of others as to
Squeeze the expansive nature of her creative think tank into a space that
Proved so narrow-minded as to feel irritated and safe, simultaneously, and
Since Annie grew up with no conscious clue as to how often
Her repressed need for safety within a group had silenced
The self assertive portion of her voice from openly expressing
A variety of existential needs that would naturally flash through
Her bright mind, she'd spent most of her adult life masking
The degree of inner conflict, which remained repressed behind
The carefree persona that her defense system had adopted for
Public consumption, and as her persona continued to layer up
Everyone—including Annie—was fooled into believing that she was
Good natured, easy going and agreeably compliant—through and
Through—and since she was so young when her persona had
Begun to develop, her intuitive powers had been denied
The freedom to develop and emerge as she matured, and thus was
Her weakened sense of insight offered not so much as a flash of
Clarity concerning the depth of her need to identify
The interrelated series of early child experiences, which had
Hollowed out the inner strengths of her self esteem, leaving
Little more than a thin-skinned shell within which
Her vulnerabilities,  feeling too insecure to think
Outside the box deemed proper by societal convention, hid from
Public view until recent years when that shell had sound reason to
Crack, exposing the depths of her insecurity, at long last, and though
The early stages of naked exposure felt anything but strengthening
Eventually, upon being astutely diagnosed with PTSD, Annie
'Found herself' feeling deeply appreciative of all of
The professional help that encouraged her bright mind to muster
The courage and humility necessary to expose
Her vulnerabilities in order to retrieve every inner strength that
Had been pierced, repeatedly, by spiking anxiety, which, no longer being
Nameless, empowered Annie's intuition to clarify the existence of
Her primary inner conflict, which had caused so much mental confusion as to
Have flooded her mind with mixed messages concerning
Innocence and guilt, resulting in a repressed sense of tightly coiled
Emotional turbulence, and each time intuitive readiness signals
Another layer of deeply buried emotional turbulence to emerge
Annie's recovery from PTSD undergoes sound reason to experience
Yet another emotionally liberating, deeply exhilarating leap of faith forward
And though each next challenging step of her (my) recovery releases
Detailed memories—each of which had felt too terrifying for
A child's mind to process—every anguished terror, re-experienced by
Annie, the adult, today, proves, over the long run, to provide
My psyche with yet another healthy change for the better for this reason:
As therapy sessions inspire a host of inner strengths to develop in
Bite-sized increments, my choice to muster the courage to
Set my persona in time out right next to my ego (hence the need to
muster humility) frees my memory to re-experience
Forgotten details so painful as to have signaled Mother Nature to employ
My defense system to save my sanity by numbing my reactions during
Each assault—followed by gifting my conscious memory with
Amnesia in the aftermath, and because of these sleeping spells
Most of my childhood felt 'normal', suggesting why I actually
Give thanks to my persona, which served me well for
Most of my life (as well as serving my children well, because
They grew up with a mother whose attitude concerning
Life and love was positively focused, cheerful, mischievous and
Creatively determined to raise her trio of sons within
An emotional environment that felt so safe from harm as to
Free all three to discuss any problem that arose, so that her
Consciously accumulated wealth of solution seeking skills could
Guide one and all to carve an existential path whereby
Each one's self esteem developed sound reason to strengthen with
Every step toward leadership that each had chosen to take while
Evolving from boys to men, who are known to be as sensitive to
The needs of others as they are strong) and thus am I grateful to
Mother Nature for taking good care of my psyche until
The path I chose to tread freed my intuitive powers to guide
Me to seek out one therapist after another until a psychologist
Versed in EMDR therapy offered me two additional gifts:
The first being her expertise and the second being
Time in which to piece together those painful aspects of my life which
Had puzzled me most so as to have assembled lost details into
Today's bigger picture, thus creating the memorable sense of
Wholeness which has rewarded my awareness with
Monumental gains concerning self esteem—Whew!

As long as my inner conflict remained subconscious in nature
A host of repressed frustrations would coil up, tensely, behind
My wall of denial, offering the conscious portion of
My processor not even one clue as to how frequently
My existential voice had wrestled with repressed fears, deep
Inside my mind, and to complicate matters further, lets
Not forget that common knowledge reminds us to remember that
We are naturally attracted to our opposites, who are meant to
Challenge us to face up to life's classic lessons left unlearned, again
And again—and with that insight in mind—if I wore
A white hat then I'll bet you believe you can readily guess
The color of the hat worn by a young man, named Will, who was
On a mentally challenging mission of his own, suggesting that
As a bright young lad, growing toward manhood, Will’s persona of
Congeniality was bound to eventually crack, releasing
Tightly coiled, negatively charged emotional reactiveness, which
Proved every bit as salty, stubborn and demanding as
Annie’s reactions remained sweetly servile and
Agreeably reassuring, suggesting why (though both were bright)
Neither learned their individualized lessons for quite some time—
And by the way, in case you've been led to believe that
Will's hat was black—it was not—Will's hat was gray, because
As a young, married, surgical resident, his mind wrestled with
An inner conflict that proved very different from his wife's in that
Annie'd worried, unnecessarily, over not being perfect enough to be
Worthy of love while Will worried incessantly about perfecting
His surgical abilities, which is why his mental focus worked to
Stuff as much medical knowledge into his gray matter as was
Humanly possible, suggesting my need to paint
This next image of Will as clearly as objectivity will allow:
Let’s imagine a wiry young masked man, wearing greens, balancing upon
A high wire, scalpel in one hand, unconscious patient in the other, no
Net in sight, and as most of this young surgeon's waking hours were spent
Juggling a black and white mood with no margin for error in which to
Say 'Oops!' let’s color in very little time for relaxation much less sleep or
Stress relief, and though I realized much of this back then, hindsight
Offers us sound reason to darken Will's mental attitude as being
Too tightly wired and exhausted for his own good, most especially when
He was on call 36 hours off 12, so that rather than arriving
Home happily eager to pitch in and lend a helpful hand (and when fleshing in
The bigger picture concerning Will's black and white vision of daily life let's
Add the fact that his father's early demise during Will's boyhood stimulated
Annie's husband to simulate one whose darkened mood waits for
The other shoe to drop) and thus do we come to see why
Will felt utterly compelled to force feed his swollen gray matter with
As much medical info as could humanly stack up inside his
Memory's file cabinet—just in case he came up against
The exception to the rule during that which was supposed to be
A routine surgery —and having offered this snapshot of
A young, inexperienced surgeon's history, we come to see how
Will's black and white demeanor bled into his white hat, coloring it—as
Gray as the mood in which he'd generally arrived home from the hospital—not
Every night—because surgical residents were not called residents for nothing—
In fact, surgical residents spent many more waking hours, days as well as
Nights on call, with their colleagues and patients than with
Their wives and children— and as a young, fully energized
Wife and mother, who was a teacher of children—who'd
Loved interacting with children—because not all teachers do as
I'd learned by listening to my colleagues in the teacher's lounge—I was
Actually more than okay with this arrangement for several reasons:

Firstly, I'd been with Will since my senior year in high school
And as neither of us could afford to go away to college
Our commuter experience seemed to extend high school another
Four years except for these differences:

#1  Rather than school buses picking us up at the corner stop, M-F
We'd each traveled across the city for about an hour, each way, on
Public buses and elevated trains, no matter the wind-chill factor, and

#2  The work and study load were significantly more demanding

#3  Being a pre-med suggested that Will had need to study
Many more hours than was true for me, due to the
The number of laboratory science credits that he'd needed to
Ace if being accepted to medical school after three years of
Undergrad was his goal—and as that was the goal of
All of his friends (once in college, all of Will's guy friends were
Pre-med) the competition he'd faced to 'make the grade' was intense

#4  As none of these college commuter-nose-to-the-grindstone
Young men were wild and crazy in anyway, Will's crowd fit
My need for straight-laced safety to a tee, and
In addition to that match made in heaven there was this—

#4  The strong sense of academic competition amongst these
Hard working pre-meds, whose hard working families lived
Much like mine, rubbed off on me, because they’d scoffed at
My earning honors by achieving B's in teacher's ed courses, which
They'd deemed Mickey Mouse in comparison to Quantitative Analysis
So, by the time I'd graduated from high school in 1962 with plans to
Attend the same urban university as did these academically minded
Juniors, my conscious adoption of their attitude concerning
Priorities became second nature to me in no time, suggesting that
Early into our courtship studying came first—upping my game
To Ace-ing my classes—sports came second (to the guys), leaving
Romance rounding the bend, approaching the finish line in
Third place, and as Will’s friends were every bit as amiable as
Was he once textbooks were closed, and Saturday nights set
Us all free to thoroughly enjoy ourselves and each other, and as
I'd signed on for that deal by the time I was
A nubile eighteen year old, college freshman in 1962, suggests that
Any expectations for sharing my life with
An impassioned helpmate once Will and I'd walked down
The aisle in 1966 and then found ourselves proud parents of
Two active munchkins—one toddling around while
His kid brother crawled after the first as fast as
His chubby little hands and knees could keep up—had been
Repressed within my memory's file cabinet of
Tightly coiled frustrations, and as long as
I'd dismissed my unmet needs in order to satisfy
My number one need of satisfying the needs of others with
A congenial smile, why should anyone realize that
An undercurrent of anxious frustration had festered behind
My bubbly persona since I was a three year old child, scratching
Away at my itch to get out of my skin until I'd drawn blood, and
Since swallowing the self assertive portion of my voice (unless
My children came under fire) had developed into
A habitual pattern, beginning at the age of three, and since
Unidentified habits are hard to pinpoint much less break
My cheerful attitude concerning our daily life fell
Right in line with Will's lack of time, energy or personal attention at
Home—and all seemed well to the naked eye until 1971, at which time
The wearied surgical resident’s energetic young wife caught the flu ...

Photo circa 1963
Annie at nineteen, a college sophomore
Will at twenty-one, a first year med student

A SYNOPSIS OF A STORY CONCERNING A HEAD ON COLLISION

Many years ago, on a rainy Saturday night
Will and I were in the back seat of
A friend's car on our way home from dinner with
Another couple, a man and his wife, who
Were neighbors, and believe it or not
We four were discussing differing beliefs about
God when out of the blue, a drunk driver, who’d
Passed out at the wheel of a truck, skidded
On the slippery pavement across
The double yellow line into our lane, and
Though our friend instinctively swerved
His steering wheel while slamming on the brakes
That truck, going 40 mph, crashed into us, head on, and
Though there's a story to be told concerning
The terrifying hours that passed between the moment of impact
And my awakening the next day, drugged to the max in
The intensive care unit of Will's primary hospital
That true tale will be fleshed out on another day for
This reason:  I’m aiming to spotlight a specific point, today, and
Here it is:  Several days after under-going life-saving surgery
My condition stabilized so as to see me transfered
Out of intensive care into a private room where
Shortly thereafter, a nurse wheeled Will from his room
Into mine, and while we were thanking our lucky stars to
Be alive guess who limped in, supported by a cane?
Our friend, who'd been driving the tank-like Cadillac, which
Had been totaled on that stormy night, accompanied by
His wife, whose lovely face, having hit the windshield
(No air bags back then), appeared pretty banged up and
Swollen, so black and blue was she, and as Susie, who’d been
Knocked unconscious, awakened in the ER, seeing
Double, she, too, had been hospitalized until that very day when
We shared grateful hugs and smiles, all around, followed by
Our friend resuming the philisophical conversation concerning
God in which we four had been engaged (right before the
Drunk driver had lost control over his truck) by saying:
See, I told you God takes good care of good people—we're all alive!
Having listened to his take, I countered with:
Jim—if God takes good care of good people then
Why would He/She allow a good person like me to
Be severely injured by a drunken guy, driving a borrowed truck, who’d
Somehow disappeared from the ER before slipping into oblivion?

The moral of this true story is this—
From time immemorial, the world over—
People believe whatever each of us had been raised to believe or
People believe whatever each of us needs to believe to feel safe or
People believe whatever each of us wants to believe to feel good about
Ourselves, and though it is not necessary for all of us to absorb
The same belief system in order to live peaceably, there is
One exception to that rule if we are ever to achieve
The long range goal of world peace, and here it is:
If we are ever to achieve the far-sighted goal of lasting world peace
(Or peaceful co-existence within a family) then it is necessary to absorb
The belief that suggests it’s best to respectfully agree to disagree—which
Implies consciously placing our power-struggling egos aside during
Moments of conversational conflict so that
Both sides remember to embrace a heartfelt attitude of
Brotherhood, which, being based in the premise of bettering
Both lives, sees two people taking turns listening to
Each other’s belief systems so as to flavor their debate with
The grace of each one’s good-natured traits, thus
Holding high the standard of:  Make love not war!

As to fleshing out the detailed version of today’s synopsis of
A true story (penned and saved to drafts, years ago), I have
No doubt that at some point in the future my intuitive powers will
Offer the decision-maker inside my head a thumbs up, suggesting that
Time to post that story as a whole is ripe—as for now
I'm hoping that my power of intuition will offer me
A thumbs up concerning posting the detailed version of
The story of my brief hospitalization, which
Took place within the past couple of weeks, and as that
True tale, which spotlights the bullying nature of Big Business
Has yet to be penned ... I’m on it