tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-298323972024-03-06T23:23:46.079-05:00PennsyltuckianMeditations from the Bluegrasspennsyltuckianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975720768947247949noreply@blogger.comBlogger74125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29832397.post-80454774264713630872014-12-28T07:47:00.002-05:002014-12-28T07:47:54.027-05:00Suffer the Little Children...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEQT6NimuKDEumhwXWO7fQ6GBNGVK1bcWDGh-6tRfqBCmQkA7kUuUWJBRlwFzGdCiSMxektEe06n-aIXptpN2eEtom295jtMnroxH-k_o0p9recRliqf0AspfaBfS8_jmDFfxPHg/s1600/suffer_the_children.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEQT6NimuKDEumhwXWO7fQ6GBNGVK1bcWDGh-6tRfqBCmQkA7kUuUWJBRlwFzGdCiSMxektEe06n-aIXptpN2eEtom295jtMnroxH-k_o0p9recRliqf0AspfaBfS8_jmDFfxPHg/s1600/suffer_the_children.jpg" height="243" width="320" /></a></div>
<i><span class="text Matt-18-1">At that time the disciples came to Jesus, saying, “Who then is greatest in the kingdom of heaven?”</span> </i><i><span class="text Matt-18-2" id="en-NKJV-23730">Then Jesus called a little child to Him, set him in the midst of them, </span> <span class="text Matt-18-3" id="en-NKJV-23731">and said, <span class="woj">“Assuredly,
I say to you, unless you are converted and become as little children,
you will by no means enter the kingdom of heaven.</span> </span> <span class="text Matt-18-4" id="en-NKJV-23732"><span class="woj">Therefore whoever humbles himself as this little child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.</span> </span> <span class="text Matt-18-5" id="en-NKJV-23733"><span class="woj">Whoever receives one little child like this in My name receives Me.</span></span></i><i><span class="text Matt-18-6" id="en-NKJV-23734"> </span><span class="text Matt-18-6"><span class="woj">Whoever
causes one of these little ones who believe in Me to sin, it would be
better for him if a millstone were hung around his neck, and he were
drowned in the depth of the sea... </span></span></i><i><span class="text Matt-18-6"><span class="woj"><span class="text Matt-18-10"><span class="woj">Take heed that you do
not despise one of these little ones, for I say to you that in heaven
their angels always see the face of My Father who is in heaven.</span> </span></span>" </span>~ <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Matthew%2018&version=NKJV" target="_blank">Matthew 18: 1-6, 10</a></i><br />
<i><span class="text Matt-18-6" id="en-KJV-23734"></span></i><span class="text Matt-18-6" id="en-KJV-23734"><br /></span>
<span class="text Matt-18-6" id="en-KJV-23734">This morning's prayers turned my mind toward the children in my life. Though I am not a father, I am an uncle. There are children in my building and neighborhood. I meet them in rehearsal, in stores, on my walks and runs, and at the Y. My friends introduce me to their own children, and those children introduce me to their friends. And I have always thought of them not as "your kids," but rather as "our kids."</span><br />
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<span class="text Matt-18-6" id="en-KJV-23734">There are people who scoff at the expression, "It takes a village to raise a child." Let them scoff. I was raised by the people in my neighborhood, not just my parents. They taught me manners and respect. They also taught me that there were people who lived and believed differently than my own family did. They kept me safe when I was afraid or hurt. And they let me (and my parents!) know when I was behaving badly. Some of them had kids of their own. Others were just neighbors: the village of people who taught me what it meant to be a man. </span><br />
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<span class="text Matt-18-6" id="en-KJV-23734">And so this man Jesus, this eternal Word made flesh, this incarnation of the Creator of the universe -- he came into the world as a child. He cried. He pooped and puked. He drove his parents nuts sometimes.He asked too many questions. And as a child, he learned what no God could ever know. He learned what it was to be helpless, to be at the mercy of people unimaginably more powerful than he. He learned what it was to be taught, to be raised by a village.</span><br />
<span class="text Matt-18-6" id="en-KJV-23734"><br /></span>
<span class="text Matt-18-6" id="en-KJV-23734">Did he also know pain and abuse? This passage from Matthew's gospel suggests that he may have. Jesus speaks passionately about the holiness of children in their humility and simplicity, but he is also fierce in his condemnation of anyone who harms them. "Do not despise them," he warns, for they have heavenly advocates before God. Heaven itself is diminished when anyone harms a child. </span><br />
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<span class="text Matt-18-6" id="en-KJV-23734">Jesus is not sentimental about children. He does not coo and weep about them. He holds them up as the model of what it is to be human. In their humility, their curiosity, their capacity for trust, and even their propensity for mischief, children taught Christ what the experience of being a creation was really like. </span><br />
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<span class="text Matt-18-6" id="en-KJV-23734">We need to raise our children, yes. But as we offer them guidance and discipline, we must remember Jesus exhortation: better to die than to harm a child. When we meet a child, we are meeting Christ. In each of them, we encounter our strange, aggravating, surprising, curious, inspiring, and ever loving God. May we receive them not only as our responsibility, but also and always as our teachers.</span><br />
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<span class="text Matt-18-6" id="en-KJV-23734">A few days before Christmas, a woman brought her little granddaughter to swim in the pool where I was teaching a water fitness class. This is against the rules. During class time, the pool belongs to us. The girl jumped in the water in her little life vest, and her grandmother laughted as she squealed and splashed. I noticed a few heads turn disapprovingly, and finally one class member waded discreetly over to the lifeguard and whispered something I did not hear. The next thing I knew, the guard was speaking to the grandmother, asking her to take her child and leave. It offended something deep inside me. "Wait," I said. "There is plenty of room. Let's not send a child away at Christmas." I was afraid I might make a few class members mad by breaking the rules. But I was more afraid of what Jesus might think about being chased away. It is one of the first bible stories I remember hearing in Sunday school. Lord, may I never forget it.</span><br />
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<span class="text Matt-18-6" id="en-KJV-23734"><i><span class="text Mark-10-13">Then they brought little children to Him, that He might touch them; but the disciples rebuked those who brought them. </span> <span class="text Mark-10-14" id="en-NKJV-24603">But when Jesus saw it, He was greatly displeased and said to them, <span class="woj">“Let the little children come to Me, and do not forbid them; for of such is the kingdom of God.</span> </span> <span class="text Mark-10-15" id="en-NKJV-24604"><span class="woj">Assuredly, I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will by no means enter it.”</span> </span> <span class="text Mark-10-16" id="en-NKJV-24605">And He took them up in His arms, laid His hands on them, and blessed them. ~ <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Mark+10&version=NKJV" target="_blank">Mark 10: 13-16</a></span></i><a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Mark+10&version=NKJV" target="_blank"> </a></span>pennsyltuckianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975720768947247949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29832397.post-79370154543860106432014-11-03T12:12:00.002-05:002014-11-03T12:12:37.548-05:00Alive!
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihf-cetkreJZPYPu1h2jBQz_ZM6zWfD8MJAmc2nVB2APIQNeSrplLJOA91RiU7P59s2qfLC3gJnBT9BhuS4YcIYQFpmcPUuE1xo1xSyoI3pNg7t9q0ZcOCohDdjb7zhDYvOl63SA/s1600/lear.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihf-cetkreJZPYPu1h2jBQz_ZM6zWfD8MJAmc2nVB2APIQNeSrplLJOA91RiU7P59s2qfLC3gJnBT9BhuS4YcIYQFpmcPUuE1xo1xSyoI3pNg7t9q0ZcOCohDdjb7zhDYvOl63SA/s1600/lear.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></span></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><b>KING LEAR, 2013. Fat Man Acting</b></i></span></span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; display: inline ! important; float: none; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"> "I was hoping you wouldn't do it," Mum said to me. "I don't want you to get sick again." She was talking good sense. Ever since I was in High School, I've always gotten some kind of malady right before or after the run of a play. Fatigue and anxiety take their toll, and it's only gotten worse as I've grown older. After my last two productions, I've fallen into such deep depression that my therapist seriously considered involuntary hospitalization. I was determined to make this show a turning point. Whatever it took, I wanted to hold on to my artistic standards AND my mental health.</span></span></span><div style="color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> And I'm happy to report success on all fronts.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><i>The whole Summer Session class came to the show. (all but little Sammy)</i></b></span></span></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> Even before going to the theatre to pick up my script, I sat down with my calender and scheduled my rest. I may be the only person in the world whose daily agenda includes naps. My work as a runner and a trainer had taught me the importance of rest and recovery. I also knew how much fatigue contributed to my depression in the past. I wasn't going to let that happen. Once the rehearsal schedule was posted, I contacted my supervisors and colleagues at the Y. I was going to need backup to cover classes, and my YMCA family jumped right in. They supported me from the first day, and a lot of them even came to see the show. I'm not being funny when I call mine the #bestjobever. It's a fact.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> Time was only one of the resources I had to marshal. I was going to need the people I loved, too. Friends and family all stepped up to support me. They checked in to make sure I was doing OK. Invited me out to lunch or a movie. Paid visits. Dropped notes. Joined me for workouts and walks. Offered support and laughter. Trusted me with secrets. Asked for help and support. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> The emotional toolbox I had assembled during the past year with my therapist was packed and ready. Managing setbacks. Coping with distractions. Accepting the hards times without letting them take over. I didn't spend a minute buried under the covers; didn't miss a single commitment because of depression, and that is mostly thanks to the skills I learned from my head shrinker. </span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><a href="https://fbcdn-sphotos-f-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-xap1/v/t1.0-9/10690259_4766369174120_7229018371284086442_n.jpg?oh=9ffdc86a04ae4bf15db3c642e8e0caf9&oe=54EC2C6F&__gda__=1425321618_a5c253ecf470447684fba7a1573057a0" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-f-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-xap1/v/t1.0-9/10690259_4766369174120_7229018371284086442_n.jpg?oh=9ffdc86a04ae4bf15db3c642e8e0caf9&oe=54EC2C6F&__gda__=1425321618_a5c253ecf470447684fba7a1573057a0" width="132" /></a></span></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Lot of pushups in those old arms</span>.</i></b></span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> Once I was confident about my emotional health plan, I turned my attention to my body. I had already set my sleep program in stone, but I knew that the role of the Creature was going to make some pretty intense physical demands. I changed the focus of my training to increasing strength, especially in my upper body. I stopped training like a runner, and started training like a lifter. One of my jobs was to pick up and carry a grown man at the end of the play, and I wanted us both to feel good about my ability to do that. I won't pretend there wasn't some vanity involved. I was going to be shirtless for the creation scene, and I wanted to look as good as I could. Maybe I was no Adonis, but I looked my best. </span></span><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><a href="https://scontent-a-ord.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-xaf1/t31.0-8/10608577_4787429740621_1798132933758333104_o.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://scontent-a-ord.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-xaf1/t31.0-8/10608577_4787429740621_1798132933758333104_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><b>Frankenstein and Son. Tim Hull as Victor</b></i></span>. </span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> I usually dive in to the script with a single-minded focus that neglects nearly everything else. I thought I was making the Theatre the center of my life; I now realize that I was using it as a substitute for my life: a place to hide from all the things that I didn't want to have to think about. I thought I was being an Artist. Instead, I was an Addict. I abused acting as a drug to take away the pain of real life. The unique thing about my preparation for this role was that I put my life in order first. How different my career might have been if I had understood this lesson when I was 20, but I am so very grateful to have learned it now.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">A company I will hold in my heart forever</span>.</i></b></span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> The play itself was a joy from start to finish. Part of that is due to the changes in me, but a large part of it is because of the beautiful script and the wonderfully talented group of artists who came together to make the play happen. I'm not going to call them out individually because there is no way I could do everyone justice. But I have to say that Bo List's adaptation of Mrs Shelley's story is a terrific ride, for the actors and the audience. The role of The Creature is a masterpiece. The chance to play a character from infancy to adulthood, climbing through each level of physical, mental, and spiritual development toward a final, magnificent epiphany... it is an actor's dream. I will always be grateful to Bo for endowing his "monster" with so gigantic, terrifying, and tender a soul.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> You know, it's funny: I always wanted to be a great Shakespearian actor. I wanted to be remembered as Prospero or Lear. And I don't think I stunk in those parts. But at one point during the run, someone told me that in a strange and wonderful way... I just may have been born to play Frankenstein's monster. There was a time when I would have been insulted to hear that. I'm glad I've lived long enough to be proud instead. And I can't wait to see what the Theatre has in store for me next.</span></span></div>
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</span></span>pennsyltuckianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975720768947247949noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29832397.post-58834325124263182422014-09-17T18:29:00.005-04:002014-09-17T18:29:51.682-04:00Pretending FrankensteinWe've been rehearsing about three weeks, now. Long enough to stage the whole play, and get a cautious, choppy run through in. Like Victor Frankenstein's famous Creature in the night, our production is starting to pick itself up from playwright Bo List's silent pages and stumble around the mountains and laboratories of Jerome Wills' increasingly fascinating set. I say increasingly, because every night we actors arrive to find that Tech Director, Dawn Connerley and her crew have built some new detail or structure for us to play around, under, or on top of. Last night, composer, Rob Thomas was in the booth, supplementing our on-stage rehearsal with some of the music he has created for the world of Frankenstein, and it was like having lightning bolts shoot through me as I played. So much talent is coming together to make this all happen.<br />
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Patti Heying, our director has conducted our cast like a maestro. She seems to have an instinct for knowing just how to work with actors of many different backgrounds all at once. She might tell one young actor, "You know what? I cast you because I liked YOU. You don't have to pretend to be somebody else, just be yourself and imagine what you would do if this happened to you." To a grizzled veteran, she can just nod with a furrowed brow or a knowing smile and tell you all you need to know about where to go next.<br />
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Getting my own Creature up off the slab has been a painstaking, joyful process of asking questions, and trying on answers to see if they fit. You ask physical questions. How does the Creature walk? What does his voice sound like? What does it feel like to be electrocuted back to life from the dead? What happens to your joints, your brain, your senses, your emotions when you are suddenly, violently reborn?<br />
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You ask psychological questions, too. What does the creature want? What stands in his way? What does he love? What scares him? What drives him? What does he learn? How does he change?<br />
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And of course, you point your curiosity toward relationships as well. Who matters to him? Who disappoints? Whose approval does he need? Who does he want to hurt?<br />
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And always, you are asking, "Why?" Why do I run away? Why do I hide? Why do I keep coming back when people are always hurting me? Why is the old blind man's love so important to me? Why do I kill some people and spare others? Why do I speak like a child one moment, and like a Shakespearean tragic hero the next?<br />
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See what happened there? Sooner or later, you stop thinking about "Him." The role stops being "That Guy." He isn't somebody else. He's me. He's Bob, pretending to be a monster in 18th century Geneva. You stumble and limp and chase down blind alleys and try all the possibilities, but finally you have to stop thinking about the guy and <i>become</i> the guy. I'm not there yet. But I'm getting tantalizingly close in spots.<br />
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In a famous video clip circulating on Facebook, Sir Ian McKellan explains
acting the role of Gandalf in Lord of the Rings this way: "I imagined what it would be like to be a wizard, and
then I pretended..." And that really is what we all do. Because, you see, whether you are Ian McKellan or a 10 year old boy in a little community theatre in Versailles Kentucky, the way you act is just the same: you ask yourself, "What would it be like to be that person?" And then you pretend.<br />
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<br />pennsyltuckianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975720768947247949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29832397.post-2556868196028604312014-08-24T10:56:00.001-04:002014-08-24T10:56:09.264-04:00To Build A Creature<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/2/2b/Frankenstein1910.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/2/2b/Frankenstein1910.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Charles Stanton Ogle, <i>Frankenstein</i>, Edison Studios, 1910</td></tr>
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Today is the first rehearsal of <i>Frankenstein</i>, a modern adaptation by Bo List in which I have been cast as The Creature. I was just thinking, I remember my first audition, way back in 4th grade, but I don't remember my first rehearsal. There aren't very many memorable ones. Still, the anticipation of the ritual is so exciting.<div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nick Vannoy, <i>Frankenstein</i> ,2011</td></tr>
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This afternoon, I will sit with a new company of actors. Some are old friends, and some are people I've watched and admired for quite a while. Some are strangers to me. We are going to review the routine tasks of scheduling and policy that go with keeping any herd of artists organized, and then we will open our scripts, pick up our pencils, and set about reading together for the first time. The script has had several productions around the country, and I was present for Nick Vannoy's moving performance as The Creature in the world premier at the Kentucky Conservatory Theatre's SummerFest in 2011. His work is sure to haunt me. He isn't the only ghost who will pursue me as I try to create my own interpretation of the role of the Big Fellow.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://blogfiles.wfmu.org/KF/2013/06/05/its_alive2.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://blogfiles.wfmu.org/KF/2013/06/05/its_alive2.gif" height="236" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Colin Clive and Boris Karloff, <i>Frankenstein, </i>1931</td></tr>
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No, not alive, not yet. But the process of gathering pieces to stitch together has begun. I have had the script in hand for a couple weeks, and I've been pouring over it. I'm not really doing intense analysis at this point, just trying to take it all in through a wide lens. I've read Mrs. Shelley's novel. The story was born in her nightmares: the teen-aged free-thinker whose birth caused her mother's death, and whose elopement with the already married Percy Bysshe Shelley led to estrangement from her father and poverty. She wrote <i>Frankenstein: or, The Modern Prometheus </i>on a dare during the famous summer of 1816 when she and her husband were guests of the notorious Lord Byron at his home on Lake Geneva.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gene Wilder and Peter Boyle, <i>Young Frankenstein, </i>1974</td></tr>
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The novel isn't a page turner like Bram Stoker's action packed <i>Dracula</i>. It is more of a psychological portrait, told mostly in the voice of Victor Frankenstein, the ambitious scientist whose grief over his lost mother led him to seek the secret of life and reanimation. It is also a moral examination of a man who, like Prometheus, seeks to serve humankind by bringing down fire from heaven, only to find his hubris punished by the gods with an eternity of bondage and agony.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSYebpispej6iVmS5ssQufvn6zop2Q0j5FDmegd2KpNogvDWTKaUA" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSYebpispej6iVmS5ssQufvn6zop2Q0j5FDmegd2KpNogvDWTKaUA" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kenneth Branagh and Robert De Niro, <i>Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, </i>1994</td></tr>
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Bo List's adaptation is faithful to this psychological, moral tone, but also draws on more theatrical parts of the Frankenstein myth that have developed since the novel was published. Consequently, I've been digging into some famous and not so famous films. I'm sure I'll be gleaning insights from all of them.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bela Lugosi, Karloff, and Basil Rathbone, <i>Son of Frankenstein, 1939</i></td></tr>
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In our script, The Creature (who never does get a name,) learns reading and language from hours spent reading <i>Paradise Lost,</i> John Milton's cosmic tale of Satan's fall from heaven and revenge against his Creator. Digging through <i>Paradise...</i> is not exactly light reading, but it helps to understand how the Creature's psyche was rebuilt after Victor's traumatic experiments left his mind a nearly blank slate. It also sheds light in the deep longing for love and acceptance that underlies the "monster's" desire for a companion... and the tragic consequences of Victor's failure to provide a bride for his miserable "son."<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://carbolicsmoke.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/10/Photo-One-Bride-of-Frankenstein.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://carbolicsmoke.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/10/Photo-One-Bride-of-Frankenstein.jpg" height="207" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Elsa Lanchester, Boris Karloff, <i>Bride of Frankenstein, </i>1935</td></tr>
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Soon, it will be time to put all these outside resources back on the shelf, and turn my full attention to our script and playing with my fellow actors. Till that time comes, I'll be relishing the opportunity to absorb the ideas and stories that will be components of my own Creature. It's a much more pleasant process than the one poor Victor had to go through. I won't have to dig up any graves.<br />
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pennsyltuckianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975720768947247949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29832397.post-87349099493973426122014-07-12T17:04:00.000-04:002014-07-12T17:27:16.841-04:00Review: The Twelve Houses of My Childhood, E. Reid Gilbert<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><b style="font-size: x-large; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">Everybody should have at least one teacher</b><span style="font-size: large; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"> they remember with love. I hope you do. I've been lucky to know a couple, but none raises warmer feelings of affection and gratitude than E. Reid Gilbert. Reid was my movement teacher during the three years I spent earning my Master of Fine Arts degree in Acting at The </span><span style="font-size: large; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">Ohio State University back in the 1980's. He was unlike any teacher I had ever had, and didn't resemble any college professor I had ever imagined. Born and raised in the mountains of Carolina, Reid was country right down to his bones. There must have been something in the water up in that holler though, because Reid fell in love with learning there. He left the farm to go to Duke to study Sociology. Then he was off to Texas for a degree in Theology from SMU. Given his country background and his down-home upbringing, what could be a more logical next step for the young fellow than the Upper West Side of Manhattan and Union Theological Seminary for a degree in Religious Drama. He must have grown accustomed to Yankee winters, because he became Dr. E. Reid Gilbert at the University of Wisconsin, where he specialized in Asian Theatre. He travelled a little bit. Studied Mime at Lecoq in Paris; practiced the No theatre in Japan; preached some; taught some; acted and directed; earned two Fullbright awards, the first to study the Kathakali theatre of India. Thirty years later came the second Fullbright to travel to Thailand to teach storytelling. And somewhere along the way, he met a young actor from Pittsburgh, and taught him as much about the spirituality of art, the love of God, and living with integrity as anyone I can think of. I have never built a role in a play without using Reid's lessons. When I finally got the chance to teach acting to college students, I filled about half of my syllabus with the things he had taught me.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">A few years ago, Reid and I were reunited on the great village square of our times: Facebook. I learned that he had written a collection of the "Jack Tales" he so loved to share with us. Sophisticated, cosmopolitan graduate students would sit wide-eyed and cross-legged on the floor in our stocking feet like children as our professor hunkered down and told us stories of joggle boards in the woods, of swinging on honey suckles, and of haunted trips to the privy in the Carolina winter moonlight. When I received my copy of <i><b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Trickster-Jack-E-Reid-Gilbert/dp/1604942371/ref=cm_rdp_product_img">Trickster Jack</a></b></i> from Amazon, there was a miracle inside. Had the seller known how much I would treasure that title page, she would not have let it go so cheaply.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">While<b style="font-style: italic;"> </b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Trickster-Jack-E-Reid-Gilbert/dp/1604942371/ref=cm_rdp_product_img" style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Trickster Jack</a> was a work of imagination,<b> </b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Twelve-Houses-My-Childhood/dp/1627871489" style="font-weight: bold;"><i>The Twelve Houses of My Childhood</i> </a>is Gilbert's true life memoir of growing up in the hills and small towns of North Carolina and Western Virginia during the Great Depression and World War 2. At least I hope it's all true. Like all the best stories, "if it ain't true, it ought to be".</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">It all began, as I was told, on November 15, 1930, after my mother's thirty hours of intense labor to bring forth her second child, her first son. The event occurred on East 22nd Street in Winston-Salem, NC. Decades later, I read with some chagrin that prolonged birthing labor by the mother often accounted for diminished intelligence of the new human creature. By the time I learned this factoid it was too late for anyone to do anything about it, but it does five me a medical excuse for any intellectual shortcomings.</span></i></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Eddie Reid's story (he never used the "Eddie") meanders like a creek finding its way down a piney mountainside. Along its banks, we find stories of the gypsies Gilbert credits with instilling his life-long wanderlust, and big sister Susie, who later insisted on "Della Sue" because she didn't want the same name as the milk cow. Brother "Baby Ott" and sister Mary Evelyn come along a few houses later, and spend the rest of their lives teasing and tormenting one another.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Evelyn ran to Mamma, crying again. "Evelyn, what's wrong now?"</i></span><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> </span></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>"He's still makin' faces at me."</i></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>"How do you know? Didn't he keep the door closed?"</i></span><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> </span></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>"Yeah, but I looked through the keyhole, an' there he was makin' a face."</i></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Later, big brother Reid realizes "it was a game they both enjoyed playing... and would continue for years".</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Gilbert tells his family's story with humor and empathy. His loving description of his Mamma scrubbing their clothes in a metal tub with lye soap, water hauled from the spring and heated over an open fire, and a washboard that left her hands red and raw for days after is both inspiring and heartbreaking. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">In one particularly moving passage, he tells of the lesson his Daddy learned one day after church, while walking with his younger son on the way to check the traps for turtles.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i> Daddy was feeling a little guilty to be doing something so enjoyable on a Sunday, He and Ott had to cross a newly plowed field to get to the creek. Because of his uneasyness, Daddy strode across the field rather quickly and in large strides before anyone might see them.</i><i> </i></span><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> </span></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i> Suddenly, he heard Ott behind him, grunting and seemingly gasping for breath. As he looked back, he asked,</i><i>"What's wrong, Son?"</i><i> </i></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i> "Daddy, it's hard stepping in your tracks."</i></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Chastened, the young father and Sunday School Superintendent passed the lesson his child had taught him along to the adults in his class at church.<i style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">"</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">Folks, you better be careful where you're walkin' an' which way you're goin'. There'll be some little tyke followin' close behind, trying so hard to follow your example."</i></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Yes, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Twelve-Houses-My-Childhood/dp/1627871489"><i>T<b>he Twelve Houses of My Childhood</b></i><b> </b></a>is a southern coming-of-age story. Young Reid encounters "the fair sex" from time to time, with mixed success. He hunts possum. He is introduced to the principles of social justice, not only as a witness to the segregation of his "colored" playmates, but also as a target of mockery and neglect from his more affluent white neighbors and teachers. But this tenderly rendered tale is also a loving portrait of a family and a time when things like running water, electric light, and a real Frigidaire to save Mamma from having to fetch milk from the spring house were faraway miracles, not givens of domestic life. Holding my electronic tablet in my hands, laughing out loud as my old professor learned to plow a straight row, or shift gears in the makeshift tractor that they called a "Doodlebug," I couldn't help feeling a little spoiled by all the gadgets and gizmos that fill my life. I wonder if a few less illuminated screens, and a few more walks in the trees with loved ones might not be better for my soul.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">How to sum up the experience of reading the memories of a man I have loved every day, even though I have not seen him for thirty years? I was shaken almost to tears when I turned the last page. I'm still grieving, a little. I loved this book so much that it hurt to have to finish it. I appreciate the Kindle convenience, but I think I'll be ordering a copy for my bookshelf. I want to be able to share it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Here's hoping my old teacher has another volume or two in him. Maybe "The Twelve Apartments of My College Years?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Peace,</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Order <i><b>The Twelve Houses of My Childhood</b> </i> from Amazon, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Twelve-Houses-My-Childhood/dp/1627871489">here</a>.</span></span></div>
</span>pennsyltuckianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975720768947247949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29832397.post-58223933165884077062014-07-05T12:22:00.001-04:002014-07-05T12:22:38.979-04:00Do I Want That? Or Am I Just Thinking About It?<div>
<span style="orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> Been spending a lot of time thinking about... well... thinking about <i>thoughts</i>, actually. I've been considering the stream of consciousness that is the river of my life. As I navigate my little boat along that stream, thoughts float by constantly, like litter in the water. I can ignore some of them. Others I have to navigate around. But many stick to the sides of my vessel for a while, traveling along with me, before the water pulls them away and I am free to sail on again.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"> Sometimes these thoughts are pleasant, and I'm sorry to see them go. Happy experiences and joyful memories make many parts of my journey a delight. But other times there are painful thoughts, memories of failure and shame, regrets, old hurts, damaging words about myself or others. These can also cling to the hull of my boat, slowing me down, distracting me from my course, even monopolizing my attention if I let them. Sometimes they can cling so tightly that it is hard to know where my ship ends and the garbage begins.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> The thing I try to remember is that no matter how firmly it sticks, the litter is not my ship: likewise, my thoughts are not <i>me</i>. They are just words. Thinking "I'm a failure" doesn't make it true. It might seem true sometimes. I might even build up a mountain of evidence to support it. But it isn't real. It's only a thought; one that will come and go from time to time like a branch drifting along in a river. It isn't me. And it doesn't define me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> I've been contemplating this principle for some time now, and have been considering some more practical applications. I've started observing my desires as they float toward me, and asking myself, "Do I want that? Or am I just thinking about it?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> One simple example: I've gotten into a strange habit. When I climb out of bed, one of my first thoughts is, "I am so tired. I'm going to need a nap later today." What a strange thought to have after a long night's sleep. Today I woke up after a restful night's sleep. My first impulse was to hit the snooze button. I had a water fitness class to teach, and a two mile run on my schedule. "I am so tired," I thought to myself. "I'm going to come home and pass out." That nap stayed on my mind all through my hour in the pool. Afterward, at my locker, I considered skipping the run and just going home. I could always run later. "No, I've packed my shoes and shorts. I'll just get it done." Instead of bailing out, I had a great run, enjoying a beautiful morning. When I got home, I went to my bedroom to unload my wet clothes and hang them up to dry. The pillow beckoned, soft and cool. "Wait a minute," I thought to myself. "Am I tired? My eyes are open. My thoughts are clear. My muscles feel strong and limber after a morning's exercise. Why do I want to go to sleep?" I realized that I really didn't. I was just thinking about sleeping. I finished hanging up my clothes, poured a cup of coffee, and sat down to read and write for a while. Instead of sleeping away a gorgeous morning, I was doing things that made me feel great.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> The second example is a tough one for me. "Am I hungry, or am I just thinking about food?" There's a Facebook meme that says, "You're not hungry, you're bored. Learn the difference." I admit that I do sometimes eat just to have something to do, but often I eat because I have food on my mind. I've noticed that at the end of a long walk, I start thinking about food about ten or fifteen minutes from the house. "What should I cook? What should I buy? What's in the house? Why not just stop at the Rite Aid and pick up some chocolate?" It's a habit: a pattern. It isn't my stomach asking for nourishment, it's a mental picture of a luscious bar of dark chocolate floating down the river past my boat. And much too often, I find myself reaching down into the water and picking it up instead of just letting it float on by. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> It's a challenge, but I have found that I can make this kind of thinking work in my emotional life. I have a feeling or thought and ask myself, "Is that reality, or is it just a thought that will pass?" I've managed to avoid slipping into depression using this technique several times in the past few weeks. Now I'm wondering if I can do the same thing with other behaviors and desires.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> Am I really hungry?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> Am I really lonely?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> Am I really broke?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; text-align: -webkit-auto;"> Will my</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> knee hurt like this for the rest of my life?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> Or are those just words; just thoughts floating down the river that will come and go from time to time? Are they just words: ideas to be accepted, acknowledged for what they are, and then left behind as I continue moving toward the goals and values that give my life purpose, meaning, and joy?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> It's been working with depression. Will it work with ice cream?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> I'll let you know.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Peace,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Pennsy</span></div>
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pennsyltuckianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975720768947247949noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29832397.post-26377270188360197322014-07-02T09:30:00.002-04:002014-07-02T09:30:33.882-04:00July at Last: So Far, So Good...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Woke to a beautiful second day of my favorite month. July. Made it. The sunshine. The evening storms. Shakespeare in the park. Mum and my birthdays. The sun moving from the constellation of Cancer into the royal domain of Leo. The best produce of the year. Hot days, and cool showers before bed. July: the heart of summertime.</span></span><div style="orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Halfway through the year. Halfway through #reboot2014. So far, so good in body, mind, and spirit.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><b>The weight loss continues</b> at a good pace. June was a plateau month for me. The scale hovered around 270 all month, but at 268 yesterday and today, I feel like I've finally broken through that barrier. Another 25 pounds to go to reach my goal, and I'm counting on the July sun to help me burn some extra calories. The aching knee has slowed me down for sure, but I'm encouraged that the pounds haven't piled back on. Walking and low impact aerobic exercise are doing the trick. I'm seeing the orthopedic guru in two weeks. At my friend Christy's suggestion, I intend to add some strength training with the kettlebell to my routine this month. A little more muscle mass can only help burn fat, and swinging the bell puts almost no strain on the knee. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I still need better discipline about my nutrition, so I'm stealing an idea from another friend: one major change per week. Every day this week, at the top of my Outlook calender, in big red letters it says: "NO DAIRY QUEEN THIS WEEK!" I've managed to stay away from the siren song of the drive through window so far. Next week? Get rid of the diet soda that has snuck back into my fridge. Clean fuel and quality replacement parts: learning to treat my body as well as I treat my car.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><b>Mentally, I am so very encouraged</b>. June was a synthesis month for me. It felt like years of therapy started coming together in a sensible body of understanding. After a rough spring, I resolved to get through the month of June without missing any work or scheduled appointments because of depression. And I made it! With the help of my friends, my shrink, and a splendid book by Russ Harris called <i>The Happiness Trap</i>, I'm learning techniques for managing the unpleasant thoughts that have tripped me and dragged me down so often in the past. I've read a lot in the "self-improvement" genre over the years, but this one seems to have come along at just the right time for me. I intend to post a review sometime, but for now I am reading through slowly, letting the ideas and exercises sink in.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I'm also writing more, and keeping a lot more of it to myself. I've been trying to post less on Facebook and trying to limit my public sharing to inspiration, laughter, and unapologetic promotion of the YMCA. I'm way too much of a ham to live life without an audience altogether, but it feels good to have a part of my life that stays in the house. It turns out all my laundry really doesn't have to dry on a line in the front yard.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I<b>'ve been praying again</b>, a private, personal practice that I really have missed. My Creator and I have had a rocky love affair over the past few years, but I'm coming to believe that what felt like abandonment was really a chance to find the strength of the wings God gave me. Every time I go to the Y and look into the eyes of a studio or pool full of people fighting for their lives; every time I stand in the light of courageous cancer warriors who refuse to let tumors, tests, chemo, or radiation keep them from staying as strong and active as they can be; every second I spend in that holy place reminds me that God is alive and at work all around me. They may think I'm training them, but the truth is, the members I work with are helping to make my faith stronger every day. For most of my life, I have wanted to be a part of something bigger than myself. God is showing me that I am already much bigger than I though I was. For a while, I wondered if my spirit had died, or if I even ever really had one at all. I am learning that I do have a soul, one that I share with all of Creation... and with the One who created it all.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The bottom line is that I'm starting the second half of 2014 feeling as healthy as I have in a long time. I know there will be good days and bad days ahead, and I don't know how those days will go, but right now, the Bluegrass is gorgeous, sunny, and cool morning air is starting to heat up. Time to get ready to head downtown to teach a class called<b> "Fit for Life." </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I don't know when that title has ever felt more appropriate for me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Peace,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Pennsy</span></div>
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pennsyltuckianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975720768947247949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29832397.post-82578363361312555202014-06-23T11:01:00.003-04:002014-06-23T11:04:26.209-04:00Values, Roles, and Goals: A Strategy for Living<div style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;">
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><b style="orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">What matters to you?</b><span style="orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"> </span><span style="orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">There are a lot of ways to answer that question. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">There are <b>people </b>who matter a lot to me: colleagues, clients, and class members at the Y; friends; family; the animals I know and love; strangers I meet. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">There are <b>things </b>that matter: bank account, car; running shoes, computer, favorite books. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"><b>Activities </b>I do matter to me: keeping in touch with people; going to work; exercising; acting; prayer and meditation.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Then there are the <b>principles </b>that I value. What are my principles? They are the answers to this question:</span></div>
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<i style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><b><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">What kind of person do I want to be?</span></b></i></blockquote>
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<b><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">VALUES</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Steven Covey, author of <b><i>The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People</i></b> asks it this way: If you could go to your own funeral, what would you want to hear them say about you? I've mentioned my core values before, but as long as I'm imagining my own eulogy, please, indulge my repeating them one more time:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><b>Courage</b>: The will to take action that makes life full, rich, and meaningful</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><b>Strength</b>: The ability to act</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><b>Compassion</b>: Authentic connections to others</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><b>Joy</b>: A spirit of celebration, gratitude, and delight</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">That's my list. Your values will almost certainly be different. You might say creativity, honor, love, security or duty. There is a whole universe of choices. The idea is to drill down to your foundations and to choose the primary cornerstones upon which you want to build your life.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><b>ROLES</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Once you have a clear, simple list of the things that matter most to you, take a look at what you do each day. What are the roles you play? Some of mine are:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<div>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Teacher</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Athlete</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Artist</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Friend</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Steward</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Cancer Warrior</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Student</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Brother</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Son</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Neighbor</span></div>
</blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">You might have roles that I don't: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">Parent</span><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> </span></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">Manager</span><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> </span></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">Employer</span><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> </span></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">Pastor</span><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> </span></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">Spouse</span><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> </span></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">Healer</span><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> </span></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">Hostess</span><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> </span></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">Caregiver</span><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"> </span></span></blockquote>
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<span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Advocate</span></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> You can probably just look at your calender or think about your activities from the past week and come up with a dozen roles that you play. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Now for the hard part. Prioritize them. Which roles engage you the most? Which are you passionate about? What are the three or four roles in which you could best embody your values? </span></div>
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<span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><b><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">GOALS</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Next comes what may be the hardest question of all:</span></span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">
<b style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><i><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">What ONE THING you could do to make the most positive impact in this role?</span></i></b></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">That ONE THING is your goal, and finding it can take a lot of thought. It might be something that's never occurred to you before, but I find that my own goals are often things I've considered and dismissed in the past because they were too hard, too time consuming, or too likely to fail. Some will pop right into your head. Some might require several days of contemplation. Here are the roles and goals that are in my windshield right now:</span></div>
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<ol>
<li><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><b>Athlete</b>: Raise $10,000 for LIVESTRONG at the YMCA by running a marathon in 2015.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><b>Artist</b>: Earn $100 from my writing by the end of the year.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><b>Friend</b>: Have meaningful (preferably face to face), contact with another human being every day.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><b>Cancer Warrior</b>: Don't miss a single class or scheduled appointment because of depression.</span></li>
</ol>
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<b><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div>
<b><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">STRATEGY FOR LIVING</span></b></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I have smaller, more tactical short term goals that are milestones on the road toward my larger ones. I've actually been putting these into practice for the past few weeks: </span></div>
<div>
<ol>
<li><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Get down to 245 pounds </span></span></li>
<li><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Read and write for an hour every day. </span></span></li>
<li><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Get out of the house every day.</span></span></li>
<li><span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Make LIVESTRONG at the YMCA my number one work priority.</span></span></li>
</ol>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">We all have a lot of responsibilities: pay the bills; keep the car in good repair; wash the dishes; pay the taxes. All are important, some are even urgent, but keeping our primary goals always at the top of the list helps us to make daily choices that increase the fulfillment and richness of our lives.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Shall I stop for ice cream? Or call in sick? Or take a nap? Or ask this woman out on a date? When faced with choices, I <span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">can use this simple question to guide me: </span></span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><b>Will this action help me to embody my values, or will it lead me away from them?</b></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">In future posts, I'll talk more about how these principles are helping me to manage my mental health and increase the quality of my life. But I don't think this way of thinking is only for people with OCD, depression, anxiety, or other mental disorders. I think it is a strategy for living that can be helpful to anyone. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Peace,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Pennsy</span></div>
</div>
pennsyltuckianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975720768947247949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29832397.post-53229124072745955252014-06-01T11:27:00.003-04:002014-06-01T11:39:41.725-04:00To The Shadowside And Back<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSIUtvaV4-SkvDb8evk7wxfTN7ia0M_VCah6o-QyTmW-gHVnIOyxZFfMmFnFcYQg_yv0Dz3U862_F23f38G3d4LNIerCji5SDhbZh1p8rGs6Jlg0aZtrOiO-GFx35MvCJeCBGODg/s1600/100_6701.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSIUtvaV4-SkvDb8evk7wxfTN7ia0M_VCah6o-QyTmW-gHVnIOyxZFfMmFnFcYQg_yv0Dz3U862_F23f38G3d4LNIerCji5SDhbZh1p8rGs6Jlg0aZtrOiO-GFx35MvCJeCBGODg/s1600/100_6701.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tra-laa, It's May...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Maybe next year, I'll just take the month of May off...<br />
<br />
I had a scare this week. A bad one. I came close to returning to the mental hospital. While my response to life's events had me anxious and depressed, my feelings at the prospect of being locked up again brought me to a point of despair that was both frightening and painful.<br />
<br />
What triggered all this? It isn't easy to pinpoint a single moment or event. Actually, it's been several weeks in the making. Maybe months. Maybe years. I suppose it depends on how far back in time I want to dig. The judge's signature on our divorce decree. Funerals for cancer warriors. Frustration with my acting. A lingering knee injury that's kept me from training hard for weeks. Disappointment about romantic false starts. The loneliness of single life. Financial trials. All the way back to separation from Mrs P. If I chose to dwell on it, I guess I could touch every descending tread on the stairway of depression all the way back to my childhood, but swilling the sour milk of history only leads to nausea.<br />
<br />
Whatever the root cause, the results were agonizingly familiar. Harboring self-destructive thoughts and engaging in isolating behavior. Missing work. Skipping exercise. Eating garbage. Disrespecting myself and others. I embraced all the miserable drama of The Shadowside. That's the name I've given to the dark region where I travel when I allow my depression to define me.I was determined to put an end to it this time, one way or another.<br />
<br />
My research and writing set off on two separate journeys. On one path, I began seeking out the thoughts of others who knew the hills and valleys of The Shadowside: people whose pain led them to take desperate measures against themselves. On the second path, I explored alternatives to the therapeutic course I had taken so far. Drugs didn't cure me; therapy didn't cure me; was there another coruse that might lead me to freedom from my depression? As I picked my way along these two divergent paths, it became clear to me that I did not really want to end my life; I wanted freedom; I wanted to live without the chains of mental disorder. Hopeful research led me to something called ECT: <a href="http://www.mayoclinic.org/tests-procedures/electroconvulsive-therapy/basics/definition/prc-20014161">Electroconvulsive Therapy</a>.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.itsmyhealth.com.au/getmedia/e982ee0f-c855-48f8-a69a-e6c0f3a547b4/people_-one-flew-over-the-cuckoo-s-nest_1.aspx" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www.itsmyhealth.com.au/getmedia/e982ee0f-c855-48f8-a69a-e6c0f3a547b4/people_-one-flew-over-the-cuckoo-s-nest_1.aspx" height="183" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One flew east and one flew west...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I remembered the scene in <i>One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest, </i>where Jack Nicholson has the electrodes clamped around his temples and is shocked into convulsions and stupor. My research taught me that the procedure has changed a lot since then. It is safer. There are fewer side effects. The seizures are only in the brain; there are no full scale convulsions.The patient is sedated. ECT can even be performed as an out-patient procedure. I latched onto the hope that treatment might be the cure I longed for. I scheduled an appointment with my psychiatrist, determined to convince him that my condition was serious enough to justify this dramatic measure.<br />
<br />
I may have been a little too convincing.<br />
<br />
After hearing about my mood, my actions, and my thoughts, he instructed me to check myself into the hospital at once. "Impossible," I replied. I have classes to teach. I have a play opening in five days. I can't simply fall off the map for a week. My reputation, which I have spent the past year rebuilding, will be destroyed forever.<br />
<br />
"Come on, be serious," the doctor urged. He outlined the reasons I needed immediate hospitalization. "I will order the ECT. You can start tomorrow." Then he said he had no choice but to contact either an ambulance or the police to transport me.<br />
<br />
I pleaded. "Let me talk to my therapist. Let me find another solution." The doctor agreed, and I went next door to make my case. In exchange for my freedom, I agreed to stay on my meds, schedule extra meetings, and to contact the shrinks if I felt any kind of crisis coming on.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Gg0ON6_O9-NIER4OsDj28WN7B2i89xFQs-TmyKdO_JOZ2bePNoybqXa2Q-vCw_gTxEtR4IFT82dTM1fHRyxpVKiQFdc3bD9B2dgRC9pnMzWs6wnb_M7okF8yQBBDZN4XdyL-qA/s1600/lisa_laurie_bob.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1Gg0ON6_O9-NIER4OsDj28WN7B2i89xFQs-TmyKdO_JOZ2bePNoybqXa2Q-vCw_gTxEtR4IFT82dTM1fHRyxpVKiQFdc3bD9B2dgRC9pnMzWs6wnb_M7okF8yQBBDZN4XdyL-qA/s1600/lisa_laurie_bob.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Dinner</i>, Balagula Theatre, May 2014</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The next few days were torment. I missed all but one of the classes I was schedule to teach. I went days without eating. I stopped writing and reading. I stopped posting on Facebook. Rather than dwell on the voices torturing my mind, I slept. Two things kept me going: walking and the play I was rehearsing. I walked for hours each day, forcing myself out into the sunshine where I could at least see other people.I walked to the theatre and back home each night. I felt numb; emotionless. I didn't want to die; I didn't want anything. I only wanted to take the next step. To keep moving. To stay alive.<br />
<br />
Even as I was struggling to save myself, God was sending ministers to me. A dear friend invited me to coffee. Mrs P wrote and phoned to check on me. Mom called, and sent me an email with information about how my insurance could help with treatment. I heard from someone whose friendship I thought I had lost forever. And finally, the play opened to wonderful audience response and received a very positive review in the paper. Even as I was preparing myself for the follow-up appointment with the doctor; the one that might very well send me into the hospital; God was flooding me with reasons for hope.<br />
<br />
When I met the doc, I asked him to educate me about ECT. He gave me a lot of information. The most persuasive thing he said was that the procedure addresses only the biological causes of depression. It could not change my thoughts. It could not change my character. In other words, it could not change the way I respond to the trigger events that steer me toward The Shadowside. I made the decision. ECT electrodes were not the magic wand I was hoping for. I would not submit to the procedure. The doc affirmed my judgment, and we made a plan. Continue with the new meds. Continue with therapy. Check back in a month.<br />
<br />
Since making the decision not to have ECT, I have experienced relief. I think I was afraid of side effects. ECT often results in memory loss, and I was worried that it would amplify the "chemo-brain' effect that I still have, years after my cisplatin treatments. But more than that, I think I was afraid that it might not work; that even after submitting to such a dramatic treatment, I might still be sick. I wondered how I might respond if the Magic Pill didn't work.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Along with the relief, I have experienced a renewed resolve. #reboot2014 continues. Until now, I have been focused on my physical health and weight loss. I have experienced great success and have lost 46 pounds as of this morning. Now I need to expand my attention to my mental health as well. The food I eat doesn't only affect physical energy and body composition; it also affects my brain's health and ability to function. More than that, the choices I make about nutrition, exercise, work, and leisure time affect the way I think about myself; they are expressions of my self respect. Like my commitment to my therapy, my life choices are expressions of my resolve to heal.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYewnxJFxuAdFNbgdttGQ4yI_KMRElSyLTAOVwGeSNx3HwQdMSZBYppzoXRqi1HANizau6ycPdLgbbZ8TEt8-t3v7Sq2AfFlZXLNcJ2DEo_tM-lT4UMsNKmUJouPXIRO8xVE4jLw/s1600/1-2012+IHHM+Finish+1897.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYewnxJFxuAdFNbgdttGQ4yI_KMRElSyLTAOVwGeSNx3HwQdMSZBYppzoXRqi1HANizau6ycPdLgbbZ8TEt8-t3v7Sq2AfFlZXLNcJ2DEo_tM-lT4UMsNKmUJouPXIRO8xVE4jLw/s1600/1-2012+IHHM+Finish+1897.JPG" height="320" width="228" /></a></div>
The Shadowside will always be out there, ready to welcome me back to the dark. And there will be times when I know I will stumble my way back into its dismal confines. The voice of my inner critic, the Toxic Passenger on my life's bus will always be around, whispering negativity and warning in my ear. Just as I had to renew my resolve to lose weight and run another marathon, I am now resolved to learn how to accept the hard times and to choose love instead of fear when they come along. I am resolved to express my core values, (Courage, Strength, Compassion, and Joy,) in my mental health as well as my physical being. I know I will fail sometimes. But I will succeed as well.<br />
<br />
The sirens of The Shadowside have been tempting me for almost 54 years. They haven't killed me yet. Today, more than ever, I am determined that when Death comes, he will find me running in the sunshine, not hiding in the dark. #reboot2014 goes on.<br />
<br />
Peace,<br />
Pennsypennsyltuckianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975720768947247949noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29832397.post-89676642497341163042014-05-18T11:11:00.000-04:002014-05-18T11:14:18.802-04:00Scraps From the Notebook<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">NUTHOUSE</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">The inmates laugh
and smoke</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Read the same page
over and over<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Blue jigsawed sky turns slowly under idle fingers;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Out there, the
sky<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Is a hole at the
top of a wooden well<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Concrete pasture<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Littered with sun bleached butt ends.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">You watch from
inside someone else’s face</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Hypnotized and wary.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">No visitors.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">She appears beside you </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">A butterfly on your windshield<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Laceless sneakers for a passport<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">“All I want to do
is cut myself,” she whispers;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Do it<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Cut your damn guts
out and leave me alone.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">PARENT AND CHILD<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Pain is anger’s mother<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Betrayal her father<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Never judge a child<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Until you have met her parents</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">GUYS</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Look</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">She said</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I know how guys are</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">(Like describing the taste of moldy bread)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">They're always after it</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Always</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Trying to get into it</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">And never knowing what to do with the damn thing</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Once you let them have it</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">AUDIENCE</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">"I will not be your audience<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I will not stand by and applaud</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Your life's performance"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">how could she have known<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">how much the player ached<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">for one face alone<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">her tears<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">her smile</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> among the crowd</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">POORE DICK<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Two
discontented lovers rudely stampped,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Unfinished,
sent before our time to bedde;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">In
crookebacked love, wee lye together,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Twisted
shadowes ‘neath the azure Moon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Darke
reminders of the damage done;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Undonne
by bloody letters on life’s page, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">While on
the stage, a trail of murders guides<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Our
stumbling steps, toward our fatale end.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Here in
our woeful bedde, your nightmare haunts -<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Our
dreams of youthful joy despair and die:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">You cry
aloud as I sob silently,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">O
mournful pendulum; Love ticking by. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Have
mercy Jesu! I would give my kingdome <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">For a
Harte Unbroken.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">DECREE</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Cables that might
have held the bridge<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Another twenty-five
years<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Broken and dangling;</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">A single thread of ink,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">A judge’s curled name <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Blowing across the bottom of a page</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">MENDING<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Incising slow and deep<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The surgeon took the
flesh until at last</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Only the nerve remains<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Burning in the open air<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Waiting for the medicine
of time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Now that the cutting is
finished,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Do I dare ask you to
stay<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Until the wound has
healed again?</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
pennsyltuckianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975720768947247949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29832397.post-76489394174063673742014-05-01T08:06:00.001-04:002014-05-01T08:06:56.797-04:00May Day... Made it.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy18Hthl9UYGc3iOndX9B8boTQF-4CYmNlsPDFc8AMB38zE49vSkXSr01E3V6AOiY7go88DYcj3op4pZR94fX3SQsBXwE-xwv3vwAgulvkgajD4OCZK-75Fge-fiqs9e8mf4Axgw/s1600/mayday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy18Hthl9UYGc3iOndX9B8boTQF-4CYmNlsPDFc8AMB38zE49vSkXSr01E3V6AOiY7go88DYcj3op4pZR94fX3SQsBXwE-xwv3vwAgulvkgajD4OCZK-75Fge-fiqs9e8mf4Axgw/s1600/mayday.jpg" /></a></div>
Well, here it is. A year ago, during what should have be a triumphant week of personal achievement and recognition, I lost just about everything I loved and hoped for. I expected it to kill me.It didn't. If not for the people who believed in me when I was ready to give up on life, I'm not sure I'd be here to remember that terrible time. And for that... for the people who did not give up on me, I'm thanking God today.<br />
<br />
I'm not going to rehash the details here. I've relived them every day for a year. A Major Depression episode, one that I can now see had been a developing for a long time struck me just as I was about to finish my second marathon, raise several thousand dollars for LIVESTRONG at the YMCA, and receive an award from the YMCA of Central Kentucky for my "spirit." The attack, and its consequences threw my career off the rails and was the last straw for my marriage. I thought I would die. Several times, I wished I would.<br />
<br />
By June, I was living in a tiny apartment. My coaches were gone. My wife was gone. No more dogs greeting me at the door. No more Kizzie curled up on my chest, purring me to sleep. My Mom was confused and broken hearted. My income was cut to a trickle. There were no more happy endings left to hope for.<br />
<br />
Two things saved my life. And they are the reason I'm writing today. Because I know that someday, someone who feels the way I felt a year ago is going to find this blog on the day that they need a reason to keep living.<br />
<br />
I found out that there were people who still believed in me. My dearest friends didn't give up on me. My boss, who had every right to fire me, let me stay. With cautious compassion, he let me earn a new place at the Y. Not the one I had before. The "career track" was not one I could expect to travel any more. But he gave me a chance. And that gave me a purpose.<br />
<br />
I found out that I could still contribute. I could still make a difference in people's lives. Even broken and hopeless, I could still help. No, I'm not going to ever be a director of anything at the Y. I don't think I'll ever be one of the guys who wears ties and goes to meetings with the big shots. But I'll be helping people, people who have been known setbacks themselves. They have had cancer and diabetes, chronic pain and chronic depression. They are old and sick and tired and fat and the world keeps telling them to give up and some kind of spark inside them says that life is worth living anyway. And I get to help them keep that spark alive.<br />
<br />
And that purpose, that cause helps keep me alive. I found a chance to serve.<br />
<br />
So, a year after it all fell to pieces, I can't really say my life is good today. I'm broke. Often lonely. Always at least a little sad. I'm still a very hard person to love. And a very reliable source of income for the head-shrinkers.<br />
<br />
But dammit, I'm still here. It didn't kill me. I thought I'd lost everything. But God stayed faithful. God sent me people and a purpose. I believe that. Am I hopeful? No, not yet. I still don't see any happy endings down the road.<br />
<br />
But I can still see the road, and I am grateful for that. He may be doing it with tears in his eyes, and a broken heart in his chest, but The Fat Man is still running.<br />
<br />
And I hope, if you are that person, the one who will read this someday when you need to see it the most, I pray that you will find your way to keep running, too. I know you can do it. Because I did.<br />
<br />
Peace,<br />
Bob<br />
<br />pennsyltuckianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975720768947247949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29832397.post-81000868939990630862014-04-20T13:09:00.001-04:002014-04-20T13:09:16.818-04:00Rising: Easter 2014<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3dsIvvJZidDTjv-3j15QMth8l28i4pP82HFh517HARQr2N55-Vwwj5TecEmM6ieCJrFf_IT9pRE_vGmK69Ykw8quSliDBTpD1H4pDNZhkfK6l1XJmsEH7DNrTSz3SosmPcy28YQ/s1600/dormont+Presby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3dsIvvJZidDTjv-3j15QMth8l28i4pP82HFh517HARQr2N55-Vwwj5TecEmM6ieCJrFf_IT9pRE_vGmK69Ykw8quSliDBTpD1H4pDNZhkfK6l1XJmsEH7DNrTSz3SosmPcy28YQ/s1600/dormont+Presby.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dormont Presbyterian.... where I grew up</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I have heard it at least three times in the past week. "Where do you go to church, now?"<br />
<br />
Were they being curious? Kind? Offering an invitation? Making conversation? Whatever the case, the Communion of the Saints have been much on my mind lately.<br />
<br />
Last night at midnight, I found myself online, looking for an Easter service. There's a little church in my neighborhood. I run right past it several times a month. A couple of the people in my classes at the Y worship there. Nothing to wear, though. I could handle being the only stranger. And I've gone to enough funerals in the neighborhood to be OK with being the only single white man in church. But sitting in the back row in khakis and a sport coat, wearing a shirt that needs ironing and shoes that are coming apart... it just seemed disrespectful to me.<br />
<br />
There was a church once. (Not the one in the photo.) One I belonged to for years. The only place I ever really felt as if I <i>belonged.</i> They made room for the kind of sinners, losers, failures and sons of bitches that Jesus used to hang out with. So, when I first arrived, there was a place for me, too. I went to their web site last night to see what time services were. I remembered a place where it didn't matter what you wore or how badly you'd screwed up your life, you could belong there.<br />
<br />
And I remembered how much it hurt to watch a handful of angry people start to rope off the pews and lock up the side doors and back entrances. I fought them for as long as I could. Fought for the Gospel that had first welcomed, and then transformed me. Fought for the people who had found a church home for the first time in their lives. Before my fight was over, I wound up in a mental hospital. We lost. We lost the battle. We lost our home. I still believe that God lost, too.<br />
<br />
But God will be fine. If Easter teaches us nothing else, we can be certain that God has a way of bouncing back.<br />
<br />
Me? I'm not so sure about. And my church home? Judging from their web site, there is a thriving, loving community there now... but the my kind of trouble makers are gone. The people like me. The place that welcomed me is gone. I know the address, but there's no way back there for me. I drive a 14 year old Honda, not a time machine.<br />
<br />
There have been other churches. Places where I was loved. Communities that offered me a place to rest or worship or serve. But my trust was gone. I didn't belong anywhere.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfcKeEPU09IM9VJ2VRTIamFee0XAGLOZ5V_UFhHrYN8hAYNDC7Zmt-nMdhEXSLwXWc5a3Uu7ljjOYXJOOmewSHe8fWZ_DXOzu5dZYHE3yzb-O3vvoYvWOW-6Z8Zb9rQxkwm4cRIg/s1600/summer+2013+drumming+circle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfcKeEPU09IM9VJ2VRTIamFee0XAGLOZ5V_UFhHrYN8hAYNDC7Zmt-nMdhEXSLwXWc5a3Uu7ljjOYXJOOmewSHe8fWZ_DXOzu5dZYHE3yzb-O3vvoYvWOW-6Z8Zb9rQxkwm4cRIg/s1600/summer+2013+drumming+circle.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
I know that's one of the reasons why it was love at first sight between me and the Y. I recognized the spirit of Christ there. Jesus was the woman whose bright smile and open eyes welcomed me on my first visit. He comes there in bells and sneakers to dance in Zumba class. He arrives, laughing too loudly and covered with jailhouse tattoos to workout with the recovering addicts from across the railroad tracks, and tears up the weight room with them after supper to help them sweat out their demons. Jesus jumps into the deep water, helping his classmates to be brave and try, even if they are only 5 or 6 years old. He drops his children off at the Kids' Corner so he can go shoot some hoops with his buddies. And every now and then, on a dark winter morning, he limps in on frozen feet, and asks for a cup of coffee and a chance to sit down someplace warm before all the good, clean people who are so frightened of him start coming in to exercise before work. In some ways, those are my favorite visits.<br />
<br />
I have sat in the lobby with Jesus on those days when it seemed like the sun was never going to come up and our lungs were never going to thaw, and he would tall me stories. Parables, maybe. About his family and how they had died or thrown him out because of his drinking. About the fortunes he had won and lost out at Keeneland over the years. The men he knew in the war. About how he could never live up to his father's standards or live down the heartbreaks of his past or find the love that would make him feel whole again. Once he told me about the years he spent serving as President of the World, and how he and General MacArthur saved the planet from nuclear annihilation. Just last week, he handed me a stack of pages torn from a children's coloring book and asked me if I would make him some copies to take back to the group home with him. It was the least I could do.<br />
<br />
But every now and then, in a quiet moment, I'll ask him, "Lord, isn't there more? More for me to do? More for me to have? More for me to be?"<br />
<br />
And every time, his answer is the same. "Pennsy, do you love me?"<br />
<br />
After all we've been through together, it always hurts to hear him ask it.<br />
<br />
"Lord, you know I love you!"<br />
<br />
"Pennsy, if you love me, feed my sheep."<br />
<br />
And that's how I know that I have found a place. Because here, where I might least expect to find them, the place is packed with Jesus' hungry sheep. I know, because I'm one of them.<br />
<br />
You know, it's funny. This started out as a blog post about how sad I was that I didn't have a church home to worship in this Easter. Then right in the middle of the thing, Jesus shows up, smelling like a bus station men's room, and reminds me that he didn't have one either. Last Sunday, Passion Sunday, Christians waved palm leaves and sang Hosannas, and read a story about a man who was driven so crazy by what was going on in church that he started beating people up and busting the furniture. He made the wrong people very angry. And they made sure there would never be a place there for him there again.<br />
<br />
So he found another place. One that no door could keep him away from. He rolled away the stone. Behind it, he found the world. He found you and me.<br />
<br />
I'm not saying you can't find Jesus in a church pew. I'm not saying he doesn't go there or bless the people who do. But just like in Heaven, there are many mansions in the world. And while I miss the smell of lilies and the sound of organ music and trumpet voluntaries and the warm embrace of a hundred whispers of "The Peace of the Lord Be Always With You..." Even though I miss those things... I am grateful.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRYSC59F3W3fG94ODT5YY6Fduvu8I7b2oUPAxV344B6iQL_nLiUUs-kHTWI77hFrrEmfLZI80pr9yRg2bQXx1SXKlHIyryMem867Ew4u8gKVh4nfHta1Z1JOWkSxDFP9e7eX-zkg/s1600/1-empty+tomb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRYSC59F3W3fG94ODT5YY6Fduvu8I7b2oUPAxV344B6iQL_nLiUUs-kHTWI77hFrrEmfLZI80pr9yRg2bQXx1SXKlHIyryMem867Ew4u8gKVh4nfHta1Z1JOWkSxDFP9e7eX-zkg/s1600/1-empty+tomb.jpg" height="228" width="320" /></a></div>
My heart may feel heavy as a stone sometimes, but there is no stone so heavy that the Love of Christ can't roll it out of the way to throw open the door and let the love pass through. And the only thing I am sure of is that when the tomb is opened, I will not find what I expect inside.<br />
<br />
It is always so much more wonderful than I can ask or imagine. Once, I even met the President of the World.<br />
<div style="background-color: white;">
<i style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></i>
<i style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></i>
<i style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></i>
<i style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The day of resurrection! Earth, tell it out abroad;</i><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>The Passover of gladness, the Passover of God.<br />From death to life eternal, from earth unto the sky,<br />Our Christ hath brought us over, with hymns of victory.</i></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Our hearts be pure from evil, that we may see aright<br />The Lord in rays eternal of resurrection light;<br />And listening to His accents, may hear, so calm and plain,<br />His own “All hail!” and, hearing, may raise the victor strain.</i></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Now let the heavens be joyful! Let earth the song begin!<br />Let the round world keep triumph, and all that is therein!<br />Let all things seen and unseen their notes in gladness blend,<br />For Christ the Lord hath risen, our joy that hath no end.</i></span></div>
<i><br /></i>The Lord is risen, indeed. Happy Easter, y'all.<br />
<br />
Peace,<br />
Pennsy<br />
<br />pennsyltuckianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975720768947247949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29832397.post-88487999081930045052014-04-14T20:50:00.005-04:002014-04-14T20:50:56.000-04:00The Final Chapter Begins<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMoFL-RP7fs5PGslUJTWx0XGpcEZqd5YeFJApvZ7-vsrQrEqPELZkelaZVRYI-0M80zGi8LIYaBR4KoGIGcAxDF2GivG7Z3L4hkPIyMEDgyEB4qRTzw50Gn7U7DSOiabqu8lfDAw/s1600/021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMoFL-RP7fs5PGslUJTWx0XGpcEZqd5YeFJApvZ7-vsrQrEqPELZkelaZVRYI-0M80zGi8LIYaBR4KoGIGcAxDF2GivG7Z3L4hkPIyMEDgyEB4qRTzw50Gn7U7DSOiabqu8lfDAw/s1600/021.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Two heads with pieces missing</b></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Four years. It doesn't seem real, somehow. Four years ago today, the doctor and Mrs P and I sat in a room and decided that my life was in imminent danger from a fast growing mass that threatened to cut off the flow of blood to my brain, and crush my larynx. Basically, my body was strangling itself.<br />
<br />
Two days later, the diagnosis came. The Amazing Cancer Boy was born.<br />
<br />
I'm not going to tell the whole damn story again. If you're interested, the links to the right will take you through the entire adventure. It's a story that has taken over my life, defined every waking moment since that morning, for good and for ill.<br />
<br />
"How do you feel?" a friend asked today. "You should feel great."<br />
<br />
On the phone, Mum agreed. "I think you should, too."<br />
<br />
Yeah. I should.<br />
<br />
Somebody said to me once, maybe only half-joking, "You know, you were a lot more fun before you became a national treasure."<br />
<br />
It was a joke. I know. But life is certainly different.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRjvi0a7qLXioT8V9G9Vk-GD9fW2FcawvwMh0jaIKwa_Qku5OAuWS1K50GRKmvX_pBF4m9yru1PSbohEKhREEDWhzLPHiuUqS-UQiB-_jy1QY2WxQhGQo6ucpj2AzWO7yxuYIYUw/s1600/TopsInLexSmall004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRjvi0a7qLXioT8V9G9Vk-GD9fW2FcawvwMh0jaIKwa_Qku5OAuWS1K50GRKmvX_pBF4m9yru1PSbohEKhREEDWhzLPHiuUqS-UQiB-_jy1QY2WxQhGQo6ucpj2AzWO7yxuYIYUw/s1600/TopsInLexSmall004.jpg" height="400" width="290" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><b>The Amazing Cancer Boy</b></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Better in a lot of ways. I got to experience an outpouring of love that most people don't get until they are dead. I know what resurrection really means. I've experienced it. Several times. I have a purpose for my life, and a place to fulfill it, thanks to LIVE<b>STRONG</b> at the YMCA. I'm not sure I've ever had that feeling before... knowing that I'm doing something that is making a measurably positive difference in people's lives every day. I have done things physically, athletically even, that I never even dreamed of doing before I was sick. And maybe best of all, I have had the chance to know and love my mother in a way that might never have happened if we had not spent all those hours together laughing, crying, working crosswords, and pumping protein drinks into me through a rubber hose.<br />
<br />
But in a lot of ways... well, it's hard to put into words. Resurrection has its price. My teeth are gone. And yeah, I miss them every day. My thyroid is dying, cooked by hours and hours of radiation. I have to take pills by the fist-full, and still I get so tired, so easily now. And so very sad sometimes. It's hard for me to remember things, especially when I try to memorize lines for a play.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiimpObAlL3MwBHTLA6argAQ8D31eoTv5YfoPTUbH6rJHHKzchZbyvvgFJpY5IknCrVyEpkZXH_ZYcioQ6D01aSxJSIteiVJ9nhum781I57yupDm01NuvI7xwLJGLJDtBTkNR7-gA/s1600/blue+bandana+bunnies+003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiimpObAlL3MwBHTLA6argAQ8D31eoTv5YfoPTUbH6rJHHKzchZbyvvgFJpY5IknCrVyEpkZXH_ZYcioQ6D01aSxJSIteiVJ9nhum781I57yupDm01NuvI7xwLJGLJDtBTkNR7-gA/s1600/blue+bandana+bunnies+003.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Mrs P and Me in "happier"days</b></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And there are other costs. Much more painful ones. I have loved and lost so many brave cancer fighters in the last four years. Been to way too many funerals. I've lost my family. Half of it, anyway. My dogs. My home. My best friend and the love of my life. The woman who fed me and cleaned me and mopped up my puke and kissed away my tears. Who gave me a reason to keep fighting for life. Can I blame cancer for all that? I don't know. Maybe not. But maybe without it, things might have been different. I know that at some point I went over a very important edge. I stepped into a place where even the woman who loved me most could not follow. And I know that cancer had a lot to do with my going there.<br />
<br />
So yeah, I guess I'm glad to be alive. Being alive means I have a chance to... what? Make a difference? Heal? Find love again? Be whole, whatever that means? I don't know. All I know is that it's getting to be time to turn the page.<br />
<br />
Five years. They throw a pile of numbers at you when you have cancer, but one of the biggest is five years. When we met the radiation oncologist, Mrs P and Mum and I, one of us asked my prognosis. "50%" the doctor answered. "50% of the people with your kind of cancer will live for 5 years." I remember seeing my mother cry at that. Five years. And no reason to think I'm not going to be one of the lucky ones. "Heads. You live." So that's how long he has left. One more year. One more chapter left in the tale of The Amazing Cancer Boy... the real-life boy who didn't die. In twelve months, I can close the book, put him to rest, and get on with whatever the rest of my life is going to be.<br />
<br />
I've already registered for a marathon in May to celebrate my new life. I'm going to keep running. Don't really have any plans beyond that. I'm going to keep acting. I'm going to keep writing. .I'd like to be able to make a living again, so I'm not at the mercy of the docs and the shrinks and the Social Security Administration for my income. Maybe I can write and star in one-man shows about running.<br />
<br />
I'd like to get on with all that. And in a way, I am. But in another sense... it's hard to explain... it's like I have one more year left to serve... my term?... my sentence?... maybe both. All I know is that I'm not going to really feel free until April 16, 2015.<br />
<br />
Of course, there's a downside too. Without cancer, there'll be nobody left to blame but myself. I'll have lost the greatest excuse in the world. I'll be on my own.<br />
<br />
And in some ways, that's even scarier that a tumor.<br />
<br />
As for Cancer Boy? Well, there are some advantages to being a Minor Local Celebrity... It can be very good for the ego. But to be perfectly honest... I'm getting kind of sick of the son of a bitch.<br />
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pennsyltuckianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975720768947247949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29832397.post-53335416836781555892014-04-13T13:40:00.001-04:002014-04-13T13:44:07.631-04:00My Grownup Date With Heather Dugan<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLcyOR7hhYWx_rzyWmGtyu3Q1A1hRfzpgjx0pAG8INARR_W6sziNl4PrjfFJStzrAQ2KkNiZGS7E-_004s-WEUu3AWq1haMZxhQoALmOomBDM0deopEOScfhhJ_FpmEpf5k0yqLA/s1600/datelikeagrownup+cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLcyOR7hhYWx_rzyWmGtyu3Q1A1hRfzpgjx0pAG8INARR_W6sziNl4PrjfFJStzrAQ2KkNiZGS7E-_004s-WEUu3AWq1haMZxhQoALmOomBDM0deopEOScfhhJ_FpmEpf5k0yqLA/s1600/datelikeagrownup+cover.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Review: Dugan, Heather. <i>Date Like A
Grownup: anecdotes, admissions of guilt & advice between friends</i>. HDC
Press, Columbus, OH, 2014.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Heather Dugan does not want to go out with me again. Even though we’ve never
actually met, this hurts a little, because, Heather Dugan is a fine looking
middle-aged woman. She's attractive. She's fit. She's confident. Heather
doesn't walk, she strides. She's lean and muscular. She is successful, smart,
strong, and has fantastic hair. I would not ordinarily bring that up, but
Heather's looks are pretty much the subject of the cover of <i>Date Like A Grownup: anecdotes, admissions
of guilt & advice between friends.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That image is important because it is a picture of the person who is
going to be the reader’s friend and confidant for the next 200 pages or so.
You'll talk about a lot of things together. Not always easy things. The subject
is dating: "grownup" dating. This is not the game you learned in
school. This is a business for people with a few miles on the tires and a few
mistakes in the rear view mirror… and much less time to waste.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><i>Date Like A Grownup...</i> is a personal book, and for the most part, it seems
intended to help smart, beautiful, successful women like Heather to thrive in
their return to the dating world. As a 50-something returnee to that world, I
figured maybe I could pick up a few pointers.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I thought so, even after I realized that this was going to be a “women’s”
book. Imagine <i>Sex in the City</i> set in
Columbus, Ohio. There would be trips to the gym, gatherings after work to sip
(and sometimes gulp) wine, late night phone calls to manage crises, and struggles with blending a career, divorce, motherhood, and dating. Still, I
thought I’d play the eavesdropper for a while. Listen in on what the ladies
were talking about. Maybe it would help me to understand what women my age are
looking for? I have to confess, a lot of it was a little hard to hear.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">According to Dugan, if they are smart, grownup women aren’t looking for
men like me. I’m recently divorced, emotionally needy, financially troubled,
and I travel with more than my share of personal baggage. It was damned
discouraging. There were a couple of times that I just had to put the thing
down. I started to get a little mad.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Oh, sure, my friend Heather may smile warmly at me from the cover of
her book, but it turns out that behind my back, when she’s with her girlfriends,
she spends a lot of time warning them to avoid me. I felt a little betrayed.
Stung, you know. So I did what any guy would do. I took another look at that
cover photo.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Yeah, she spends all that time in the gym, and is always talking about her
abs, but I notice she’s a little baggy around the knees and shoulders too. The
smile is wide and bright, but the lips seem tight. Forced, am I right? And it’s
hard not to notice that the skin on her face and neck look much smoother and
younger than the legs and arms, as if a friend with Photoshop may have helped
out between glasses of cabernet. The sort of trick you might expect from a
middle aged sorority girl who treats first dates like job interviews….</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Was I being bitter? Sure. Also unfair. Definitely not grownup behavior.
I started to feel a little ashamed of myself.</span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So, I decided to try again. Maybe not take things so personally this
time. Find a way to get over being rejected by so attractive a woman, and try
to learn a little something from her.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Here are some of the things I learned about dating like a grownup, once
I got over myself.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Time is precious to grownup women. They have a lot of important things
going on. They volunteer. They work. They have kids and parents who depend on
them. They have houses and cars and bills and investments and all of those
things need their attention. A grownup woman isn’t sitting around waiting for
Mr. Right to come along and fill up her dance card. She is dancing already. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Grownups don’t need a partner to “complete” them. They’ve been there
and done that. They’ve known sweethearts, lovers, and husbands, and they’ve
learned that being alone is better than being with someone who doesn’t treat a you
the way you know you deserve to be treated. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Grownups don’t get swept away by personal charm or sexual heat. They
decide to date someone because it makes sense, because dating that person fits
into the rest of their life, because it moves them closer to their own goals
and values. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And here’s a biggie: grownups treat people with respect. They don’t
play dumb. They don’t play coy. They say what they mean, and mean what they
say. They respond courteously to all but the most offensive or dangerous attention.
Grownups don’t pretend to have feelings that aren’t there, and they have the
personal courage to say “No,” when it needs to be said. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Of all the lessons of <i>Date Like A
Grownup…</i> I think this is the one I most needed to hear myself: grownups,
know that trust is the foundation of any relationship. Dating like a grownup… no…
LIVING like a grownup means never doing or saying anything that makes you a
harder person to trust.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And that lesson of personal integrity is where I found the secret charm
of Dugan’s work. Because you see, this isn’t a book about dating at all. Not really.
It’s a book about growing up. Its story is about living life with joy and
friendship and honor, and choosing the time and people with whom you share that
life. Dugan didn’t teach me everything I needed to know about dating grownup
women. But she did point me toward becoming a more grownup man. And for that, I
am grateful.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Thanks, Heather. Even if I didn’t get a kiss goodnight.</span></div>
pennsyltuckianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975720768947247949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29832397.post-29206256330096125012014-04-09T17:49:00.002-04:002014-04-09T19:17:32.653-04:00Libby's Bench<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI1x2F5aKJDG41WYrOMRrbAwoYOXqPftdXFsjH6kYVh6gmNvjy-tYFDRZYHVZFv1FSWcWMepxmuFAg5hA-YqA_wUNKOd4g2hOlqia6LvXxL3YTWIPvcSzZrP0Q2CDp7NngEPjV6Q/s1600/100_6807.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI1x2F5aKJDG41WYrOMRrbAwoYOXqPftdXFsjH6kYVh6gmNvjy-tYFDRZYHVZFv1FSWcWMepxmuFAg5hA-YqA_wUNKOd4g2hOlqia6LvXxL3YTWIPvcSzZrP0Q2CDp7NngEPjV6Q/s1600/100_6807.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
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<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Weeping with the cherries by the grave of a friend I barely knew,</span></i></span></div>
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<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Canada Geese dancing their ancient dance of love on the water,</span></i></span></div>
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<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">April sun warms our backs like a benediction</span></i></span></div>
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<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; line-height: 18px;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></i></span>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI1x2F5aKJDG41WYrOMRrbAwoYOXqPftdXFsjH6kYVh6gmNvjy-tYFDRZYHVZFv1FSWcWMepxmuFAg5hA-YqA_wUNKOd4g2hOlqia6LvXxL3YTWIPvcSzZrP0Q2CDp7NngEPjV6Q/s1600/100_6807.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></a><span style="color: #37404e; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">I entered the gates intending to take a walk among the blossoms. The Lexington Cemetery is always beautiful, but especially now, In many ways she is the most precious jewel in our city's crown, and her stewards treat her with the dignity and reverence she deserves. In summer, she is a wash of light and shadow as the dense, cool leaves guard both visitors and residents from the burning July sun. But now, before the leaves have pricked through winter covers, the slopes are veiled with the pinks and whites of the early spring. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">I woke up early. My usual time. My morning appointment had called last night to cancel, and I intended to make good use of the extra time. I expected to be alone when the alarm sounded, but instead I was greeted by an old friend. Depression has been mercifully quiet for a few weeks. I always treasure the times when he stays away, hoping maybe he's finally lost my number. But he never really does. Instead, he came to me with a head full of numbers.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">Bank balances.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">Anniversaries.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">Months since this.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">Years since that.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">Even my blood pressure meter seemed determined to frustrate me, returning error after error before finally reporting a level so our of line with my "Normal" that I knew it was out of whack.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">Someone once asked, "What's therapy for, if you already have all the medications you need to stabilize your brain chemistry?"</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">Yeah. It's for mornings like this one.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">Negotiating the early stage of a depressive episode is like walking across a frozen pond in March. You think you know most of the places where the ice is thinnest, but you're never sure if the step that was safe yesterday will send you cracking through into the frigid darkness today. I've fallen through many times. I don't like it down there. There was a time when standing frozen in place was an option for me. No more. There's no cavalry coming. There's only one way off the pond for me now. So I began to quietly shuffle toward the shore, one tiny step at a time.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">Bathroom</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">Start the coffee</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">Record daily metrics: weight, BP, Hours of sleep, Body fat percentage</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">Check the day's schedule</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">Make the bed</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">Shower</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">Dress for first class</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">Breakfast</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">Morning Meds</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">Bank Balance</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">Email, Facebook, Journal</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #37404e; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Each sliding step is part of a mindful routine. I wonder, do healthy people do all this stuff without thinking?. When you're sick, you have to tip-toe through each task, listening for the warning signs of thawing ice. Grief for lost love? Crack. Slide back a foot, and take a deep whiff of the fresh coffee grounds. Anxious about work, the bosses' plans, my own success, my clients' progress? Snap! Stop, reach a toe to the left, and feel the peppermint of the soap as it lathers on your chest and arms. Frustration at the puffy feeling in the knee that is better today but still not 100% even though I have two miles to run wtih the kids tonight? Crunch! Touch the yielding of the mushrooms as you slice them carefully with the big chopping knife.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">When unreality threatens to trip me by the leg, my best response it always to find the closest, most real thing I can find and embrace it. The Shrink calls it "Mindfulness." Depression and anxiety don't want you to be mindful. Maybe that's where they get the expression "out of his mind." The sickness wants you lost in a world or shouldn't-haves and what-ifs. The tyranny of the things you can't change. The crushing squeeze of the Then and There. Mindfulness drills you down into the Here and Now. It asks "What's really happening? And what is the best thing for me to do right now?" That's important. Because when you're crossing thin ice, it really doesn't matter how thick it was yesterday. You need to know what's happening this very second.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">So I tip-toed through the morning, congratulating myself just a little every time I managed to change directions each time I felt the footing start to give way. It might be a dark thought. Or a wave of nostalgia. Sometimes, it's just a deep, </span>uncontrollable<span style="font-family: inherit;"> sob that starts so far down in my chest that I can only open my mouth and let it out with a single grunting cough. But one by one, I managed to get through them. Step by step, I made my way to the shore. Safe. For now.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I made a plan. Class in the afternoon. Run in the evening. And in between, I would find someplace, anyplace beautiful and just be there. Last night, before bed, I had been thinking about the weeping cherries at the </span>Cemetery<span style="font-family: inherit;">. I would go there, and try to walk some of the soreness out of my aching knee.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixD1Pnzoh2xXCj4gLYVq3WdAlmnEKMB9dXmRWakMuwbzd3FMBefHXt3aNQ7MZyfhAPrkabR4h6vdqKFDFm87c-InVdz6m_tWRQIkackPrwJZV48RoEujQd9rNvl6KArf_LeSSuyA/s1600/1-100_6824.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixD1Pnzoh2xXCj4gLYVq3WdAlmnEKMB9dXmRWakMuwbzd3FMBefHXt3aNQ7MZyfhAPrkabR4h6vdqKFDFm87c-InVdz6m_tWRQIkackPrwJZV48RoEujQd9rNvl6KArf_LeSSuyA/s1600/1-100_6824.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> I drove to the ponds, my favorite spot, and parked next to a sign that warned of deep water and banned swimming and fishing. Because who wouldn't want to spend the day splashing around in the water down at the graveyard? A huge Canada gander eyed me suspiciously as I stepped out of the car and slipped my backpack over my shoulders. There were probably thirty geese lounging on and around the water. Scofflaws, obviously. I greeted the big male with quiet respect, and then we each waddled off in our own directions.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I snapped a couple of pictures, hoping to catch something of the beauty of the day, but I knew that they wouldn't really catch it. You just can't squeeze a Kentucky April into a little digital box. There's too much color. Too many textures. The fragrances are too rich and the music of the geese and the water and the breeze through the blossoms is just too complex to be abstracted down into a sentence or a snapshot. And just as I was rounding a bend where an old Elder arched tall and strong out over the water, I saw Libby's bench.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJD-TgMAWzk_WyLoYZvKMSDqef6fG7Gfxl80Yq-mxOdU0LJDK5pX_6RfMlFTMGh8fRI6qrRwQL4dxU2Jqwpgb9ubz02LQJnqEFX5wRls6Jys8F0fennyx-Ms56xUV2HdZfj5EAPw/s1600/1-100_6843.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJD-TgMAWzk_WyLoYZvKMSDqef6fG7Gfxl80Yq-mxOdU0LJDK5pX_6RfMlFTMGh8fRI6qrRwQL4dxU2Jqwpgb9ubz02LQJnqEFX5wRls6Jys8F0fennyx-Ms56xUV2HdZfj5EAPw/s1600/1-100_6843.JPG" height="228" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I had known Libby. We weren't friends. Not really. We went to the same church. She sang in the choir. I remember learning that she had cancer. The colorful </span>bandannas<span style="font-family: inherit;"> she would wear, always laughing and smiling. The way she would hold her kids in her arms. The way she insisted on enjoying life, no matter how hard those last few weeks were going to be for her. I remember thinking how strong her husband seemed to be, and wondered what his secret moments must be like. And I remember her funeral, a resurrection mass, a joyful </span>remembrance<span style="font-family: inherit;"> of a woman who turned her life and death into a gift for everyone who knew her. Her stone is here, by this beautiful pond, and nearby is this bench. It's a place where people can come and sit and enjoy the loveliness of the place for a little while. It's Libby's gift to anyone who needs it. Today, she offered it to me. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">There in the sunshine as the fountain splashed and the geese scolded and posed and preened and teased one another, I finally let the tears out. I cried for everything and nothing. I cried for Libby's husband. For my wife. For the courage and suffering of the warriors I have known who fought cancer to the death. For my own sadness and failures. Other visitors passed by, diving slowly, snapping pictures of the geese and the blossoms and the sun on the water, carefully avoiding the big man on the stone bench whose broad back and shoulders shook with grief for the loss of who knows what or who. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf0OhC6X1hP_IycIaTFSmEQFwiJwDjXjiNKiMdH_A8mZUzT70nCWdlflSD04lqrunFBh1CTZw2Y6bRGPIYH2OxSH9nO6FmrsopPGMmXx3Yb65YkZ8Vghw7F66biMQU7Rw8ITx7DA/s1600/1-100_6849.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf0OhC6X1hP_IycIaTFSmEQFwiJwDjXjiNKiMdH_A8mZUzT70nCWdlflSD04lqrunFBh1CTZw2Y6bRGPIYH2OxSH9nO6FmrsopPGMmXx3Yb65YkZ8Vghw7F66biMQU7Rw8ITx7DA/s1600/1-100_6849.JPG" height="228" width="320" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlpyP08BlfK0-9GcQ_b2vtWYoQAkVkqzqGmOgg4KlY3We5Vb1BFs9oTtqJ3wC9A-ejW1wm0tM11HODMYMchkUbNZ3KNLbQEWTNT7dG7LUGen5fPPXot1CW3t848gqzXWT4sIMsrQ/s1600/1-100_6864.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlpyP08BlfK0-9GcQ_b2vtWYoQAkVkqzqGmOgg4KlY3We5Vb1BFs9oTtqJ3wC9A-ejW1wm0tM11HODMYMchkUbNZ3KNLbQEWTNT7dG7LUGen5fPPXot1CW3t848gqzXWT4sIMsrQ/s1600/1-100_6864.JPG" height="228" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;">To my right, a pair of geese courted delicately. Elegantly, even. She, feigning indifference, as he rose up tall, puffing up his handsome white chest for her benefit, or else scooting across the surface of the water with neck outstretched and wings spread menacingly to warn off any other young males who might be too interested in his sweetheart. After several attempts to win her attention, he made his way to the stone wall where he sat in the sun, licking his wounded pride, and pining for her from afar as she rolled and splashed alone in the water, just out of reach. Though she seemed to be quite unaware of his presence, whenever his attention wandered to a distant movement or a particularly tiresome ruffle in his own feathers, she would give her tail a shake, snapping his ebony eyes right back to her like... well... like a lovesick goose, I suppose. The last time I saw them, she had finally allowed him to sidle in beside her. They paddled off together toward the opposite shore and what I hope will be a long and happy ending for both of them.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">On my way back to the car, I picked up a food carton someone had left lying beside the road. The same big gander who had greeted me when I arrived nodded approvingly as I dropped it in a steel trash can. "Thanks for your hospitality, Old Man. Take good care of the place, will you?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">He didn't answer, just gave the tiniest of Canadian smiles out of the corner of his bill, then stood his web footed ground as I started the car and drove off into the April sunshine.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">They aren't always easy, these days of spring thaw. But if you step carefully, keep your eyes open, and accept </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">the gifts you are given... you never know what treasures might be waiting on the shore.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Peace,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Pennsy</span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWPsfSCwJyqJ70o0qPvRWG5AS_VgHH6YENTjxqWSbl10hy5Vu1ipMdp4k1lQ3fT7hWkQxXfpea7t5-Z7TQtp5kwccrN2b6hVPuxXjDC7LCI7zLmTI43iwWjh2BKNK2AC7dwa_W5A/s1600/Iron+Horse+2011+022.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWPsfSCwJyqJ70o0qPvRWG5AS_VgHH6YENTjxqWSbl10hy5Vu1ipMdp4k1lQ3fT7hWkQxXfpea7t5-Z7TQtp5kwccrN2b6hVPuxXjDC7LCI7zLmTI43iwWjh2BKNK2AC7dwa_W5A/s1600/Iron+Horse+2011+022.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.31999969482422px;">Running is my teacher. She is patient and forgiving, but also relentless and rigorously honest. She welcomes me back, even after a long absence, but she never forgives snow days, and she never gives extra credit. Her grades are hard to earn, but hard lessons have a way of rooting more deeply than the easy ones do. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.31999969482422px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.31999969482422px;">I love to run long distances. Love it. Love. It. Two miles? Four miles? Six miles? Yeah, they can feel like work sometimes. Those routine runs that you squeeze in before dawn or over lunch or after work, just to keep up your conditioning. The ones where you have one eye on your watch because you're shooting for the right training pace, or you're checking your cadence or you have a time goal to hit... they can be a chore some days. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.31999969482422px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.31999969482422px;">But the long ones... oh the Long Slow pleasure of ten or sixteen or twenty miles on a Saturday morning... whether you're watching the fog burning off the hills, or dodging the bread trucks as they make their deliveries... The initial warm up as your heart begins to race, then calm itself to find its steady rhythm. The mindful attention to every curve and bend, each hill and rise making your eyes widen with anticipation or narrow with delight. The fire deep inside that flares or smolders, fueling muscles and nerves as you stride silently along the road, feeling texture and temperature through your feet, your hands, your face. And ultimately comes the moment you disappear. You are no longer breathing; you are breath. No pain. No will. No thought. You are pure presence. You are no longer running. You simply are.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.31999969482422px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.31999969482422px;">Once you've been there, you want to go back. You dream about it. </span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.31999969482422px;">It's a holy place.</span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.31999969482422px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.31999969482422px;">But the chances to get there are rare. And they don't come cheap.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It takes time. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Lots of time. You have to invest the hours. You have to earn the miles. You don't run twenty-six point six just because you want to. You have to earn it. You have to run eighteen first. And fifteen. And ten. Not just once, but many times. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Running rewards respect... Disrespect her and she will humble you. With pain. With setbacks. With injuries. You're going to doubt yourself. You don't have the strength. You don't have the legs. Too slow. Too fat. Too far behind. Your heart will break along the way. It will break. And when that happens, you have to learn to keep running.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">You have to learn to run with a broken heart.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And that takes trust.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">You have to trust yourself. You will get stronger. You will. Every step will make you stronger. Believe it. Your heart will learn to beat again. Injured joints will mend. Burning lungs will clear. They will. You have to trust that. You have no choice. You can trust, or you can quit. Because only your trust will keep you out there on the road. In the weight room. In the whirlpool. Going wherever you have to go, doing whatever you have to do to earn HER trust. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">She has to learn to trust you, too. Because you see, she is more than a teacher. She has secrets you can only guess at... and stories you've never heard before. She will show you things inside yourself that you didn't know were there. And she will give you parts of herself that you never imagined could exist. She will tease you, amuse you, frustrate you, lead you on, and shut you down. And one day, if you are faithful and lucky, she will open her arms, and give you the most sacred part of herself.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">In my life, running and I have gone to heaven together. But always on her terms. She has no use for my good intentions or heartfelt desire. She doesn't care about what I've written or the books I've read. She needs to know me, and needs me to know her. She needs to know that I will be there. That I will give her my time. That I will honor her trust.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Only then will she open her arms to me and welcome me into her heart. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">There is a place out there on the road. Marathoners call it "The Wall." Physiologists will tell you that it's the place where your glycogen stores are exhausted and there is nothing left in the tank for the engine of your body to use for fuel. You hit the wall and you crash. You bonk. You fail. Nothing but will, training, and insanity can get you past The Wall. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But if you are lucky, she will be there waiting for you. She will let you keep going. You don't earn those miles. . Those are the ones she gives you. </span>They come from her heart.<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">That's when you've learned your lessons. That's when running loves you back.</span><br />
<br />
<br />pennsyltuckianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975720768947247949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29832397.post-73347152875960924172014-03-24T01:00:00.001-04:002014-03-24T01:02:05.030-04:00To See and Be Seen<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwOs7xnI2LZ2uEEuosIYBrPQ0IPqA6U8WDRRbnEWUwFQ2n1PkcySZNJFijBZX-V544twuYebmN0Xm2VPoxDvWb8L5_6aWbRmgpkLJ5444urOulBf7Fg9IpVF2mxju8p2jRP_YtEg/s640/blogger-image--773431003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwOs7xnI2LZ2uEEuosIYBrPQ0IPqA6U8WDRRbnEWUwFQ2n1PkcySZNJFijBZX-V544twuYebmN0Xm2VPoxDvWb8L5_6aWbRmgpkLJ5444urOulBf7Fg9IpVF2mxju8p2jRP_YtEg/s640/blogger-image--773431003.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I've been contemplating this guy for a few days now. In the waning days of winter, I used an old lion for my profile picture on Facebook. But with the first day of spring, I wanted to make a change. I have always identified with these beautiful animals. Their strength. Their ferocious loyalty. When you grow up big and maybe a little too sensitive for your own good, you don't really connect with the cheetahs and the rabbits. So you can either resent the "big ape" thing, or else embrace it and make the best of what you have. I was never very good at chest pounding or swatting fighter planes out of the sky, but the dark browed, broad shouldered scowl came in handy on the subway a couple of nights. It's good to have it in the repertoire when you need it.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">But ferocity isn't what attracted me to Old Silverback here. It was his eyes. They seemed to see. As much as I would love to be the kind of guy who sweeps the pretty girl off her feet and carries her to the top of the Empire State building, I think I'd rather be one who can look at her the way this fellow is looking. To see. To regard. To accept. To respect.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">He isn't seeing himself in her. His failures. His fears. Those aren't eyes that imagine and project. They are eyes that embrace and perceive. He isn't afraid to know the truth. He isn't afraid to see what's really there.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Maybe that is because he isn't afraid to be seen. When I consider those strange, yet familiar eyes, I see open windows that let the truth pass through in both directions. He is able to know, because he is willing to be known. His strength is his defenselessness. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">He seems like the kind of guy who isn't afraid to take the time to get to know you. Or to give you all the time you need to do the same thing.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I want to be that kind of an ape. One who can look without staring. Who can see without judging. Who regards each detail with curiosity and reverence, and treats your love as a sacred trust, a holy exchange of personhoods.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Too often, instead of a gorilla I have been a chattering carnival monkey. Grabbing and snatching. Clinging to scraps and squirrreling them away as if I were certain that the supply could never last. Too many times, I have blurted and blundered my way out of love with impatience. "Take this," I cry. "Take me. All of me. Now. Today." As if love were a desperate race against time. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">But the monkey isn't pressed for time. He is haunted by fear. "Take me or leave me," he cries, " But for god's sake, get it over with. Don't make me wait for the rejection that I know is coming anyway." He thinks he's being brave, stripping naked for you to see<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">. But really, he is a coward. He doesn't have the courage to wait for you to undress him yourself.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">So I chose this beautiful old Mountain Gorilla to be my spirit guide for the spring. I hope he teaches me to see and be seen. I want to learn his courage and confidence. I want to learn his quiet strength and his tender patience. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">When I contemplate those eyes, I see... I suppose the word I'm looking for is "Presence." He isn't thinking about what's next. He isn't a million miles away. When Old Silverback looks at you, he says, "I am here with you. I see you. See me." </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">If that isn't love, what is?</span></div>pennsyltuckianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975720768947247949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29832397.post-17399371491618622992014-03-05T17:47:00.002-05:002014-03-05T17:49:34.317-05:00Lenten Littany of ThanksgivingBecause there is no bad time to say "Thank You..."<br />
<br />
Especially Ash Wednesday...<br />
<br />
I give thee thanks, oh Lord.<br />
<br />
<br />
For this sun shining, snow melting, eye blinding, face warming, gawd-amighty beautiful day after the last winter storm of the year...<br />
<br />
For people whose hard work and joy inspire and infect me, even on my darkest days...<br />
<br />
For a car that runs...<br />
<br />
For a snug, warm hat, given to me by a friend...<br />
<br />
For locker room talk that isn't what you think it is at all...<br />
<br />
For a heart that keeps on pumping...<br />
<br />
I give thee thanks, oh Lord.<br />
<br />
<br />
For the touch of the Doc who first laid hands on my throat and knew that something very, very wrong...<br />
<br />
For the friends who text you while you're in the waiting room to let you know they're thinking of you...<br />
<br />
For the almost-secret parking lot for the walking almost-dead that lets you step out of your car and almost-right into the lobby of the Markey Cancer Center, instead of having to hike from a garage somewhere...<br />
<br />
For an amazing device that lets the surgeon slip a video camera down your throat and shows you all the pink healthy tissue where the cancer used to live...<br />
<br />
For insurance that lets me get the treatment and medicine I need to stay in the game...<br />
<br />
I give thee thanks, oh Lord.<br />
<br />
<br />
For Mediterranean Lentils at the Good Foods Cafe...<br />
<br />
For the itty bitty bars of verrrrry dark chocolate that you can buy at the register on the way out...<br />
<br />
For the chance to hang around and live this wonderful, ordinary, unremarkable, unforgettable day...<br />
<br />
I give Thee thanks, Oh Lord.<br />
<br />
<br />
Peace,<br />
<br />
Pennsy<br />
<br />pennsyltuckianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975720768947247949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29832397.post-78657979042278718652014-03-01T09:31:00.000-05:002014-03-01T09:31:28.617-05:00God Bless You, Old Lion<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV9tVKRP3WNmqgF0w9pO0ZDf49H02uT9OycaBNNkFtGvVOypEkglGrpvJRWszn55sNyxbLxY0AtIT1xdzZMQaupmBK06-uxujG0SWPiOuZjveZxZtd_xk3tP-0TFvpCCkKedgPWQ/s1600/the+old+lion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV9tVKRP3WNmqgF0w9pO0ZDf49H02uT9OycaBNNkFtGvVOypEkglGrpvJRWszn55sNyxbLxY0AtIT1xdzZMQaupmBK06-uxujG0SWPiOuZjveZxZtd_xk3tP-0TFvpCCkKedgPWQ/s1600/the+old+lion.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
There's a slogan I've been seeing a lot on Facebook lately. "The lion does not trouble himself about the opinions of sheep," or words to that effect. I find it arrogant and disrespectful. I have pretty low self-esteem, but even I can't imagine how badly you have to feel about yourself before you find comfort in the thought that you are the lone, brave, strong creature surrounded by flocks of cowards and followers. And the Lion deserves better.<br />
<br />
I was born under constellation of the Lion at the end of a hot July in Pittsburgh. I've always been inspired by the fire of the Lion. The sharp eyes. The rippling shoulders. The sandy color. The strength. Devotion to the Pride. I've always wished I could be more like the Lion of Summer.<br />
<br />
But today is March 1, and there is another Lion on my mind. Ferocious. Powerful. Deadly. And dying. Whenever I picture March coming "in like a lion," I never see the mighty hunter, leader of the Pride, dreadful and courageous, standing on a rise roaring out his claim on everything he surveys. The Lion of March is an old lion. A few weeks ago, he could freeze the world with a low rumble from his mighty chest or a puff from his nostrils. Not long ago, a swipe of his giant paw brought whole cities to a standstill. Today, he is still dangerous. There is still power in those broad shoulders, but there is grey under the chin. His vision is still sharp, but he has to squint a little to see into the distance. There is still power in his stride, but he rises stiffly. He is still the King. But no longer the King he once was.<br />
<br />
Last night, I was feeling pretty agitated. I had left the house early that day with an ambitious list of tasks... things that I had chosen and that mattered to me... and seemed to hit roadblocks at every turn. Procedures. Attitudes. The things I wanted were so simple. The people I needed to help me were so unwilling. Finally, I went home, too angry and frustrated to trust myself in public. I know when my temper is close to boiling. I start swearing to myself. I've learned that if I don't get away from people pretty quickly once that starts, I end up saying things that are stupid and cruel.... sort of along the lines of "the lion does not trouble himself..."<br />
<br />
So I went home. Locked the door. Grabbed the ice cream. Screw it. I'll get drunk in a minute. Right now, I'm going to eat. Whatever the hell I want. As much as I want. I don't care.<br />
<br />
I was angry. I wanted to hurt someone... so I decided to hurt myself.<br />
<br />
I really don't know what changed my mind. I've been working on a new habit. I've been keeping a food diary. So without really thinking about it, I took the open half gallon of Mint Chocolate Chip and the spoon and walked to my computer to log them. Curious, I entered the value that would add the calories, fat, sugar, from half a gallon - 8 cups - of ice cream. And I stared at the number. Just under 3000 calories. Just about what I burned during my last Marathon. Was I really that angry? Did I hate myself that much? Enough to erase a Marathon's worth of progress in a 20 minute binge of self destruction?<br />
<br />
It wasn't the sheep's opinion I had to worry about, you see. It was the lion's. It was my own opinion.<br />
<br />
I put the carton back in the freezer. Chopped some peppers and onions. Cooked some beans and rice. Printed the workout I had decided to put off till the weekend.<br />
<br />
After supper, I went to the gym. Treadmill. Weight room. Stationary bike. Almost two hours worth. Around 1600 calories burned. As I walked out into the corridor, drenched, with my clipboard in one hand and my empty water bottle in the other, my soaked towel draped over my head, a woman said something to me that I didn't hear. Headphones. I pulled them out and said, "Sorry? What?"<br />
<br />
"I don't know how you do it." She looked like she might be around thirty five. Very pretty. Very heavy. Was she somebody's mom? Was she here on a Friday night to watch her kids play basketball, or to try to keep her New Year's resolution, or just to be someplace besides home alone? I didn't ask.<br />
<br />
"I don't have any choice. I can either do this, or die a fat old man."<br />
<br />
I didn't add, "like my father." But that's what I was thinking. I may be an old lion. And I may be so filled with anger and hate sometimes that I have to go hide before I bust... but I am not ready to die.<br />
<br />
Not yet.<br />
<br />
So, roar on, you old Lion of Winter. The weather prophets say you have a few more good fights in you before March goes out like a lamb. Bring 'em on. Don't give up, you old Lion.<br />
<br />
Because every time you find the strength for one more hunt, one more fight, one more shout over the frozen ground that tells the world that you aren't dead yet... you give this old lion hope.<br />
<br />
Roar on, Old Lion.pennsyltuckianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975720768947247949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29832397.post-77092166275805274112014-02-28T10:09:00.001-05:002014-02-28T10:11:28.195-05:00A Parable<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaa4PmHyXB4q0E2ES-ee6Qaz3us_41X-VFz7ExiwvalsXxMQcyfWfS7QXNr3kaCEJjvyFZlnWwlOYyQD-bAv0tXfPSb05VnvlSDZslLGn1qtjyQLIVIdUlzqup-9m6YB5pcQSJ/s1600/House+download+005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaa4PmHyXB4q0E2ES-ee6Qaz3us_41X-VFz7ExiwvalsXxMQcyfWfS7QXNr3kaCEJjvyFZlnWwlOYyQD-bAv0tXfPSb05VnvlSDZslLGn1qtjyQLIVIdUlzqup-9m6YB5pcQSJ/s1600/House+download+005.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
A certain man went to see his physician. "What is wrong with me?" the sick man asked.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"You are dying, my friend," answered the doctor.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Trying not to cry, the man said, "I've been lying on my bed, waiting to get better."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"That's not going to happen. You are going to die."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"What can I do?"</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
<i><b>"You can lie on your bed, waiting to die. Or you can get up and live."</b></i></div>
pennsyltuckianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975720768947247949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29832397.post-89049605315681677192014-02-03T10:38:00.002-05:002014-02-03T11:00:58.209-05:00Links in a Broken Chain<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/k0t0EW6z8a0" width="420"></iframe><br />
<br />
I'm trying so hard to gather all these thoughts into paragraphs. But real life tragedy is much more difficult to organize than the literary kind.<br />
<br />
An addict isn't any more weak or wicked or villainous or sinful than a sober person. An addict is just someone who hurts, and is willing to try anything to create some space between their heart and the pain.<br />
<br />
I don't believe that great artists necessarily become addicts because of their genius or their capacity for deep feeling. But I do think people who feel deeply often turn to art as a way to try and make sense of the feelings that the world has no other place for. And addicts feel both joy and pain to an unbearable degree.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.mnartists.org/uploads/users/user_4569/75a764f013d7b8c887846e3d98ef74a3/75a764f013d7b8c887846e3d98ef74a3_scale_516_519.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://www.mnartists.org/uploads/users/user_4569/75a764f013d7b8c887846e3d98ef74a3/75a764f013d7b8c887846e3d98ef74a3_scale_516_519.jpg" height="200" width="198" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><h1 style="color: #444444; display: inline; font-family: Trebuchet, 'Trebuchet MS', Arial, Helvetica; line-height: 16px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 4px; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.mnartists.org/work.do?rid=290398">Stations of the Cross, #9</a> Jesus Falls a Third Time<br />John Ilg</span></h1>
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It is both inexcusably naive and terribly cruel to sit in judgement of another's inability to stand up under the weight of their own cross. Or to judge their cross based on the weight of your own.<br />
<br />
Suffering is not currency. There are no mitigating circumstances that make a celebrity's pain worth less than a homeless junkie's. And no, you would not trade a day of your life for Philip Seymour Hoffman's.<br />
<br />
The difference between hiding inside a gallon of ice cream or a fifth of bourbon or a 60 hour work week or a carton of Marlboros or a needle full of smack is only one of degree. It's just that you don't find dead food junkies with a needle full of Krispy Kremes hanging out of their arm.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.addiction-recovery.com/images/the_twelve_steps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://www.addiction-recovery.com/images/the_twelve_steps.jpg" height="320" width="251" /></a>Accepting that you are powerless is not the same thing as admitting you are a victim. There's a reason there are TWELVE steps to sobriety, not just one.<br />
<br />
Addicts have children. They have parents. Friends. Lovers. Mentors. Neighbors. Fans. And while death is the end of an addict's suffering, it is the beginning of a whole new chapter of pain for the ones left behind.<br />
<br />
It is very hard not to hate the people we love, for not loving themselves more.<br />
<br />
<h1 class="quoteText" style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px 0px 15px; padding: 0px;">
<i>Death ends a life, but it does not end a relationship, which struggles on in the survivor's mind toward some resolution which it may never find.</i> ~ <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/105971.Robert_Anderson" style="color: #666600; text-decoration: none;">Robert Anderson</a></h1>
<div>
The only way for tragedy to have any meaning is if we make it a source of courage, of compassion, of inspiration. Watching "Capote" made me want to be a better actor. I need learning and writing about the death of this blessed but unhappy man to make me a better friend, son, lover, and brother.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfCJ7TJeXnPSO3l4FJDygaZTi5EBOVY72tI5-M5EX69qTU6_XPD8llp-DNSvI54316zvV280O67w6EUd7xfU7MNEyh5Z1o1PBAlORp-sbz6a8jtFVUPoqPOI1-fwFIZ7xQFmCJ4A/s1600/theater-death-salesman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfCJ7TJeXnPSO3l4FJDygaZTi5EBOVY72tI5-M5EX69qTU6_XPD8llp-DNSvI54316zvV280O67w6EUd7xfU7MNEyh5Z1o1PBAlORp-sbz6a8jtFVUPoqPOI1-fwFIZ7xQFmCJ4A/s1600/theater-death-salesman.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Linda, Willy, Biff<br />
<a href="https://draft.blogger.com/From%20left%20to%20right:%20Linda%20Emond,%20Philip%20Seymour%20Hoffman%20and%20Andrew%20Garfield%20before%20a%20March%202012%20performance%20of%20%E2%80%98Death%20of%20a%20Salesman.%E2%80%99%20%20Read%20more:%20http://www.nydailynews.com/entertainment/tv-movies/philip-seymour-hoffman-stage-work-article-1.1599678#ixzz2sH5Nu9nq">New York Daily News</a></td></tr>
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I am sad that I won't get a chance to see your Willy Loman, or your Torvold, or your Lear. I am sad that I won't ever get to shake your hand and thank you for the hours I spent in dark cinemas, my jaw slack with amazement at your work. I am sad that your life was so very full of suffering. But deep down, I'm glad that you are finally free from the pain. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
If I seem a bit confused and scattered about my feelings, it may be because deep, deep down, there is a secret part of me that envies your freedom just a little bit... And that scares the living shit out of me.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I am alive. And you are dead. And that doesn't say a damn thing about you or about me. All I know is that the only reason I'm not in that hole with you is that God sent me people who loved me and showed me that my life was worth loving. And before I throw my little handful of dirt onto the box and turn back toward the world that tore your heart apart... I just want you to know that your struggle makes me want to live even more... to love even more... and to be a source of the kind of hope and courage that you, my brother, were never able to find. Just in case the next PSH crosses my path one of these days...</div>
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Peace,</div>
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Pennsy</div>
pennsyltuckianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975720768947247949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29832397.post-44422021767552152032014-02-02T17:29:00.000-05:002014-02-02T17:42:16.201-05:00Anger and Sadness at the passing of Philip Seymour Hoffmann<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://media.aintitcool.com/media/uploads/2013/papa_vinyard/philip-seymour-hoffman-pool_big.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://media.aintitcool.com/media/uploads/2013/papa_vinyard/philip-seymour-hoffman-pool_big.jpg" height="189" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> Philip Seymour Hoffmann<br />1967 - 2014<br />"Every junkie's like a setting sun..."</td></tr>
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So many messages of sadness about PSH. I can't seem to get past being angry. I read the news just before leaving for the gym for my workout and by the time I got there, I was furious. I added weight to every rep, and reps to every set, but no matter how much my muscles strained and burned, I couldn't stop stewing and thinking.<br />
<br />
About the talented young actors I went to school with who never made it.<br />
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About the parents who are so ashamed, but still force themselves to ask for help as they fill out the financial aid request form so their kids can get into swimming lessons or play basketball at the Y.<br />
<br />
About the 'Can Man" who pushes a grocery cart up and down North Broadway laden with bags of the dirty aluminum he collects so he can afford a cheap room and enough beer to put him to sleep at night.<br />
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About my fellow patients in the mental hospital who refused to let depression and addiction rob them of their will to live.<br />
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About the two guys who sleep side by side, on sheets of cardboard, under filthy blankets, in the open pavilion at the head of the Legacy Trail, where I lace up my $100 shoes and run for fun.<br />
<br />
Every one of them with a thousand reasons to wish they were dead. And every one of them refusing to give up.<br />
<br />
By the time I hit the treadmill for my cool down, I was seething with so much rage that I felt a little bit dangerous. Then I looked up and saw "B." B is around 11 or 12 years old. He is much smaller than the other kids his age, and he gets bullied a lot at school. He is also smarter, funnier, more determined, and much, much faster. He could easily win his age group when we run in the big races with Run This Town. Instead, last fall, B chose to train with the smallest, youngest member of our team. He coached the little guy along for two months, and when race day came, instead of competing for hardware in his age group, or even the overall standings, B ran side by side with his charge: they crossed the finish line together.<br />
<br />
Yeah, it's sad when a talented, famous, successful millionaire kills himself. I hope he is free now from whatever demons were haunting him. But PSH was blessed with an awful lot of things in life, and an awful lot of young people looked up to him. A lot of kids wanted to be like him. And I'm angry.<br />
<br />
Angry at him for giving up on life, and dying on the floor with an Oscar on the mantle and a needle in his arm.<br />
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Angry at myself for every time I've turned to food or tobacco or work or bourbon... looking for a place to hide from life.<br />
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Angry at my friends who think they are too smart or strong or lucky to get tripped up by their addictions the way PSH was this morning.<br />
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And just when my anger threatens to become as toxic as a bloody hypodermic in the gutter at the corner of Bedford and Grand, I lift my mind's eye down the hall, and see B on the pool deck... clowning and encouraging a young swimmer who's even smaller than he is.... then diving into the long blue lane, and slicing the length of it like a joyful dolphin.<br />
<br />
Now that I think of it, I guess I am more sad than angry about Philip Seymour Hoffmann's death. He wasn't cut out to be anybody's hero. That may be the only part he ever came across that he couldn't play the hell out of. I sure wish he'd had a chance to meet one of my heroes, though. Maybe B could have shown him that life really is worth living.<br />
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Funny how a man's role models can change over time, isn't it?<br />
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Rest in Peace, PSH. I hope you've finally found the peace that seemed to always elude you here.<br />
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Pennsypennsyltuckianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975720768947247949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29832397.post-61192936074412050022013-12-30T16:09:00.000-05:002013-12-30T16:18:55.128-05:00New Years: Goodbye 13, Hello 14<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><i>I apologize for the length of this post... I really did intend to break it up, but it all just sort of poured out at once, a little like pulling off a band-aid. Anyway, if you choose to ride along to the end of the track, I hope it's worth the trip.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><i>Pennsy</i></span></span><br />
<i><b><span style="background-color: white; font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></b></i>
<i><b><span style="background-color: white; font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 16px;">Lessons learned are like bridges burned</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 16px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 16px;">You only need to cross them but once</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 16px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 16px;">Is the knowledge gained worth the price of the pain?</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 16px;" /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 16px;">Are the spoils worth the cost of the hunt?</span></b></i><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 16px;"><i><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Lessons Learned</i> ~ Dan Fogelberg</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">Some pretty important bridges burned for me in 2013. And to be honest, I've stared at the places where they used to be for just about long enough. It's time to turn my eyes away from the shadows and back toward the light. But first, one last long look. There are a few pearls I don't want to leave lying in the mud.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><b>January - New Year, new goals.</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">Get that personal trainer certification. Run a thousand miles this year. Raise $6000 for LIVESTRONG at the YMCA. Grow the program into new locations. Take Martha on a real vacation. Get faster and stronger. Finish my second marathon. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">I learned the joy of knowing where you want to go, and sticking to your plans to get there. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><b>February - Goodbye old man</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">Brady, the majestic old Golden Retriever who greeted us when we first moved into our new house, who started staying with us one rainy day when his dad had to work and wasn't home to let him inside, who had been growing a little more stiff and tired with each passing winter day, turned and snapped as me one night as I tried to comfort his aching hips with a gentle massage. He was in so much pain that he couldn't stand. I lifted him in my arms, and carried him across the yard to his dad and we wept together for this old friend who had so touched both of our hearts. Brady was never "my dog," but he took a piece of my heart, and left a bit of himself in its place. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">God bless you, old man. You taught me dignity and friendship, even in suffering. I was going to need those lessons sooner than I could have known.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><b>March - Living Strong</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">After training hard with Coach Carrie for months to build core strength and increase my speed, I launched my Fundraiser and my spring racing season with a bang. Lowered my time in the Shamrock Shuffle 3K by a ridiculous 3:40. Finished the month with another PR in the Run The Bluegrass Half Marathon in the best shape of my life. Accepted a new position as head trainer of the first LIVESTRONG at the YMCA program in Scott County. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">I learned how perseverance and commitment could make me better than I ever imagined I could be.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><b>April - It all goes to shit</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">I notice my Blood pressure readings are steadily increasing. The doc sees me right away and orders me to stop running until we can learn if the new meds will stabilize me. I'm running a marathon in three weeks. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">At a YMCA workshop I overhear a conversation that was not meant for my ears, and learn that my friend, mentor, and beloved Coach Melissa is leaving for a new job. In two weeks. I go home, tell Martha the news, and begin crying, almost without interruption for the next month. I increase my therapist visits from once a month to twice a week.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">Once the doc gives the go ahead, I'm back on the road. piling up miles, my pre-race training schedule shot to hell. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">There are tearful meetings at the Y. Attempts at business as usual. Attempts to say goodbye. Attempts to teach a new class. All dissolve into tears. I ask for, and am granted an indefinite leave of absence from the best job of my life, afraid I will never be able to return. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">At their annual banquet, the YMCA of Central Kentucky gives me an award for service. I am so ashamed. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">Coach leaves. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">The marathon is a blur. I cry as I run in the rain, feeling as lonely as I ever have in my life. Mrs P is trapped in traffic, and doesn't get to see me finish. I wander the streets of Cincinnati, feeling as if even God has forgotten where I am. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">The next day, Martha tells me the family suspects I must be having an affair because I'm so upset over Coach leaving. She hasn't felt me caring about her that much in years. She's had enough, and says we need to separate. It's been a long time coming. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">I don't learn a god damned thing in April.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><b>May - Numb</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">The crying jags get a little farther apart. I desperately want to return to the Y, but the boss and the shrink both think I need more time to recover. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">Packing. Drinking. Weeping. Begging. Posting painful, inappropriate, damaging blogs.... Taking them back down. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">A few tearful phone calls. Tell Mum. Tell my sister. Tell my best friend. Tell Coach. Our last real conversation. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">Apartment hunting, praying for one that will let me have a dog. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">Coach Carrie calls to tell me she's taking another job and leaving the Y. She didn't want me to find out from someone else. I am so grateful to her for her kindness, that I weep: this time for joy. I contact the boss. So ashamed of failing the program. Without Carrie, they are going to need me back. I need them more than air. He suggests I try to work my way back into things slowly, starting with the LIVESTRONG session that has already started. For the second time that week, the tears are for joy and gratitude. I swear to myself that I will not let the Y down again.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">I learn that the people I work with - with their gentle,loving, forgiving spirits - are among the greatest gifts God has ever given to me.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><b>June - Bachelorhood</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">So, this is my apartment. Nice view of North Broadway. Nice neighbors. A little loud, but kind and welcoming. So close to the Y, I can walk there. No pets allowed. Haven't slept without a cat in years. Keep seeing Jake in the corner of my eye. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">Less crying. Less drinking. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">A chance to teach SilverSneakers, an aerobics class for seniors comes my way. I leap at it, studying the choreography furiously. I will not fail my coaches this time. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">Martha and I settle into an amicable separation. We talk. We visit. We consider the possibilities. I lie in the bed we shared for so many years. staring at the empty walls. What just happened? What comes next? I thought I would die without my wife. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">I learn that I won't.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><b>July - Funerals</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">It has been a season of death for the LIVESTRONG at the YMCA family. More funerals in the a few months than the first two years combined. Some I never met. Some I loved like sisters. The dark suit is in and out of the closet every couple of weeks, it seems.Coach Marian and I are asked to say a few words for our friend Becky. A joyful warrior. She survived her first encounter, but not her second. She loved her friends, her family, and the Y. The paper says she "lost her battle with cancer." I am furious. I tell her loved ones, "don't you believe it." Cancer took her life, but never touched her spirit. I saw her without energy, without strength, without connection to the reality around her... but I never saw her without her joy. I never saw her without love. Cancer killed my friend. But it never won. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">I learned that no challenge, no matter how relentless and cruel, can take away our heart if we refuse to let go of it.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><b>August - Reality sinking in</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">The fifth would have been our 24th anniversary. The papers haven't been drawn up, but already, it's starting to feel like the chances of going back are fading. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">Mum makes her annual summer visit. She has her poodle, Cujo with her, so she can't stay with me. She is at what I've already started thinking of as "Martha's house," and I go over for uncomfortable visits. It's difficult for all of us. Mum is confused. Wants to help. But there's nothing for her to do except to love us both. It's what she does best. The morning of her return to Pennsylvania, she and Cujo visit my apartment. We both cry a little, and she hugs me for a long time. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">Late in the month, I get a letter from Social Security telling me that my Disability Benefits will end in October. I try to kill myself, but chicken out at the last moment, thinking about how someone would have to call my mother and tell her. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 16px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 16px;">It took me too damn long to figure it out, but my Mom is the most faithful friend I've ever had.</span><span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 16px;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><b>September - Lights on the horizon</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">At lunch with Eric from Actors' Guild, he tells me he wants to produce King Lear, and he wants me to play the king. Looks like a November opening. At the Y, a job is opening up for a water fitness instructor. I speak to the Aquatics Director, and send him my resume. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">Therapy is going well. We've stepped down to meeting every two weeks. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">I run what will be my last race of the year with my friend LaDonna and an infuriatingly pokey kid from the Y's Run This Town program who seems to have chosen this morning to decide that she doesn't want to run, hates running, and will never run again. I am even more stubborn than she is. I refuse to leave her behind, and we finish the 8K with her sprinting angrily ahead, and me trotting in as the very last finisher of the race. I skip the awards ceremony because I have to rush off to a rehearsal, and a few weeks later, I receive a medal in the mail. I finished third in my age group. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><b>October - An Actor's life</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">Two mornings a week I teach in the pool and in the Aerobics studio. Two nights a week, I coach LIVESTRONG.... And the rest of my waking hours are all about King Lear. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">There are so many lines. More than I've had to learn in years. More than ever, maybe. I work through the play twice, sometimes three times a day, trying to get them to stick in my brain. The cast is young. So very young. I barely know any of them. A couple of old friends, and the rest of them are young and beautiful and talented and I feel like a visitor from another planet among them. They know music I've never heard of. Speak in language I don't recognize. They smell like youth and life and sex and joy. And they work their asses off. Once, when I was touring with the National Shakespeare Company, for just a few months, we found an ensemble, an organic company that fit together so tightly that i wanted to act together with them for the rest of my life. That's what this company is starting to feel like to me. I can't wait to get to rehearsals with them. I rush to be early, just so I can sit back sagely and enjoy their laughter and stories. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">Holy shit. Out of nowhere. I'm an actor again. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">And somehow, in spite of all the changes, I learn that I always will be.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><b>November - Riding the bi-polar roller-coaster</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">A long interview in the paper about the play. The writer was very generous and kind. Just a brief mention of our separation and nothing about my recent nervous breakdown. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">As opening night approaches, I am exhausted, and a nervous wreck. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">I'm going to suck. I'm going to let the kids down. A dear friend tells me she won't be attending the play because she saw a great production of it once, and doesn't want to ruin the memory.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">Mum is coming. Martha is coming. People from my classes and my running group and my LIVESTRONG family and God knows who else - class mates from grad school who I haven't seen since 1985, for God's sake - and I am playing the role of a life time and I have absolutely no business doing it. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">I become irritable. Mumbling under my breath. Bitchy in the dressing room. I'm an asshole during notes after rehearsals. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">And all around me, these beautiful young actors, for whom I have tried to set such a good example.... they remain positive and focused and supportive. The believe in the show. They believe in me. Their courage gives me courage. We open and run for two impossibly short weeks. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">After strike, I'm inconsolable. I feel as if I've lost my family again. Deep, deep depression this time. A bad one. But I will not give in. I say my prayers. I sleep. And I teach at the Y. I will not fail my people again. I have promises to keep.And I keep them. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">Thanksgiving alone passes without the pain I feared, and I learn that I'm stronger, more loved, and more blessed than I knew.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><b>December - Advent and redemption</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">So then, here we are. I've called 2013 the worst year of my life, and I'm sticking to it. If you'd told me what was coming, and given me the choice between that and a relapse of my cancer, I would have taken cancer. Absolutely. But here I stand. The devil missed me again. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">In December some pretty wonderful things happened. I made some new friends, and reconnected with some old ones, both online and in real life. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">The people in my classes offered me much kindness and love for Christmas. And I enjoy them with an affection that is both devoted and professional.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">I've heard a lot of words about myself over the years, but this month, for the first time I heard these two: "Mentor" and "Father figure." I was shocked and humbled to imagine that people saw me in such a light. It just never occurred to me. But to be considered someone who is safe to talk to, who can be trusted, whose life has given them something like insight or wisdom... It really rattled my cage. I'm still sorting it out, but I think it's going to be the catalyst for some positive changes in the way I look at the world, and myself. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">Therapy is helping a lot. I'm starting to make more and more sense to me. My shrink needn't worry about his cash flow, though. I have a feeling we're gonna be together for a long, long time. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">My physical conditioning is shot to hell. My first line of defense against depression is always food, and I have loaded on the pounds this year. It's going to be a long way back, but I'm gonna do it. I know I can. I've done it before. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">Christmas alone wasn't easy. I'm not going to lie to you. Several people invited me to join them and their families, and I gratefully declined. I chose to go it alone this year. I figured if I could get through this, I could get through anything. And I got through it. Not as gracefully as I would have liked, but not nearly has badly as I feared. Santa didn't come to my house this year. But Jesus did, and we spent the day together. We had a long, serious conversation. Both of us had a lot to get off our chests.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">There are good days and bad days. That's just life in the Bipolar Nation. Today is a good day, and the future looks full of hope for me. I've started gettingt back into racing shape. I'm finally reading <i>Great Expectations</i>. I'm using more tools in the kitchen than the freezer and the microwave. And someday, when I'm ready, and the time is right, I'd like to be in love again. But in the meantime. I've got work to do. some wise person posted on Facebook one day and I'm paraphrasing: </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">"Don't worry about finding the right woman. Work on becoming the right man." </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">God has saved my life again, from yet another fatal disease: depression. He keeps doing that.I figure he must have something in mind. Whatever it is, I want to be ready when it comes. Whether that's love, work, a marathon, or just being at the right corner at the right time... I want to be ready. And for all the grief it's caused me, this year will have made me more ready than I was before.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">I don't think I'll ever look back at 2013 and laugh. But today, with just one day left of this <i>annus horribilis</i>, I can still look to heaven and say "Thank you." </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">It's good to be alive.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">Peace, and Happy New Year!</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">Pennsy.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: proxnov-reg, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 16px;"><br /></span></span>pennsyltuckianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975720768947247949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29832397.post-59750834252859675012013-12-25T14:55:00.000-05:002013-12-25T14:55:31.133-05:00Fear not.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZL0NwvlqaI7ZvW2BMjZedyo0RjbCRYPubB3SPThCedkrX8ZkECGwX4gbto9WgU4t15P6uBhrjktJyySmj65ApEGeEKQdz-Qsc-_fC1FCc24zYLNiYDXf7a0wjWVnvQat91pXGpw/s1600/linus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZL0NwvlqaI7ZvW2BMjZedyo0RjbCRYPubB3SPThCedkrX8ZkECGwX4gbto9WgU4t15P6uBhrjktJyySmj65ApEGeEKQdz-Qsc-_fC1FCc24zYLNiYDXf7a0wjWVnvQat91pXGpw/s1600/linus.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
<i><span class="text Luke-2-9" id="en-KJV-24983">And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid. </span>And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.</i> ~ Luke 2:9,10</div>
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<br /></div>
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Fear not.</div>
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Life is terrifying sometimes.</div>
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Fear not.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
You will find yourself at the mercy of things,</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
Beyond your control.</div>
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Fear not.</div>
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<br /></div>
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People will hurt you,</div>
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Often on purpose,</div>
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Usually not,</div>
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Fear not.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Things will flow past in the river of your life. </div>
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Storms will rain down,</div>
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Broken branches will block your way,</div>
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Currents will change and hide the channel,</div>
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Troubles will wound your lonely little craft,</div>
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Fear not.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
Though the world laughs and judges,</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
Offers you shame, not acceptance,</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
Though the ones you love doubt you,</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
And the mystery of things seems to bury you</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
Let it be,</div>
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Fear not.</div>
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<br /></div>
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You are not alone,</div>
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You have love in you,</div>
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Life that leaps inside you,</div>
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At the sound of your name.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
Like a weary companion trudges along beside,</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
With no knowledge or understanding, to guide the way,</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
You have love around you,</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
Peace, for which there are no words,</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
Truth for which there is no proof,</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
Fear not.</div>
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<br /></div>
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There is a place for you,</div>
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Shelter from the cold and the dark,</div>
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Not what you might have chosen,</div>
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Not what you expected or hoped for,</div>
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But a place where you belong,</div>
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A place only you can fill,</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
A task only you can do,</div>
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Fear not.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
There is a story to tell,</div>
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Your story,</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
A story many will hear, </div>
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And many will not understand.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
It is as simple as a box of straw,</div>
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And glorious as a choir of angels,</div>
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No one else can tell it for you,</div>
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Much as they may try,</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
They will need your voice,</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
Your heart,</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
Your song,</div>
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The ones who hear,</div>
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Will not be the ones you expect,</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
They need to hear you sing,</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
Even if you sing off key,</div>
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Fear not.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
An pregnant girl,</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
A confused fiancee,</div>
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A harried innkeeper,</div>
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Shepherds, terrified,</div>
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Magi, laden with useless tribute,</div>
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A puppet king filled with jealous hatred,</div>
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And there among them,</div>
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A baby,</div>
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The innocent creator of the universe,</div>
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God in the straw,</div>
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Unafraid.</div>
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<br /></div>
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That's what Christmas is all about, Linus.</div>
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It isn't about trees and paper and bags,</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
It isn't about angels and virgins and shepherds,</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
Not hymns,</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
Not bells,</div>
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Not turkey,</div>
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Not pies,</div>
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Not doctrine or dogma or history or theology.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The meaning of Christmas,</div>
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The true meaning of Christmas is in you, Linus,</div>
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It's the love that wraps around you like a blanket,</div>
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It's the courage that keeps you going,</div>
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The compassion that lets you care,</div>
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Christmas is the joy you feel for the blessings you have</div>
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And the strength to overcome the blessings you lack,</div>
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The meaning of Christmas,</div>
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The true meaning of Christmas,</div>
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In the face of all logic,</div>
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In spite of good sense,</div>
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No matter what yesterday's failures have taught you,</div>
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Or whatever tomorrow's dangers might be,</div>
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Christmas</div>
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Is reckless</div>
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Fearless</div>
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Love.</div>
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<br /></div>
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And if you can't believe in that, Linus,</div>
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You can't believe in anything.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Fear not.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Happy, Holy Day.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Merry Christmas.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Love,</div>
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Pennsy</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
pennsyltuckianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975720768947247949noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29832397.post-49867319389598507752013-11-27T15:46:00.001-05:002013-11-27T15:46:15.549-05:00Thanksgiving 2013It's a little early for an end-of-year retrospective. Not sure I'm anxious to begin that exercise.There's still time for this <i>annus horribilis</i> to redeem itself somehow, but as it stands I have to say I preferred the year I had cancer to this one. Still, four weeks is a long time. I'll reserve judgement.<br />
<br />
This is not a day for grieving over the past, but for giving thanks. The truth is that in spite of all the things that I wish hadn't happened this year, I know I am rich with blessings today.<br />
<br />
My health is good. No signs that the cancer is returning anywhere. I finished my second Marathon in the spring. I have gained some weight recently, but haven't had to buy any new "fat clothes," and don't intend to.<br />
<br />
I am learning to manage my mental state day by day. The meds are a good mix, and my therapist is a very good fit for me. Mentally healthy people may not understand how precious that is, but it took me lots of searching and false starts to find a shrink who made sense to me and made a real difference in my life. I'm blessed there, too.<br />
<br />
My mental health issues caused the Y to limit my hours significantly, but they still give me the chance to do work that I love. Helping cancer survivors, seniors. and folks from the general population to fight for their lives though fitness and wellness. I'm grateful, even for this professional set-back: it has taught me just how important the work is to me. I have discovered the strength to keep getting back up and back to work. I'm not sure I knew I had that.<br />
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Financially, I'm on the same thin ice that most people are. My bipolar disorder and chronic fatigue issues have kept me from working full time, but so far Social Security has continued to help support me as I find my way back to my "new normal." I have a comfortable apartment with nice neighbors. My car runs. I don't go hungry. I have my medicine. I may not be wealthy, but all I have to do is look out my window onto North Broadway to see that I'm a long way from poverty.<br />
<br />
Being a part of the company of <i>King Lear</i> at Actors' Guild was like getting a heart transplant for me. That talented, committed group of artists lifted my spirits like few I have ever known. Among them, I found friendships that I hope will last for many years.They reminded me that in spite of all that's happened, and all the things I've tried to do and be over the years, I remain and will always be an actor.<br />
<br />
I am especially grateful for something that didn't happen this year. There was a point, late in the summer, when I couldn't see any way that things were going to get better. I decided to kill myself. I did the research. I made a plan. I even started the process. But as I lay there on my bed, waiting for death to come, I thought of the people I loved. Who would find me? Who would call Mum? Who would tell the kids and the classes I led at the Y? What about the people who called me inspiring? The ones for whom I had accepted the mantle of role model? What about the survivors who had listened to me for months as I preached about fighting for life and never giving up? As each of their faces rose up in my mind's eye, I realized that I couldn't do it. I owed it to them... I owed it to myself to keep on trying... to keep on living. A few days later, Eric Seale called and told me he wanted me to play King Lear.<br />
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So you see, I have a lot to be thankful for this year. I have a lot more than many people... a lot more than I thought I had. I'm blessed today. Not wealthy, but a very rich man. I am healthy. I am strong. I am alive. I am loved.<br />
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Again and again, God has saved my life. I choose to believe that there is a reason for that. I still have work to do. I can still be of use to God and to God's people. And for that, I am most thankful of all.<br />
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So happy Thanksgiving, y'all. And thank you for being there when I needed you... whether you knew it or not.<br />
<br />
Peace,<br />
Bobpennsyltuckianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05975720768947247949noreply@blogger.com0