Radios, The Lord Almighty and lifting weights

Today I was talking to God. I know that many think of the Almighty as someone or something you turn on at church like a radio. In my view, no. God is a 24 hour, seven days a week kind of entity. Alpha to Omega, how do you argue with that?

I however argue with the Lord Almighty with regularity. I scream, swear, plead, beg and any other means of communication you can name. What I have found is that our relationship is changing. No, God has not changed. God is as he/she/it always was I however am not.

I asked the Lord where am I? Why am I so… I could not make a list. Nothing was wrong but something was missing. For a moment I had clarity in my mind’s eye. I saw it clearly.

It was like a long and serious illness. Not a cancer or a lingering but more of an attack. As if my heart failed me. I knew I was ill and weak but continued to move forward. I ignored my health and kept moving adding more and more until finally the attack came. This experience a brief moment brought me to the precipice of death. I had been so ill and growing worse that I no longer knew health or even rest. I was fine and well wasn't i?

I saw myself hospitalized. I could see tubes running everywhere. Machines beeping and the respirator newly removed. I was exhausted and spent. Breathing was all that I could and would manage. What was left to do but examine the damage and to heal. Yes, heal. There was no way to avoid the eternal process of healing.

I had to learn to breathe again. I had to find my balance and the ability to place gravity in its rightful place. To regain use of my hands and to again hear the sounds that surrounded me in infinite abundance. I must start my long rehabilitation. Just as someone has a heart attack or has lost a limb I must regain the strength and agility I once had.

My body is well enough but the other aspects of my soul are absent. All things that make a great creation must be cared for. I and those around me were given a user manual but being human we and I thought our plan better. It was not! The vanity of mankind.

Instead of lifting weights and strengthening my arms I lift my eyes and look into the looking glass to see who looks back. I give words of love and strength. I share all the secrets that have been kept with that reflection. Tears, unconditional understanding and forgiveness are given. This causes weakness, soreness and days of weariness. To regain strength is not easy but it is worth the doing.

Walks in the sun give my body exercises but give my spirit the time to fly, to create or to just be still. As I move from hospital bed to a transition of care there is one thing that I do remember. When I close my eyes I was never alone. My hand was held with comfort and great compassion by God. I was not alone even in my deepest pain and misery. I could and still hear the calm of a voice repeating peace, peace, peace.

I know that I will not be well at once or in days… I grew ill over many years I will grow well after time. How much time is up to me and how hard I will work. Honestly I think physical therapy would be easier. This time I will follow the user manual. I have found that the short cuts are far from short. Peace, peace, peace…

Crisp hand stitch, lush scent and flaws

A crisp hand stitch linen shirt, this is how I see myself. I was made perfectly. I was pristine. A shirt or blouse maybe, untouched, unsoiled and lovely beyond words. Each seam was made with perfect hand stitches all flat and without pucker. The sleeves set without flaw. The fabric was of the best weave and untreated. Not pure white or manipulated to be anything but its natural tender hue.

I was the color of warmth, a tender embrace, the gentleness that comes from all things loving woven. I know that creation is a question many ask about. When I look at my creation, my life, my path and my God I find that I am that perfect linen shirt. I was carefully wrapped in tissue and place in a lined box closed with a gold seal. I was top drawer. I was something to be cherished and prized.

Oddly, once the box was opened and this perfectly made shirt was put into use all that was perfection changed. It needed to be change and made to fit the need of the immediate. After all how could anything be as it should? All must be changed for the betterment of it and for everyone one else.

Change the collar and cuffs to fit what is uniformed and expected. No one would want cuffs like that and the buttons surely no one in their right mind would… well if we cut off the originals and add these white flat buttons that will be more becoming to the shirt. Ah, but the color is not right. It is too, too different. Bleach it and take the color out. You may need to place it is a bath of boiling water and bleach but it will be for the best. Yes, it is hard on the fabric but sacrifices must be made. Now isn’t that better! Yes, the luster is less and the shirt lacks a certain something but it is better. Oddly, it no longer holds a press and seems to lie oddly.

These are acceptable changes. Now the shirt may be seen in public. Yes, it should meet standards. Very good! Now then this shirt must withstand the wearing. The wearing… what is in the wearing?

The perfect shirt must now face the elements of wear. Cold weather, scorching tempts and rain. Blazing sun, sub zeros and grass stains from falls and trips. Look at the stains of foolishness and utter laziness. All the inappropriate choices that left a tear here and a hole there.

The perfect fabric is now thinning, it has lost some of its strength and has been stretch to meet and cover all needs in the wearing. It was never really suited for its duties but met every challenge to its best. This left seams a touch ragged. Still, wash it and press it for appearance is key!

A crisp hand stitch linen shirt is now old, wrinkled, limp and balled in a corner. What use is it? What is it worth? Mysteriously, much, no a great deal... The original odd little buttons are still in existence. Slowly and with force each button is replaced by its original. The cuffs are let out and never did bleach touch it again. Only warm water of soft suds would wash it. The linen shirt is allowed to dry in only sun and in a soft breeze. The blemishes are repaired not perfect but strong and defined.

The color is not white but warm and glowing. There is the slightest hint of luster again. Light dances joyfully on its threads. Each darning and every imperfection make it distinctive and original. No other shirt looks feels or has a lush scent like this one worn shirt.

Now the shirt is worn for what it is not for what is of fashion. It is not for what fits others. The design is as it should be. The color and texture draws many to want to be near it and touch it. It is what it was created to be perfectly made and well seasoned with soiling, puckers and flaws.

Happy New Year, intestinal fortitude, scoring in the top percentile?

Happy New Year! I have decided that this will be the year of BCarol. After the last several years the years have not been mine. They have been years of survival, intestinal fortitude and out and out madness. I feel that I can say this outwardly and not take it as a personal assault on all things BCarol.

However less than 14 hours into the new year of BCarol I found myself in a sea of doubt and reinstating survival mechanisms that are quick, assured but all too bad for the new and improved me. 14 hours? I was asleep for 8 of them. This God, karma, higher power thing is always ready to test and challenge.

Okay so test on. The question is will I pass? Will I score in the top percentile? Will I look for a medicinal beverage and stand still. Hmmmm, now that is the question. I have found that I will not drink nor will I stand still. I got it going on!!!

First, I am not crazy and I do not make things up. I know what I heard and I am bright enough to comprehend. I have come to realize that I am not the easiest person to approach and that I can be rather forceful. Okay, many cannot face up to that and I understand. I am scary. However if you are going to claim to be an adult and want to hold the title talk to me strait. Let me lick my wounds and move on. It is an adult thing.

I can and do only control me. Wooo-Hoooo! Now what to do with this? Walk away and look like a poor looser? Carry a chip on my shoulder? Hahahaha… Hope to be given a small crust of praise… Not so much. I will do what I do, be as apt as possible and continue on to the bigger prize. Which for me is my education and moving on to a more loving me. Yes, that includes love of others and that of myself. I have found that I can forgive and lift others but me not so much... Why? I am working on that and it is something that another 25 years of therapy may answer. Maybe?

One item that has pushed me is a family that I have come to know well. The matriarch of this family has been diagnosed with cancer. Not just cancer but stage 4 inoperable lung cancer. It is as if gravity has strengthened 10 fold and not only my body but also my spirit is cemented to the floor. I cry thinking of it and I cry for this family as a whole. What will the future hold and what angst, drama and loss will each day bring? Then I think what joy, laughter and love will each day bring?

For me there is nothing I can do to ease any of it and there is not a word to help. I pray, I hope and I pray again for this family. If I or you died today could we die in peace? I do not know. I do know for myself this is a time of reflection and the joy of it. Will tears be shed for me? Will I think of the joy of life or the what if’s?

Momma T has given me something that she will never know. Children who have showed me what family can be. What a child’s love looks like and what courage is. A Damn fine life! This is only what I know of the pages of her book. It is full of words and chapters and I have read only a few brief paragraphs. Life comes into focus when you look beyond your self-absorbed myopic viewpoint. Lessons abound if we stop and listen.

New Years day one! Life changing. Hmmmm, the year of BCarol is good. Things to do. People to write. Life to taste. Going forward and protecting the resources that are me… Yes, me. What is mine? A crap load. What is valuable? Me and my potential of course!

The goals for 2012?
1 Drink more water
2 sleep eight hours a night (no more no less)
3 find a new job
4 get the hell off of facebook
5 choose the people I associate with exceedingly carefully
6 meditate daily
7 get my ass to the gym
8 stick to a regular schedule
9 lunch away from my desk
10 grad school!

Not bad I even have all the Christmas stuff put away. Okay day two I am ready…

water retention, dvd’sand sunshine up my skirt

I have an issue that I have yet to work through. I have more than one issue but today I will focus on one of the big five issue. This issue is like a cherry on top of a perfect milk shake. No more like the zit on your chain before a first date. Wait it is like starting your period before a week long beach vacation. Perfect. It is inconvenient, changes your plans, causes mood swings and water retention.

Why did this come to the for front of BCarol’s mind? I am a closeted performer. I am out of the closet for all intensives purposes but I can’t make a living at it so I consider myself in a closet. There is a role that I would like to play and I need to send the rudimentary headshot and resume. Easy enough off it went via-e-mail to the casting director. Then came the request for video of a performance.

I have dvd’s of myself dancing, sing and acting my way through productions. I can edit a minute or so of me doing the above. Easy right? Well, not so much. I was horrified. I watched myself and thought You suck! Your voice! Your movements! Dear Lord what were you thinking? I sunk low in my chair took a deep breath and grabbed a large handful of candy cane Hersey Kisses. Then I grabbed another handful of kisses and thought I wish I had made those sugar cookies.

What upsets me is less than an hour before that I going through the possibilities of graduate school in theater. Yes, I want to peruse an advanced degree in theater. Sadly, if I cannot watch myself why would I think that I could get into a grad program more or less be on stage.

Now that is the question. I have been cast over and over doing roles that were non-traditional, over the top and written for the opposite sex. Honestly, I have. I have been asked to be in shows without auditioning. I receive accolades but still manage to feel subpar, lackluster and horrendous.

I have two choices. Choice 1 the world is blowing sunshine up my skirt. Choice 2 I have issue with my self-esteem. After due thought and conversation with a friend who is also a therapist I have chosen number 2. Low-self esteem is a major short coming and I wear it like it is my job.

What to do? What to do? My friend the licensed social worker asked me something that rocked me back on my heels. “Where you sexually abused as a child” she said. The answer was an honest no. I can’t remember anything and I have volunteered with sexual assault and domestic violence programs for years. If I had I would think that something would have come to the surface and I would have faced it.

Why sexual assault? People who have been assaulted have many issues that I have. They tend to be control freaks, perfectionist, flashy dressers, sexually conservative, obsessive compulsive, overachievers and self deprecating. This list not exhaustive but it says a great deal about me. All are true.

After years of living I have learned that abuse comes in many ways and levels. I also know that abuse can affect everyone differently. For BCarol it was many cruel circumstances that caused this enigma called BCarol.

I am what was called a bright child. I was and still am empathic. I love the creative process of the arts and performance. I see the world on multiple levels at once. I see through my senses and can pull a moment into reality with the sound of a musical phrase, a shade of color or the flavor of a beloved drink. I consider myself ethereal. No, not angelic but ethereal.

My mother and father gave birth to this oddity. Yes, oddity. My parents are about as creative as a wall painted utilitarian gray. A wall that is serviceable, clean and reliable. This does not mean that my parents did not love me. I know that they did and still do. They just did not know who to feed my mind and sense of self.

My father did his best to prepare me for the world. I think he was trying to toughen me up and make me hard. Okay, that is fine and well. However something was lost in the translation. First let me share with you that I am not a pretty girl. Something a father should never share with his prepubescent daughter. I am also not the brightest I will need to work harder. Also, as a child my father told me I was fat and that no man will want me. I still struggle with my weight and sense of self value they are intertwined.

From my father’s viewpoint I understand this. It was honest and giving me the tools I needed to survive what the world would throw at me. My mother was another story. I call her the woman who cannot make a choice. If you asked my mother a questioned and expected an answer you would be sorely disappointed. Even when my mother attended college she couldn’t pick a major.

Mom wanted me to be a doctor or something important. I wanted to be a musician but that was a hobby not something you studied in college. Why don’t you become a lawyer? Why aren’t your grades better? How come you don’t… That is what I remember “how come you don’t (insert whatever).” Looking back I spent 18 years walking on egg shells and trying to make peace with what was around me. I became passive aggressive. I ate to find some kind of fulfillment. I stopped trying because what was the point. I enjoyed the wrong things. I liked the wrong people. I cried too much. I was not happy enough. You are not allowed to be angry. I am sure to this day that I breathed wrong.

18 years of programming and I cannot erase the damn hard drive. What is a girl to do? Be bitter? Hide and eat Ben and Jerry’s? Maybe? I could work on healing myself. I could learn to see myself as others see me instead of the disgusting entity that I perceive.

If rose colored glasses are a reality what color are the glasses I wear. Gray, black or even puce? Could they be scratched and flawed. Maybe they are glasses that cut out all that is bright and only shows that which is monotonous.

Maybe Jill Scott was right…

In reality, I'm gon' be who I be
And I don't feel no faults
For all the lies that you bought
You can try as you may
Break me down but I say
That it ain't up to you
Gone and do what you do

Now back to the video of my performance, one step at a time….