A common synonym for hemorrhoids is the word ‘piles’
Rooms crowded with junk unused furniture and bric a brac, piles of musty manuals, knick-knacks and trinkets homes filled with profuse materiality, create a turbid, turgid topography.
Minds filled with wanton busyness, cluttered with extraneous thoughts, gossip, old emotional burdens and past trauma create internal turmoil, a malicious troll, always lurking.
We often surround ourselves with disorganized objects and casual acquaintances in hopes of— Satisfaction.
Piles—enveloping us, imprisoning us, containing us like castle walls.
Why are there so many expressions in the English language about balancing vulnerability and protection? How do I trust the faithfulness of others while at the same time avoiding deception?
I sit watching the long shadows of the early morning light while reflecting on the events of last night.
“A burnt child dreads the fire.”
Wakened from peaceful slumber by the incessant screaming of the smoke alarm— smoke rising from the stove, sticky shards of shattered glass on the kitchen floor.
“Hope for the best, prepare for the worst.”
“Are you OK! What happened?” She lies in the shower unconscious, then slowly waking, at first nodding, then, answering with slow slurred words.
In my mind I run rapidly through causes for altered level of consciousness:
Head injury? Stroke? Electrocution? Smoke inhalation? Infection? Overdose?
“Take everything with a grain of salt.”
On the counter next to the sink a bottle of Guinness and an empty pint of Absolut.
Deja vu.
Suddenly I am wondering why this life lesson has to be repeated— again.
A rush of anger and shame, how could I let this happen— again?
My mind second-guessing itself.
How many times was I confused because I was misled— missing cues and believing lies— and what will I believe going forward?
Is my head in the sand? Am I blind, gullible or just overly optimistic?
From her spot lying on the shower floor she looks up at me, smiles and slurs, “I’m 100% sure I don’t want to go to a doctor, but I will go if you want. I don’t want to go to jail.”
Thankful it’s only drunkenness. Thankful there was no puke.
Unsure where to begin— again.
Sad that I am unable to trust— again.
Why do these lessons have to be repeated? What IS the lesson this time?
“Trust everyone but cut the cards.”
Is it something I didn’t learn last time, or a new lesson that wasn’t in the syllabus?
“Put all of your cards on the table.”
I don’t want the lies, the excuses, the rationalizations, the victim routines, the bullshit.
“Be cautiously optimistic.”
I do want acknowledgment, self-reflection, accountability, responsibility, action.
For now, I have to live with distrust, disappointment (in you and in myself), sadness and grief (for you and myself).
“Play the cards you are dealt.”
Now I have to figure out my boundaries. I have to think about how to communicate them, how to maintain them.
How do I honor my self without dishonoring your self? How do I nurture and support without falling into a trap?
President Reagan put it the most succinctly: “Trust, but verify.”
Why do I find it so easy to trust, yet so challenging to verify?
Is it really “better to be safe than sorry?”
Is it possible to love without contamination?
I sit watching the long shadows of the early morning light with hummingbirds busily feeding feeling grateful that i can trust nature without verification.
God does not reside under rooftops supported by painted walls, or hide behind closed doors. To find god, walk out the church door and let it slam behind you.
Stroll to the creek and follow it down to the grass covered hill. Stand in the clear light of day, unfed, unwashed, unclothed, unsheltered, speak softly with reverence and pay attention.
Desert Dweller 