Wow, I just edited that last post about twenty times trying to get one HTML link to work the way I wanted it to. How did it take me so long to get into the 21st century?


As a Christian, I am supposed to aspire to an eternal “heaven,” a bliss, an unending perfection, right?  I don’t know if anyone really believes in the archetypal harp-and-clouds version, but the 72 virgins variation on the afterlife was quite motivating for some people.

I can tell you right now, I do not want to live forever.  The idea of any kind of eternity seems so exhausting to me.  Even if it were beautiful, 72 degrees F, with endless delicious food and non-awkward socialization and wonderful books and everything else.  That one commercial with 40 black cats peacefuly shedding on white furniture at first seemed like the closest idea possible, but no.  I am just too tired.

I don’t want to be reincarnated either, or to have another chance to right any wrongs (even being mean to my Japanese roommate after college.  I still feel bad about it, though, but it happened, and other people were way meaner to me in this life with no making of amends; life went on.).

I just want to be finally done.  I want to fall asleep in Jesus’ loving arms, and hear him say, “I cared about you always, no matter what you ever did; you did the best you could, and I forgive the rest.”  And that would be it.  No forever and ever, amen.  That would be it.

I was awake all night, creative, inspired, and feeling wonderful mentally, if not physically.  Jack was sleeping on the couch just a few feet away; his gentle snoring was a comforting rhythmic soundtrack.  My brother was facebooking me unexpectedly from Cleveland- of all places- from a train (it was 3:30 am there), and an old friend from high school was awake feeling sick and chatted with me.  I wrote and wrote and wrote, brainstorming an idea that had been just a vague nagging kernel, but overnight began to take form and shape and started to seem real, finally.  Really real and a definite possibility.  I pitched it to a person that I thought could help me make  it so. 

Birds started chirping.  The sun came up, the sky turning that translucent blue that only God could create, and that only Salvador Dali could capture in paint.   I finally fell into a deep perfect sleep around 5 am, leaving a note on the coffee pot for Jack to get me up in time for my 8am physical therapy appointment, which he did.  I love him so much.

PT was fantastic.  It “hurt so good.”  I am still not tired…I took fewer meds today, too- the best part is, I was not watching the clock waiting for the exact minute that the next doses were allowed and checking them off in my notebook.  I feel almost back to normal (for me.  My own version of normal.)

Time has become such a different substance for me these days- the age-old question of whether time is a wave or a particle seems silly to me now- it is obviously a substance.  A thick, sticky, viscous substance, flowing slowly like mucilage from a brown glass jar, catching unsuspecting valium-takers, and slowly thickening around them until…

Those few short years ago, when I wrecked an important part of my body and had surgery to try to fix it, I was off work for about three months.  It’s hard to remember how long, but it felt like forever.  I was essentially immobile and in quite a bit of pain.  It was a warm, damp winter, cloudy, and every day was about 40 degrees F; I was sometimes able to get outside for a brief time during the day for some kind of variety.  Even still, I was very, very depressed.  It was–I logically know– something known as situational depression, very common. 

Wouldn’t you be depressed?

So, the pastor of the church I was attending–and active in– at the time came over, read a random Bible passage, and made some inane chitchat.  I mentioned that I felt depressed.  He said to me, and I wish I were making this up, “You know what that’s called?  A pity party.”

I don’t go to that church anymore.  I will never go  back.

You know what?  I was more than depressed.  I felt suicidal.  That wasn’t the only time that I have felt that pull, that tug, that spiraling drag down into the abyss.  I don’t talk about it.  What good would that do?  If  the trained spiritual counselor accuses you of simply feeling sorry for yourself, and all your co-workers are mandatory reporters, talking about it would just get me basically ignored, or committed to some miserable institution.  No Jack, no Marilyn, no Sheba (cats. loves. best friends) and no comforts of home.  I would completely decompensate.

In other words, FAIL.

Why is it when things go awry, or not our way, or we are unhappy, we (as a society) schedule our already-busy selves in with a psychologist, a psychiatrist, a counselor?  Or, if we are of a religious nature, a priest or other spiritual leader?  Why not see a philosopher?

I am going to make an appointment with a philosopher, I think, if he is not too busy climbing the mountain of enlightenment.

So, I feel pretty debilitated with this back injury and all, and am unable to do much but hang out online, which is something I enjoy anyway…though usually with a clearer head, or maybe one or two nice cold cans of PBR…not all this prescription crap.  Which is helping, but also giving me the  dry heaves (haven’t barfed yet, praise God).

I put out a couple status updates on Facebook.  I got one offer of bringing me some supplies- which was incredibly heartwarming and thoughtful, particularly since it was from someone I don’t know very well IRL.  I also put out a prayer request, and got two promises of prayer in response to that.  I put up another one, then, that offered- free for the picking- some fruits of my garden that I just am physically unable to harvest myself and don’t want the deliciousness to go to waste- hoping that someone would be able to use the stuff, cook with it, make something yummy–maybe even bringing some back for me- and the multitude of responses was unbelievable.  I can’t complain too much.  A bit of company and the (however remote) possibility that someone might be kind enough to scoop the cats’ litter box would have been wonderful side benefits.  Perhaps my mild irritation is more the side effect of the pain and the meds, because what else do I have to do?  Nothing.  Just wait, nap, contemplate human nature, and follow the slow-moving time spiral as it curves ever onward, into a conceivably better future.