He is not here
A jury of peers interrogated Captain Sully after he saved the lives of an entire plane.
Save five weeks in 1959, God left Mother Teresa for the duration of her fifty-year ministry. ...the silence and the emptiness is so great, that I look and do not see,--Listen and do not hear--the tongue moves [in prayer] but does not speak ...
Trump became president. Prince is gone.
Abraham Lincoln was shot, Martin Luther King, Jr, was shot, the BBC's Mary Watson, a skilled former agent, was taken down by a bitter old hag.
The pattern is there since the start of time and yet it is only now, in my 47th year, I have seen and understood that things that shouldn't happen do.
I had spent much energy fighting this reality, which is curious because I have a Guest House approach to most of life: allow things to happen, let visitors and new experiences penetrate and meld you, don't think you have more control than you do. Yes, I work in the fitness field and make sure my clients know they will get stronger and feel better under my care and through their own agency, and yet anyone who hires me knows I am intuitive and not pushy. I accomplish what I can within the natural ebb and flow of a body's natural rhythms. I do not promise the world, but often hand a chunk of it over.
And yet I found myself shattered last week at Lincoln's tomb. I am like a child--or a fundamentalist or a innocent, a sociopath or a scientist, in that I expect that a certain A equals a certain B. That having a thinking, witty man in the White House crying over the war ensures he will stay the course.
Lincoln shouldn't have been shot. But Lincoln is dead.
Prince shouldn't have overdosed on fentanyl. Prince is dead. He is not here.
An autistic man I met was burdened after Prince's death; he had come to process and endure each day's sensory onslaught only through the star's music. Prince had died. Unbuttoning his shirt to reveal the large purple symbol on a chain, he told me there would be no more new songs from Prince. The permanence of this reality rendered him vulnerable, and exposed.
There was a period of time following my divorce when every conversation I had with my kids sounded as if we were on a lifeboat in the high seas, ready to sink. It started with Trump: I needed them to know that women aren't objects to be grabbed. And then their father was caught with his married assistant--caught, warned, caught, fired--and I couldn't rest until I knew these two teenaged boys understood that married women are off limits, that positions of power are not to be underestimated, and that above all, if one is capable a high level of deception, something deep inside has broken. Catch that radar early if you ever fear it's off, I told them.
I had to make sure they were equipped to have healthy relationships of their own.
I had to provide that mirror therapists talk about, to help them see what they were seeing.
I had to tread carefully, to maintain a distance between the act and the actor. I chose my words with care and precision. Addressed the issues and not the agent, and only at intervals. Mirrored what I needed to mirror because this, this was everything that would shape their future and their outlook and their beliefs. I couldn't not talk about it.
There were so many had to's. I was so weary of this.
As I kicked against the goads, I grew hoarse with the sound of my own voice.
Finally, a new disrespect arrived, one I had to swallow, not mirror, in order to protect them from knowing. Sully saved everybody and was treated like a criminal, and now, I couldn't breathe. My shoulders came forward to protect the breast that had lost its air. Right then, I stopped fighting the reality that is the Buddha's first noble truth: Life is suffering. I acknowledged the trauma that was surfacing in my body, presenting itself as flashbacks and not flight or fight, but freeze.
Later that day I gave my last captain's call.
I need you to know that I will never avoid any opportunity to prepare you to be adults on your own. And I need you to know that I believe your dad is a good dad.
With that, I grew quiet. They looked at me, searching for that woman who, with passion, helps them process their world. She must be somewhere behind that new, vacant stare. And she was--is--but she's tired.
Because there are battles I can't ever win. Things that shouldn't happen do.
Without the fighting I feel more vulnerable. If I don't fight, won't injustice always win? Or Lincoln dies no matter if he had sent away his bodyguard or not?
I saw the tomb: Lincoln is dead. As is my grandmother, who had prayed for me every day of my life. I had expected, I suppose, that once she was closer to the source my blessings would grow, but I have felt a growing coldness, instead. She is not there. He is not here.
Nobody's praying for me now and I'm not safe, I told a coworker on a rough day, through tears. She said, very gently, that I could do it, I could pray for myself.
What I didn't say is Mother Teresa is dead, and He is not here.
Save five weeks in 1959, God left Mother Teresa for the duration of her fifty-year ministry. ...the silence and the emptiness is so great, that I look and do not see,--Listen and do not hear--the tongue moves [in prayer] but does not speak ...
Trump became president. Prince is gone.
Abraham Lincoln was shot, Martin Luther King, Jr, was shot, the BBC's Mary Watson, a skilled former agent, was taken down by a bitter old hag.
The pattern is there since the start of time and yet it is only now, in my 47th year, I have seen and understood that things that shouldn't happen do.
I had spent much energy fighting this reality, which is curious because I have a Guest House approach to most of life: allow things to happen, let visitors and new experiences penetrate and meld you, don't think you have more control than you do. Yes, I work in the fitness field and make sure my clients know they will get stronger and feel better under my care and through their own agency, and yet anyone who hires me knows I am intuitive and not pushy. I accomplish what I can within the natural ebb and flow of a body's natural rhythms. I do not promise the world, but often hand a chunk of it over.
And yet I found myself shattered last week at Lincoln's tomb. I am like a child--or a fundamentalist or a innocent, a sociopath or a scientist, in that I expect that a certain A equals a certain B. That having a thinking, witty man in the White House crying over the war ensures he will stay the course.
Lincoln shouldn't have been shot. But Lincoln is dead.
Prince shouldn't have overdosed on fentanyl. Prince is dead. He is not here.
An autistic man I met was burdened after Prince's death; he had come to process and endure each day's sensory onslaught only through the star's music. Prince had died. Unbuttoning his shirt to reveal the large purple symbol on a chain, he told me there would be no more new songs from Prince. The permanence of this reality rendered him vulnerable, and exposed.
There was a period of time following my divorce when every conversation I had with my kids sounded as if we were on a lifeboat in the high seas, ready to sink. It started with Trump: I needed them to know that women aren't objects to be grabbed. And then their father was caught with his married assistant--caught, warned, caught, fired--and I couldn't rest until I knew these two teenaged boys understood that married women are off limits, that positions of power are not to be underestimated, and that above all, if one is capable a high level of deception, something deep inside has broken. Catch that radar early if you ever fear it's off, I told them.
I had to make sure they were equipped to have healthy relationships of their own.
I had to provide that mirror therapists talk about, to help them see what they were seeing.
I had to tread carefully, to maintain a distance between the act and the actor. I chose my words with care and precision. Addressed the issues and not the agent, and only at intervals. Mirrored what I needed to mirror because this, this was everything that would shape their future and their outlook and their beliefs. I couldn't not talk about it.
There were so many had to's. I was so weary of this.
As I kicked against the goads, I grew hoarse with the sound of my own voice.
Finally, a new disrespect arrived, one I had to swallow, not mirror, in order to protect them from knowing. Sully saved everybody and was treated like a criminal, and now, I couldn't breathe. My shoulders came forward to protect the breast that had lost its air. Right then, I stopped fighting the reality that is the Buddha's first noble truth: Life is suffering. I acknowledged the trauma that was surfacing in my body, presenting itself as flashbacks and not flight or fight, but freeze.
Later that day I gave my last captain's call.
I need you to know that I will never avoid any opportunity to prepare you to be adults on your own. And I need you to know that I believe your dad is a good dad.
With that, I grew quiet. They looked at me, searching for that woman who, with passion, helps them process their world. She must be somewhere behind that new, vacant stare. And she was--is--but she's tired.
Because there are battles I can't ever win. Things that shouldn't happen do.
I saw the tomb: Lincoln is dead. As is my grandmother, who had prayed for me every day of my life. I had expected, I suppose, that once she was closer to the source my blessings would grow, but I have felt a growing coldness, instead. She is not there. He is not here.
Nobody's praying for me now and I'm not safe, I told a coworker on a rough day, through tears. She said, very gently, that I could do it, I could pray for myself.
What I didn't say is Mother Teresa is dead, and He is not here.
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