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The Body's Fiber Optics

  The body does remember. It is in its fibers. It’s as if as humans we have fiber optics running through us all the time. It’s true. There’s no denying it. Although I have ‘Rainman-esk’ qualities where most don’t. It is my consciousness. Everything that happens stays current. Front and center. No, it’s not from any form of PTSD. It is from my childhood. I had much to remember. So, I decided early on to memorize practically every incident, then perhaps every spoken word, dates, times, or perhaps everyday items. And I have some kind of math skills. Math skills and above average math scores only to be seen on the standardized tests I had taken to my mother’s dismay. My now deceased husband who was a high school math teacher said to me one day over twenty years ago, “You have the mathematical mind of a chemist.” I asked, “How so?” He responded, “Your willingness to just sit there for hours and do logarithms. It’s the one type of math that I despise greatly. You enjoy it.” Granted, I’ve
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"Hope Waits For Our Discipline"

Hope hangs in Balance, Awaiting Our Discipline... We may wonder... Why does death come to some earlier than others. It's as though we watch death come in and take someone and we're just standing there. The void is either quick or long awaited by those suffering or a long drawn out hanging on by someone, perhaps with something.  Is the hanging on, something to say? Perhaps some prophetic message? We stand and wait. Was it supposed to be our turn? Or were we meant to witness their turn? Or not waste it? In our existence when do we get the message? If there is a message to get, perhaps to give. Do we give it to death or in our dying? Or are we supposed to give it in our living? Or in not the waste of living? Every day l think of these questions or questions like these.  I witness people paying no mind to their existence. Some go into the 'wannabe' section. Neither progressing, nor moving. They remain the same, expecting others to come their way. Some do. Those which are ma

The Section

 The Section About a decade ago, after I’d finished my post-fight interview with Bruce Kivo of “MMA Confidential”, I began to collect my gear to head home. It was after one in the morning. I was in Manhattan for my fight. My husband was just getting to bed, and our two daughters were fast asleep back home in suburban New Jersey. As I packed my things and threw a pair of warmup pants on over my fight shorts, I saw a fighter I knew. I’ll call him “The Section”, ‘Sect’ for short to protect his anonymity. Sect had come from my team to watch me. He looked a bit lost. The place that the fights had taken place in was now practically empty. Bruce was wrapping things up behind the draped in area. Some fighters from the Midwest were ready to leave as they’d gotten their gear together. I looked around and caught my teammate’s eye. “Hey!” I called him. His eyes lit up as he walked over to me. “Hey Jody. Do you know where Phil is?” “He left.” “Oh no.” “What’s wrong?” “Well, the two

Given, Not Loaned...

  It's funny, the times I felt compelled to help someone in my therapy business. I didn't concern myself with a payback. I barely thought that they would take advantage of me or lie to me. I saw my business as the need for some selflessness, thinking altruistically. That being said, about six or seven years ago I had a wicked week in my office. Business was down. Yet, people needed me. So I was busy. I was giving discounts for a variety of reasons. Any excuse i could find to give them to reduce the cost to them I figured. And then the six people of that week who I knew I wouldn't take money from. I ran my business, like usual as I had for nearly three decades. I knew who couldn't afford me. Or rather my full price. I knew the very elderly may have money, especially those living in my county. However, they also would need finances for living, medications, proper medical care, perhaps a live-in caregiver for a better quality of life versus a riskier lonely one. Too,

The Light in the Darkness

‘Mom you’re barbaric’. Well not said exactly like that, but close. It was said by our then youngest an eighteen-year-old senior in high school after the January 2 nd Monday Night NFL game was postponed due to Damar Hamlin’s cardiac episode during the game. Both our oldest, who was then home from college for winter break, and our youngest agreed at the dinner table the following evening on that subject. They felt fighting and contact sports such as contact football like played in the NFL were too dangerous to exist. I was only slightly taken aback by their thoughts on such sporting events. I reminded them that fighting sometimes saves people from doing something illegal. I explained how it may help ‘air-out’ one’s frustrations. I explained how it was my own form of art. They weren’t buying it. Yes, I still have it in me to fight, to throw leather, to wrestle, to choke people out and so forth. I know what my excuses have been for training and fighting legally. Those feelings are all

Don't Trust Anyone Over 35

  "I'd do this again." I commented at the end of my exit review with my boss's bosses. The two men were stunned. "Really?!" I remarked, "Well, yeah.  Either next year or the following year. It was fun and a great experience.  The people were great too." The two looked at each other then at me. "Wow!" One stated. Yes, the work was difficult.  There really was no pay, for it was service to country. The stipend given paid for my $189 hiking boots, my walking poles, backpack items, spray bottles of deet and natrapel. My protein bars, my car's usage, gasoline,  dungarees, cammies, socks and other miscellaneous items I needed for the three month service stint. Most serving were between ages 18 to 35. My immediate boss was 45 and his boss's boss was age 50. However,  everyone else involved in service were under age 36. All thirty-nine service volunteers. Few were above age 28. And I knew I could trust these young minds. Trust them li

Sledging the Hammer

  "You could have a steam trainIf you'd just lay down your tracks..."---Peter Gabriel's 'Sledgehammer' lyrics. This is not the tune that lay in my mind this morning as I reminisced about yesterday's volunteers to help on trail crew.    However, as I looked up the proper definition of sledging that song popped up. I say sledging, which is my own take on swinging a hammer that we call a "Double Jack". The Single Jack is six pounds. I know that because our regular crew of five including me and one staff supervisor are handling Harriman State Park Trails, and have to carry about four of those, two shaping hammers, along with a hoist, belay bag with heavy equipment, first aid kit, double Jack, three 18lb rock bars, a lopper, three buckets, three eye to eyes, two burlap straps, two green wrapping straps, two pick Mattox, a roe hoe or two, a bar for either the two ton or one ton hoist, the feathers with pegs for splitting rocks that we drill... s