Writing Reality

  “Your Mind to My Mind.”   We laid in bed that Thanksgiving Day 2019. I thought then and spoke, “I’m sorry it’s you and not me, Norman.” It was a silent moment as awake as we were, staring stunned at the bedroom ceiling in disbelief. I’d finally spoke about how I felt about the world. The world I knew he was leaving soon, and I would still be here. I remarked, “My mind to your mind. It is not to take away the truth Norman. It is to take away your pain.”   If you have watched any of the Star Trek series. Which there are at least I’m going to guess, four different Star Trek series that have been developed since around 1967. The one that has a Vulcan named Spock in them. You may understand the line, “My Mind to Your Mind. Your Mind to My Mind”. If you do not. By the end of this writing you may understand the emphasis here.   Many times, in my life I have wanted to heal people who were quite ill. So, my tool earlier in life was prayer, positive thoughts, and mental imagery. It

  Day Three …As We progress into those thoughts we had on the diagnosis and passing of a loved one… “I couldn’t believe you didn’t say anything. You just stood there, raised a brow and kept playing solitaire on your kindle.” He wondered. I replied, “Well, no one is going to listen to me. Especially, when what I have to say will keep them from making millions of dollars off a desperate soul. So, I just dummy-up and let them think I’ve accepted their unscrupulousness. What are you gonna’ do. Huh?” I shrugged. That was one of the many conversations I had after each visit my husband had, at what many consider a topnotch medical group in the ‘Big City’. They make millions on people’s desperation.   They won’t try and consider that maybe the patient doesn’t want to be throwing up, drugged up, unable to go outside for a walk, or unable to do certain chores. That medical group does harm. That big conglomerate violated the ‘Do No Harm’ efficacy of medicine. And it was blatant. Why? Becaus

As much as I like big trucks... or rather did as a child, more so... I was afraid to get my driver's license. I had a friend when I was a teenager who had the same fear. Her name was Margaret. It was clearly the power behind the motor, that made me love big trucks and I wanted to drive them someday. As well, perhaps… Yes, I’ll say it… I loved being out for a run as a teenager …ehhh hmmmm…as well as an adult…(but you didn’t hear that from me)… on a local street and giving the truck driver the admirable, ‘Honk Your Truck Horn, Please’ sign. They’d acquiesce, seemingly every time. It always pleased me so. I digress… So, here I was, this kid who wanted to drive big trucks. Yet, I was afraid to get my driver’s license. Quite a quirky pickle, I’d say. Finally, after a few months of being seventeen, my mother demanded me to go for the driver’s test and get my license. She would drive me there for the test. For she needed me to help her. She a single mother with a three-year old, my youn

  Every day I walked to school; then back home for lunch… then back to school, then back home for the day. For those nearly three years of middle school, I wondered what would happen next. I wondered who would step in and save me from being trashed, stolen, ridiculed for no reason, other than I was a ‘good girl’, the ‘ ditch-digger’s daughter ’. Other than my mother was too ill to associate in the social intricacies of the small town, a Peyton Place , if you will… Where such social intricacies and gossip mattered. They said they were Christians. Yet they didn’t act like it, even those who went to church… I couldn’t enter the church without ridicule…I saw hypocrisy, and went elsewhere… And then, there was my dad being a brute to not just the members of our family; yet, to people in the town who got on his nerves or who he thought were pansies.  Little did I know, I had not a snowballs’ chance in hell to be saved from ridicule, neither from harm. So, I prayed every moment I could. I aske