Today's word

fascicle - 1. a small or slender bundle (as of pine needles or nerve fibers)  2. one of the divisions of a book published in parts

An encouraging revelation

An interesting transformation seems to have occurred while I haven't been paying attention.  As the news has swirled with news of Jerry Sandusky and Bernie Fine and their alleged victims, I have found my memory flooded with my own youthful experiences of abuse.  It has been painful, but I've concluded think it is probably good for me to examine my childhood in this new context, away from addressing how it might be linked to some contemporary dysfunction that I was trying to address.

I have just realized that I have not had one moment of feeling afraid and ashamed because of what I did as an adult.

Am I finally learning to cut myself some slack?

No plugging the levee

This is explicit.  If you know me, know that I'm sharing my innermost self here; don't read unless you're willing to know these things about me. You won't be able to scrub your brain of it. I'm sorry.



I went to school on Monday after the long Thanksgiving weekend, and tried to act as if everything was normal, though my life suddenly felt completely alien.  When I talked with my friends about the weekend, as I must have because I'm sure that I talked it up in excited anticipation beforehand, I certainly didn't tell anyone this shameful part of it. I'd keep total silence about it for nearly 9 years. When I finally did tell first one close friend and then a second, it was without understanding the effect that this part of my life had really had on me. I was trying to relate to similar pain they had each experienced, to give them room to accept that I could understand their hurt, but in truth I'd never really allowed myself to experience my own.  It wasn't until I had to enter therapy when I was 35 that I really began to understand the effects these experiences had on me.  And this past week has probably been the first time that I've examined them for their own sake, rather than as part of some other issue I was trying to get to the root of.

From that point forward, to suggest that the nature of my relationship with him changed would only be half true: from his perspective, I'm sure it was exactly the same as he imagined and envisioned it to be all along, but from my perspective things were now completely different.  The actions that I'd previously viewed as uncomfortably forward playfulness would henceforth strike my consciousness in the same context I'm convinced they'd always been in for him: foreplay. On occasions when we'd be working in his garage with no one else around, he would frequently, persistently pester me to have sexual interaction with him. And there was never again any such thing as just casually hanging out, a boy relishing time with a father figure who had taken him under his wing. I've since figured out that it never really was that way, from his point of view. About a month before the Philly and New York trip, I had started experimenting with marijuana; although he didn't like it himself, he'd always have some weed handy to help get me in a cooperative mood.

I did seek other employment, partly in an effort to reduce my dependence on him, but it didn't last very long. The money wasn't as good and the work itself of making pizzas wasn't as enjoyable, so I returned to working for him on weekends. I mean, it isn't as if he wasn't going to be in my life if I didn't; he was still dating my mom, and still would have made it a point to have time for me. And though I didn't fully realize it, I was still emotionally dependent on him. There is one line I'm glad I never stepped over: whenever I needed more money for some high school (or, later, college) crisis that had come up, well, he very explicitly made it known how I could earn more above and beyond my compensation for the garage work.  I wonder if I could possibly feel any worse about things if I had actually prostituted myself so directly.

I soon found out he maintained a seedy apartment in a run down part of Baltimore, which my mom knew about, actually. It was a getaway for him to retreat from the pressures of his day job and side work, but I'm sure she didn't fully know then what sort of getaway it really was.  I'm sure there was only one thing he ever used it for, because the times he took me there I was never able to escape without another fully consummated incident of sexual abuse. We'd stop by, usually after having visited a peep movie show in an adult book store, or a strip club, or someplace else where his - and my - appetite had been whetted. (Actually, his was probably stoked already.) Presumably the stop was either to clean up from riding the motorcycles all day or to rest up for an evening out. But he'd always make a pass, and he never, ever took no for an answer. It was always, "Oh, c'mon.  You know you want to.  You'll feel so much better afterward."  On the one or two early occasions when I tried to leave the apartment, he physically prevented me from doing so. Then, while he had me overpowered - usually from behind - he'd rub my crotch through my jeans until he began to get the desired physiological reaction, which then became confirmation to him that I was just playing hard-to-get all along. But get me he always did; I was never equipped to not ultimately yield to what he wanted.

This became my status quo, until he moved away and I subsequently got married. But I was so dependent on him that, between those two events, I went to his new town the summer after my freshman year to help him build his house. By then I guess he'd tired of my protestations, as his advances became more rare - though not non-existent.

But the absolute worst part to remember, the thing I still hate the most from back then (as opposed to the what I later became, which is still unspeakably worse to cope with), is that in the interim I did sometimes become a more willing participant. That first night, at the Y, of course, but there were occasions after that. This was what most made me feel like a piece of shit, believing in my heart that I was being unfaithful with him to my mother.  He didn't penetrate me until the first time I asked him to. And I know I asked to penetrate him, too, that one time.

I want to puke now. It isn't that I'm disgusted by the specific actions, though perhaps I would be if I hadn't become so jaded by now. My revulsion is more a reflection on the dynamic, and on the person with whom and circumstances under which I engaged in these acts. To this day I crave these activities, and never getting them feels like a gaping hole in my sexuality. The thing is, I've never been and am not now attracted to men.  When I see a handsome man, I don't want to be with him sexually, or imagine what he looks like naked, or fantasize about being with him. I can't imagine I'll ever want to be with just a man sexually. I don't know if it's because I'm straight, or because I'd be intimidated by it because of the only context in which I've ever experienced such contact.

Today's words

benthic - of, relating to, or occurring at the bottom of a body of water

crepitant - making a crackling sound

strophic - using the same music for successive stanzas

piscine - of, relating to, or characteristic of fish

I actually knew the last two.  The third is a musical term, and I picked up the last from Life of Pi, though those into astrology would get it, too.

A fresh look at an old blight

It occurs to me that this is probably the first time I've ever really processed it for its own sake.  Previously it has always been about some effect or other that it had on me.  This time, it has been more about what I felt, what I experienced, and yes, its effects, but in general rather than in some specific area that I'm trying to address.

I think this is going to be good for me, in the long run.  But for now, it sucks. (appropriate verb.  sorry, reader.)

It was right about now . . .

the hope of breathing

i've always been enamored of its symmetry
the structure that imposes needed discipline
and keeps the thoughts from aimlessly meandering
to where the threat of narcissism lies
yet now i find that even structure carries me
to selfishness's ultimate offensiveness
the banishment of every love i've ever known
while every hint of decency just dies

they told me that forgiving him would lead me to
a better place where my own heart could find its peace
that i would learn to live and love and be without
his influence imposing its foul way
yet now although i wish him well, my leprous wounds
arise again to trammel me so i cannot
pass through to love's full freedom where i might escape
my fathers' invocations' endless sway

the ones i love deserve so much more than i seem
to find myself now capable of carrying
their beauty and their innocence is crushing me
as i consider where my road now leads
for though there seems no poetry in thirty four
it seems i lack the energy for battling
against the endless tyranny of brokenness
that finally imposes its dark deeds

one thing that helps relieve the pressure of despair
is to consider where pursuing darkness goes
i know there is no use in getting all wrapped up
it's better to acknowledge truth and cope
if on the twenty-seventh i'm still drawing breath
these verses will have purged my psyche of its load
for i will not share forth these thoughts of dark and dread
until the dawn brings a fresh dose of hope

Writing rules

I love this approach . . .  (and no, I'm not trying to drop a hint to anyone!)

Alone in the city

That weekend, and the other time he took me to NYC, I was amazed by how unfriendly people seemed as I walked along the crowded sidewalk. I kept nodding at people, and smiling, and few of them made eye contact.  I soon realized it was because of their need to maintain some form of psychological space amid the close confines in which they lived, worked, and played together. There were just so many of them, passing by with no acknowledgement of the people around them.

This place where I share my thoughts can feel that way sometimes.  Let me say that I'm glad you're here, whom- and wherever you may be.

Why?

Did I crawl into his bed, later that night, because I was horny?  I don't remember.


Maybe it was my fault, at least partly.

It shouldn't have been a mystery

I've finally figured out - again, maybe - why the events of Thanksgiving weekend of 1977 have been so prominent in my thoughts this year.  Thank you, Jerry Sandusky, or the eight boys who are lying about you.

(Just in case it isn't clear from the context, that last phrase is sarcasm. 5/21/2014)

Lord, I believe.

Help my unbelief.

Odd coincidence?

So I was showering this morning, thinking about 34 years ago "week-wise," in terms of Thanksgiving weekend.  I wasn't really recalling or dwelling on my experiences of that weekend, but just thinking about how we celebrate anniversaries associated with holidays relative to the holiday, not the calendar date.  So I was thinking about the eager anticipation I was experiencing "on this date" 34 years ago, and found myself correcting my thoughts to "on this day," relative to the week of Thanksgiving.

I'd just looked at a November 1977 calendar the other day when I was researching what ended up being Sunday's post.  But it wasn't until this morning, when I didn't have either calendar before my eyes, that I realized that Thanksgiving falls on the same calendar date this year that it did in '77.  How odd that this should be true in this year in which I've been patching together the sequence of some of the weekend's events in a more complete way than I have before.  Still, I suspect that for this year and this weekend, at least, if I think any more about events "on this date" 34 years ago, I'll likely go through the mental gymnastics of correcting myself to "on this day," then back to, "no, that was right . . . "

And maybe for the first time, I have a date in my head instead of a day.  Rather than just "Saturday of Thanksgiving weekend, 1977," I know it was "November 26, 1977."

Visitors

"I think I'll just wander around the place a little. That blubbering idiot over in the corner?  Oh, pay him no nevermind; I'm sure he doesn't even know we're here . . . "

Today's word

splenetic - marked by bad temper, malevolence, or spite

Funk

I guess not even having my wonderful grandchildren here will completely relieve my Thanksgiving week mood.  Must remember that those things are in the past, and to treasure the present.

Planning late

I suppose I should start planning our (Friday) Thanksgiving dinner . . .

A thankful 2011

I was expecting a low-key, practically depressing Thanksgiving.  Instead, I have a house full of family this week.  (And I'm really glad we haven't downsized to a smaller one yet!)

Another thought on happiness

A follow-up thought on an old post, grown out of subsequent work and discussions in therapy:

There's another thing that interferes with out ability to experience happiness, joy, or any other positive emotion, in addition to making it our goal rather than experiencing it naturally in the course of what we're really about.  Many of us attribute our joy or lack of it to factors outside ourselves.  Certainly, our circumstances affect our emotions.  But there is something else to consider: in very similar conditions, different people have very different emotional responses.

This is because the greatest drivers of our emotions are internal rather than from outside us.

More details, and a point

One or two more little things I remember from the assault I witnessed.  The guy who got beaten over the head was bleeding, and some folks from the bar came out and tended to him as he sat on the step.  He was insistent that no one call the police.  Of course, there were no cell phones back then, with their handy built-in digital cameras, for someone (me) to snap a picture or snag a video to use as evidence, or for a witness to use to call the police.

But I still can't remember a few other details.  I don't remember which night this happened.  For that matter, I'm not positive which night I was describing two posts ago, though I think that was Saturday.  I'm thinking that I witnessed the assault on Saturday, too, that this was part of the general disorientation I was already feeling when he stepped out of that bathroom.

The thing is, the only reason that matters at all is for my desire to be able to tell a coherent story, and as I've observed before, telling a tale of abuse too clearly would paint an inappropriately neat account of very messy shit.  Sorry, but my therapists made clear that using neat language makes abuse too sanitized for proper appreciation - an inappropos word if ever there was one - of what it is and what it does.  So what if I can't remember the exact order in which all these events which were etched into my neuronic pathways almost three and a half decades ago unfolded?  That isn't at all important.

But if these events still had the power to make me feel out of control of my life, that would be very important.  Revisiting the details of that weekend help me examine any loose ends I may have left unaddressed.  That's a good thing.

I'm grateful to the professionals and the good friends and who have helped me reach a point at which abuse no longer feels like the central truth of my life, at which I can choose to recall my past and acknowledge its effects on me without obsessing over any of these events in an unhealthy way.  And though I've used a pronoun to refer to him in these several posts, and attributed some really unpleasant motivations to his involvement in my life, as I examine my feelings for him now, I do believe I've forgiven him.  I bear him no animosity, and want for him only what is in his best interests.

Piecing in a small detail

I've been trying to remember the sequence of events of that Thanksgiving weekend of 1977.  I knew we started off in Philly. Every year he went up for the Army-Navy game, which I'd always found odd because he was definitely not into spectator sports. And I knew that, before the game, we went up to NYC so that he could get me intoxicated, since I couldn't pass for old enough to drink in PA. But I couldn't remember with certainty which day we drove from Philly to NY. I was pretty sure it must have been Friday; there wouldn't have been any point in just going up for one night, even for what he had in mind.

I remember seeing Queen at The Spectrum that weekend. I think I remember taking the subway there, and walking back, being nervous both ways because of my unfamiliarity with the city. I can't remember if the station was just too crowded, or (as I think I recall) that the route didn't run that late at night. If it was impaired he was after, he didn't have to take me to New York. I was pretty stoned at the concert, as someone next to me had passed me one of those special cigarettes of which I used to partake back then.  (There's something else I don't miss!) This concert was an added second night; their first concert had sold out so quickly they added a second, which didn't sell out at all, and I was able to get a fairly good seat. So through the twin wonders of the Web and Google, I've just confirmed that this was indeed a Thanksgiving night concert - no wonder it didn't sell out! (and so the reason I nervously walked to the hotel after the concert was that the route wasn't running that late on Thanksgiving. Bingo!) Therefore it was at breakfast on Friday morning that he broached the idea of going north, which seemed agreeable to me at the time.

Among the things I've never forgotten about that weekend was seeing a guy get assaulted in New York. There was a bar where I was waiting with the truck across the street - near the water? -  for him to get back from some errand.  Was he scoring some of that illegal substance of which I was fond, to finish the lowering of my resistance, or perhaps quickly getting his itch scratched?  I don't remember why he'd left me there. But I saw a man walking very quickly downhill down a side street, which ended at a T at the street from which I was sitting across, where the entrance to the bar was on the corner.  The bar door opened, and another guy comes stumbling down the steps, bumping rather forcefully into the guy walking down the street. The man who'd been walking along pulled out what looked like a pipe wrapped in light blue plastic and beat the inebriated interloper over the head a few times, then turned right and proceeded on his way to wherever he was going. I remember being shocked by the absurd brutality of the incident. First, what kind of place was this, that a person couldn't make allowances for someone who accidentally bumped them and, more significantly, where someone would routinely carry such a weapon around with them and use it so casually and callously?
(Later thought)

In retrospect, I suppose it was the sort of city to which a man with illicit plans would take a boy to consummate the 18-plus months of grooming he'd carried out so carefully.

I wonder if they thought anything of it

If you're sensitive to sexual abuse issues, DO NOT READ THIS.













I know it wasn't my fault.  But sometimes I still feel as if it was.

The bartender (was it more than one?  it must have been; he'd never have given up so easily) in Philly who refused to serve me - the drinking age in PA was 21 even for beer and wine then; it wouldn't be raised in MD and NY for a couple more years - was there anything more on his mind than what would happen if he got caught serving a minor?  Could he have also been trying to spare me from what would happen if my defenses were impaired by alcohol?  Or did he have no concern at all about this man of almost 40 trying to buy a beer for the 17-year-old boy with him?  It isn't as if I've ever looked mature for my age.

Today there's another sexual abuse case reported, this one allegedly by a Syracuse assistant basketball coach.  It's good that this problem is getting the attention it should.  It isn't easy, but it's good.

How about later that weekend, when we went to NYC, where I could pass for old enough to drink, at least if the observer applied the proper filter to his vision?  Of course, we were in several gay bars over the course of the weekend, so the staff and patrons there may have had an inkling of what would be going on well before I did.  Without blaming "the community," I wonder if they just thought it was okay?

Later that night, we were in for the evening and my head was swimming with the buzz he intended.  I'll never forget how he emerged from the bathroom and he stood in front of me, in our room at the Y, stroking his little penis (is that cruel?), begging me to take mine out and let him see it.  I just knew that what he was asking me to do was wrong, no matter how much he insisted it was okay.  The thing is, I didn't even consider that part of the reason it was wrong because it was him.  I just had a deep sense that what he was asking me to do was wrong, in and of itself, even though he was telling me it wasn't and I trusted him.  He pointed out what we both knew: that he was only asking me to do in front of a witness what I often did in the privacy of my own company.  Of course, he intended all along to take it much further than that.

How long did he stand there before I complied, asking me while he rubbed himself, then stopping so he wouldn't complete his pleasure before getting what he wanted, giving me illusive hope that maybe he was going to give up, then starting back up again?  Repeatedly he begged me, pleaded with me.

"Please?"

"Let me see you."

"I just want to see you."

It wasn't long before my own body betrayed me, too.

"I can see you want to."

"You'll feel so much better if you do."  The biggest lie of all.

Was it just a few minutes?  It feels like an hour.

I know it's a trap, a misunderstanding of what happened, but even today I still wonder how different my life might have been if I'd just told him no, if I'd never dropped my pants and given in to what he wanted.  I was old enough to just tell him no.

I know what he did to me over the next eighteen months wasn't my fault, even though he manipulated the both of us into thinking I was his co-conspirator.  I know it wasn't my fault.  But I still - in the sense of both "nonetheless" and "after all this time and work" - feel as if it was.

Of course, just seeing me wasn't enough. He had to make sure that he was the one to provide the incredible rush of orgasm that he was chasing after at my expense. And he couldn't be a complete ogre, a rapist - he always had to make sure that I submitted with my will.

I'd learn in subsequent incidents that it was futile to try to force my way past him. But this first time, in this strange city far from home, where the occasional gunshot resounded outside the window, there was no consideration of that possibility. There was nowhere for me to go.  So ultimately, I yielded.  Ultimately, I would yield again and again.  A lifetime of yielding.

That first night, reason and boundaries overwhelmed by alcohol mingled with my continued arousal from the pleasure of this earlier release, I crawled into his bed to experience it again.

Will I ever be able to acknowledge that without hating myself for it?

I know it wasn't my fault.

But I always feel as if it was.

34 years next weekend.  Nothing especially significant about that number.  Not nearly the worst thing that ever happened to me, either, just the worst that was ever done to me by someone besides myself.

Moody

I wish I could take the day off, and go sit in the cool air out at Clifton Gorge, or next to a lake, or somewhere that the physical chill could get into my bones to match my emotions.

I can only think of one reason why I feel like this right now.  It creeps up behind me and sinks its claws into me when I'm not attentive enough.  I know it shouldn't have any power over me any more, and somewhere inside I know that it doesn't, really.  Must try to remember this, especially when my feelings are lying to me to the contrary.

Keeping it real

I struggle to be the person I believe and articulate that I should be.

On marriage

Oh, boy. Another celebrity break up has given gay marriage advocates something to trumpet as further evidence that society need fear no harm from their efforts to redefine marriage.

Can we talk about marriage without focusing on the worst examples of its abuse, please?  The institution of marriage has indeed drifted far from both its sacramental and societal intentions.

I believe this drift finds its roots in society's pervasive contraceptive mentality. Let me observe at the outset that I am not condemning people who use artificial contraception, or I'd be accusing myself as stridently as anyone else. There can be legitimate health reasons for their use, and there may be some married couples who should never accept the uncertainty associated with strictly natural methods - though a) properly used with loving cooperation these can be most effective, and b) using these in conjunction with an artificial backup might be the best approach for these couples. Nor am I heaping condemnation on gay people, the divorced, the promiscuous, or anyone else for that matter. I have enough of a mote in my own eye to not try to focus on the speck in anyone else's.  I would especially hope that my gay and lesbian friends would hear no condemnation, judgment, or anything but love in these words. I, too, struggle to keep the procreative act in its proper perspective, and have stumbled enough to know I'm not better than anyone.  And I think one of the worst things that religious people do is try to hold others to behavioral standards that they themselves struggle with; it becomes an obstacle to faith.

The simple truth is that the institution of marriage exists for specific and narrow reasons, and we've gotten so used to subjugating those to its benefits that we've begun to think of its perquisites as its purpose. Pope Paul VI foresaw this so prophetically in 1968 when he released his encyclical Humanae Vitae, accurately predicting the effect that separating human sexuality from reproduction would have in so many areas of society. The letter begins with a simple sentence that sums up the holistic approach to human sexuality and reproduction that Pope John Paul II would elucidate in far greater detail in the Theology of the Body: "The transmission of human life is a most serious role in which married people collaborate freely and responsibly with God the Creator." Even if it turns out that every believer on the planet is wrong about the existence of a creator, the historical truth is that the entire reason for the institution of marriage is to provide a nurturing, protective environment for the spouse who subjugates his or her providing/earning/career potential for the sake of the role of  rearing the children who are created as a result of the married couple's love, and for those children. This result is the primary biological purpose of our sexuality, too.

That is even more fundamentally and unavoidably true if one doesn't believe in God than if one does! If we've simply evolved into the sort of species we are today, the pleasure of our sexuality served to make us seek out the act of reproduction, which we'd otherwise not engage in. I mean, who would ever engage in such a strange activity as sex if it weren't so pleasurable?  On the other hand, if one doesn't believe marriage is ordained by God, it is easy enough to conclude that we should do all we can to change it for the benefit of our current perceived reality.

Pope Paul suggested that our use of artificial contraception would further a mindset that had already taken root in society.  He said:

"(T)he most remarkable development of all is to be seen in man's stupendous progress in the domination and rational organization of the forces of nature to the point that he is endeavoring to extend this control over every aspect of his own life—over his body, over his mind and emotions, over his social life, and even over the laws that regulate the transmission of life."

He observed that this mindset would lead to the general attitude that we are entitled to the pleasure of our sexuality separately from the natural consequences and biological function of our actions.  (I've thought of it like being fascinated by the kick of a firearm and the smell of the powder without any regard for the projectile.)  He went on to underscore the indivisible nature of the various aspects of our sexuality:

"The reason is that the fundamental nature of the marriage act, while uniting husband and wife in the closest intimacy, also renders them capable of generating new life—and this as a result of laws written into the actual nature of man and of woman. And if each of these essential qualities, the unitive and the procreative, is preserved, the use of marriage fully retains its sense of true mutual love and its ordination to the supreme responsibility of parenthood to which man is called."

He went on to elucidate some of the potential consequences of the course gaining such strength in society:

" . . . (R)eflect on the consequences of methods and plans for artificial birth control.  . . . (C)onsider how easily this course of action could open wide the way for marital infidelity and a general lowering of moral standards. Not much experience is needed to be fully aware of human weakness and to understand that human beings—and especially the young, who are so exposed to temptation—need incentives to keep the moral law, and it is an evil thing to make it easy for them to break that law. Another effect that gives cause for alarm is that a man who grows accustomed to the use of contraceptive methods may forget the reverence due to a woman, and, disregarding her physical and emotional equilibrium, reduce her to being a mere instrument for the satisfaction of his own desires, no longer considering her as his partner whom he should surround with care and affection.

"Finally, careful consideration should be given to the danger of this power passing into the hands of those public authorities who care little for the precepts of the moral law. Who will blame a government which in its attempt to resolve the problems affecting an entire country resorts to the same measures as are regarded as lawful by married people in the solution of a particular family difficulty? Who will prevent public authorities from favoring those contraceptive methods which they consider more effective?"

One need only consider the subsequent example of China to recognize his prescience.

In the last half-century, we've decided to fully avail ourselves of the technology at our disposal to separate this pleasurable and unitive act from the biological reason it exists: the production of offspring. But as we've done so, we've tried to preserve the institution that was developed specifically around the latter set of functions, except to expand its application as if it exists primarily for the sake of the former.

Let's not try to misappropriate the benefits that are intended for the protection of those who have focused on producing and raising their children.  It would make more sense to scrap the whole institution.  But no one wants that; they rather want the benefits, even if the reason behind them has ceased to apply in many cases. I am of course generalizing.  I am blessed to know many couples who marry with the intention of spending a life together raising and loving the family that results from their union.  And I believe this is so important that society should still afford them the support that the institution of marriage has provided.

Yet we can't seem to have any discussion of gay marriage that accounts for these sorts of issues without being accused of homophobia and hate speech.  We're told instead that we must focus only on what is an individual's right to do with this basic, undeniable (!) , individual (!) biological (!) function in the context in which our society views our sexuality.

Today's word

tramontane - 1) situated on the north side of the Alps; transalpine.  2) lying on or coming from the other side of a mountain range
 
I'd never heard this word before, but it - especially the second definition - makes perfect sense.

Don't reinvent the pothole

It feels like a good time to remind myself of things I know, that I've worked through both on my own and in therapy, before I head down an angsty road that I just don't need to traverse any more . . .

Playing second fiddle

How about if we just have a mutual understanding that on Thursday nights you're just not really interested in anything besides your shows, and I should just ignore any suggestion to the contrary . . .

Wish I could unsee that

It's hard to find out that someone you love is engaged in unhealthy behavior.

New words, finally!

It has been too long, but today I get two.  The first was probably in my background somewhere, but had faded from my working vocabulary:


fey - 1. marked by a foreboding of death or calamity  2a.  marked by an otherworldly air or attitude b. crazy 3a. excessively refined : precious b. quaintly unconventional : campy
 
numinous - 1. supernatural; mysterious  2. filled with a sense of the presence of divinity : holy  3. appealing to the higher emotions or to the aesthetic sense : spiritual

Great George Will piece

Here it is in full, and here is an excerpt from the piece Conformity for diversity's sake:

Here . . . is how progressivism limits freedom by abolishing the public-private distinction: First, a human right . . . is deemed so personal that government should have no jurisdiction over it. Next, this right breeds another right, to the support or approval of others. Finally, those who disapprove of it must be coerced . . .  Thus do rights shrink to privileges reserved for those with government-approved opinions.

Those on the left are quick to rail against censorship, even when it's really just free-market response, but they are also quick to invoke true censorship - government imposed restriction of free speech - when those with whom they disagree express their position.  


Not all disagreement is equivalent to bullying, nor is it akin to yelling, "Fire!" in a crowded theater.  Sometimes it is the free and loving expression of concern.


One person's right to do as they wish does not trump another's right to so much as express an opinion about it. The idea that it should is taking rapid hold, though, and soon individuals and institutions who promote unpopular societal positions will find themselves increasingly persecuted.  

A therapy lesson revisited

One thing I learned in my latest round of therapy is that it's really important what thoughts we give free rein to.  We encounter all sorts of situations that are challenging in many ways, and some ways of thinking about those challenges are helpful while others can be a hindrance, or even downright destructive.

I'm feeling a bit paralyzed over my resume and job search.  I am not, really; I'm just acting like I am.  No, yesterday there was no time, but that doesn't mean there never is.  Likewise other things that I know help me be the person I'm supposed to be.

Writing this was a better choice than other things I could have done with this couple of minutes.  So is this: thank you, Lord, for your many gifts, most especially the loved ones who are visiting us this week!  And thank you for sustaining all of us during very challenging times.  Help me to think always of your love and your constant presence with us, the strength you give us which is immeasurably greater than our own!  Help me put aside my pride to lean on you; help me to overcome my feeling of not knowing how to lean on you; help me to just give myself over to you even  as I acknowledge that I don't know how.  And help the people I love do the same.