Perspective--Use it or Lose it!

     In 1973, I was four years old. It was a hugely significant year in my life, or at least had one of the events with the most effect on my life. 1969, 1971 and 1972 did as well, but this particular day in 1973 had an effect on my life second only to July 20th, 1969.

     I don't remember the exact date. I was four. The calendar was a meaningless chart as far as I was concerned. Sure, I knew how to read, and I knew my numbers, but I had no attachment to the significance of that particular set of words and numbers. And they're no particularly significant to the event in question, except that I suspect that it was sometime during the summer.

     I remember distinctly that I was looking out of the window of my bedroom at the back yard, and contemplating the concept of Omnipresence. While my parents never talked about such things (unless I asked), my grandmother talked a great deal about such things to me and my cousins. On that particular day, I was looking at the mass of green that was my panoramic view--the magnolia tree, the giant maple tree with six trunks, the camellia bushes 15-20 feet high, the hydrangea bushes, the grass liberally invaded by clover, violets and other weeds, the honeysuckle that had taken over the fence between us and the neighbors, the forsythia bush, the calla lilies, the massive wall of privet hedge...a world of myriad shades of cool green--and trying to reconcile what I saw with the words of my grandmother. I was trying to reconcile a grand, amorphous being inhabiting the trees, the grass, the weeds, the bushes....and the whole thing seemed terribly silly to me. I may have been extremely precocious, but I was also 4 and deep in the throes of the Concrete Operational Phase of my life, and this had no logic to it.

     As I sat and contemplated, I also thought about those other concepts that I heard from my grandmother: omniscience, and omnipotence. So I was expected to believe in an all-powerful, all-knowing male being who was everywhere. And yet, when I would make the effort to "say my prayers" (which my parents did not mention, but my grandmother certainly did), there was no palpable response. I got more "response" from my imaginary friends (and yes, that is how I referred to them, unless my parents started getting pushy about asking about them, and then I said they were invisible).

     Here is where the irony occurs. I was contemplating these things, and kind of laughing to myself about them, trying to decide whether these were things worthy of taking seriously, when I was "visited". I'll stick with that name for it now. You see, a...something appeared in my room. It was probably about 4-5 feet tall (I guess; once again, I was 4) dressed like Uncle Sam, only all in green sequins. He claimed he was God. Or a god. That part gets a little hazy, as does what he actually said to me.

     So I decided I could not possibly believe in a god that would come and have a personal conversation with a four year old girl. At that moment, back in the warm months of 1973, I became an atheist.

     This was to be one of the most significant decisions I could have made. It affected my personal thought processes, my perspective, my social life, my intellectual development, my socialization processes, my schooling....and yet, I still think that, despite everything, it was the right thing for me at that time. For one thing, it divorced me from the dogmatic pressure of the churches to which I was invariably dragged when visiting my parents' families in South Georgia. It gave me the freedom to analyze what was being said, rather than taking it in whole cloth as a necessary truth. It allowed me the freedom of reason. It was intellectually liberating.

     Perspective, though, is a funny thing. It changes as circumstances change. I was a firm atheist for 15 years.

     1988 was a much more significant year than even 1973 for me.

     Part of the reason it was so easy for me to chose atheism was because of the environment at home--especially my father's attitudes. He was the ultimate skeptic. In fact, he was a skeptic of skeptics and, like many (though not all) skeptics, he was so skeptical that he blinded himself to the possibility that anything other, paranormal, supernatural, spiritual, mystical (or however else you would like to characterize it) could possibly exist. Since this was the attitude on which I was raised, it was first nature to me.

      But then the world started to open up to me.

      Or maybe just crack a little. Anyway, the result, or the beginning, was that I started seeing that the "real world" had levels to it beyond what was immediately obvious. Of course, there have been many studies that showed aspects of the human brain that indicate a presence of what might be called "psychic phenomena". I started to become aware that there was more to the world than met the eyes. And it all started to fall into place after a "dream", though the dream took place in April of 1989.

      Julian's fiancée committed suicide on April 13, 1988. She was his soul mate; she made him feel complete, whole. Her death shattered him, and I, not having any clue what to do for him, how I could possibly make him feel better, stayed with him in the months that followed and let him cry on my shoulder, let him talk about her....which I guess is what he really needed, because I was the ONLY one that did these things.

     Well, a little after the first anniversary of her death, we were all asleep in his girlfriend's tiny studio apartment, when his fiancée...came to visit me. I was asleep next to the wall shared with the building's hallway. She walked through it, grabbed me and...pulled me out of my body (a singular experience--the only time I ever experienced anything like it), and told me to get Julian. Well, I tried. I pulled on him; he sat up out of his body (wearing a shirt I had never seen before, which turned out to be his favorite shirt--my son wears it now), complained that he was tired, and sort of fell back into his body. She dragged me through the wall to talk to me in the hall.

     She apparently did this because I had been suicidal the night before, and Julian had had to wrestle me and hold on to me to keep me from running off (severe depression combined with severe anxiety attacks is an ugly combination), and she was upset enough at the pain he had already experienced because of her death. She absolutely did not want to see him hurt that way again. Then she told me some things about her family, and her father, that I had not known. Then she disappeared, and I had a dream about her parents. When we all woke up in the morning, I confirmed with Julian the facts she had given me that I had never known before.

     That was a mind-opening experience. Hell, that was a freaky experience that had me stunned and contemplative for weeks. It seriously shook my skeptical atheist world view that had been slightly dented over the past year.

     So I read books, and I experienced the world, and, a few years later, I told Julian the entire story of the visitation when I was 4.

     He pointed out that my description fit very well a certain ancient Celtic god, and that the sequins were probably emeralds or something similar. Of course, I, at the tender age of 4, had never even heard of Lugh, much less considered him, but there you have it.

     Obviously, I am not an atheist at this time. I still sympathize with the lack of belief; it took me a long time to be able to conceive of real, functional belief in a deity. It took me even longer to stop resenting christians for the way they tortured me and attacked me (both literally and socially) because of my atheism and my honesty. I eventually came to realize that being christian did not make a person evil; being evil made a person evil, and some of the people that act in ways that I could justly refer to as evil just happen to claim to be christian.

     So what am I? Well, I call myself Druid, though I don't know how accurate it is. Etymologically, it does fit my last name. And it feels right. I don't practice well, or effectively (as far as I can tell; I may have figured out the Druid thing 13 or so years ago, but I was an atheist longer), but I do feel it.

     It's amazing how the view changes throughout the years.

      Perspective makes all the difference.

A picture is worth a thousand thoughts

     I have, once again, changed my profile picture on Facebook. I do this periodically, and it's usually my own art. I know I should probably slap my face up there for "truth in advertising" or some such, but, frankly, I don't like most of the pictures of me that I have available on the computer. So, you are all stuck with my art.

     Usually.

     This one is not mine. That is, I did not draw or paint it, though it was done for me. Alas, it's not quite what I wanted, but at least this one person was willing to give it the old college try. At least she captured sort of what the description of it is. That's better than all those people over the last twenty or so years who've said they would draw it for me and then did....nothing.

     Julian had this done for me. He is actually intending to practice drawing the parts to see if he can replicate what I have described to him. That means as much to me as the fact that he's the one that commissioned this piece for me while he was at a 'Con while traveling with Wolfhome Adventuring Outfitters. And, yes, he saw that it was not what I described, but it was the best he'd been able to find as well.

     What it should be: a Chinese dragon, but skinnier and gold; the feet should be on the outside of the ring and much smaller, and its head should be more even with its tail (and also smaller), breathing a huge gout of flame into the circle of its body, with the phoenix rising from that flame and filling the circle of the dragon's body. And the rose should be pointed up, not down.

     I suppose most of this is a stylistic difference but, given the significance of this image to me, that style means a lot.

     I saw this in a vision during meditation many years ago. It symbolizes me in many respects. The aspect of the phoenix describes my early twenties, and the rose comes from the name I was given by my Sifu--Golden Rose--which is, at least in part, a reference to a Bruce Lee quote from The Tao of Jeet Kune Do: The thorn defends the rose/but harms only those who would steal the blossom.

     So this is a picture of me, in a sense. It says a lot about me, but mostly only if you know the stories behind it. While it's not perfect, it's mine.

A Quest!

     As long as I can remember, I have wanted to write. I would say "wanted to be a writer" but I don't think that quite sums up the burning to put ideas to paper. I want to get these ideas into the air, drag them kicking and screaming from the hidden recesses of my brain and expose them, squinting, to the light of day.

     I first felt this itch, this burning, when I was in third grade. We each had to write a story, and I created a small, strange little world of Robbie the Rocket and a ghost. I don't remember it well, but that was...longer ago than I'd like to count right at the moment. And at the moment that I finished that story, I was hooked. Not only did I get to create something and not be scolded for "making up stories", but I got to read it afterwards, and explore the world I had created in my head. There was nothing better to my eight-year-old mind.

     By fourth grade, I had discovered poetry. That went over even better for a time, because adults actually liked my poetry. I was even forced to read one of my verses on the intercom before (or was it after?) the Pledge of Allegiance when I was in fifth grade. Suddenly, I had recognition! As shy as I was (and I was so painfully shy), being recognized for something I had done in a good way was both exhilarating and mortifying.

      I couldn't, and didn't, stop writing. I wrote stories. I wrote essays. I wrote poetry. When I was a teenager, the poetry became the voice for my deep depression. Somewhere, I still have it. I probably should have burned it, but that would be like burning your children.

     Or perhaps just your mirror.

     When I was in my twenties, all my writing was channeled into writing long explanations to myself to try to figure out why and how I was so effed up. They were deeply analytical, vaguely lyrical, and hideously depressing. They also allowed for a degree of introspection and self-realization that may have been impossible without. Alas, I'm afraid many of those are also still lingering, largely because most of my belongings remain in storage, and I don't want to just burn everything. I would lose too many books.

     For a time, I edited a small science fiction magazine owned by my best friend. I wrote for it as well, poetry, stories and articles. That was the best damned job I have ever had in my life, and if we had continued with the success we were enjoying we would probably still be doing it. However, we learned the hard way that, no matter how good a relationship you have with a printer, GET IT IN WRITING! The last issue of the magazine was published in 1991. We lost $0.60 on each and every one of the 200 copies because the printer changed managers, doubled the price, and screwed up every single copy. $120.00 was way too much for us to lose, and we were forced to stop publishing due to intense poverty. Someday we'll bring it back, perhaps as a web-zine, but it hasn't happened yet. 

      As a married mom to a small child, I tried very hard to get back to writing. I wrote a story for a contest, then realized it was way too long so I just sat on it. I wrote lots of bits and pieces of things, then divorced my husband because he was a dick. An abusive dick.

      Then I had to work (hard) to make a living.

     And that's where I stand now. I work a lot, and I try to take time to write. Now that my (same) best friend and I have his writers' group going again, I'm even somewhat motivated to write. Since the Graphites regeneration in July, I've finished two short stories. Considering the number of novels and short stories I started in the last ten years and failed to finish, I think I'm starting a good roll.

     So this brings us to the Quest.

     What I want, more than anything, is to write, get published, and get paid to write so that I have time to write. Working a forty hour a week desk job twenty miles from home is great, but it takes too much time away from writing. We depend on my desk job--I do not have the luxury of being able to quit to dedicate myself to it, no matter how many ideas are fluttering at the lantern, begging to be burned.

     I have started by sending friend requests to just about any published author I can find on Facebook. It's not so much that I think that being linked to published authors is some kind of panacea that will make time management for my writing easier, or make it simpler to get published. I'm far too realistic for that kind of thing.

     My reasoning is two-fold. First of all, networking is a fine and wonderful thing. That's half the reason Julian started his writers' group in the first place. You find yourself connecting to the most amazing people, and sometimes you connect with someone that can really help you. And sometimes you connect with someone that...you can really help. And there's nothing quite like people helping each other.

     The second fold of my reasoning is that...writers are people, too. They have kids, divorces, grief, grocery trips, psychoses, illnesses, writers' block, and often even day jobs. There's nothing quite so inspiring as seeing someone else accomplish what you want to accomplish from a position not so different from your own. At the very least, it makes your position seem much more promising.

      So to all those writers whom I recently friended (and I have been shocked at the sheer number, so my apologies for not thanking you each personally), thank you so much for accepting my friend request, and may we all be happily published with our own various and sundry genres.

     Let's wish us all massive success!

     Now I just need to know if I'm half as good as my best friend seems to think I am.