The Journey -- Breaking the Cycle Part 1

Look, Mom, I’m a yoyo!  My weight goes up, my string gets wound up, and I toss, and the weight goes down.  That’s the struggle I have with food.  I am obese.  I have dieted, lost weight, and within a short period, put it all back on, time and again.

 I have an addictive personality.  It is easy for me to get attached to things and use them to my detriment.  Many years ago I was a smoker.  I smoked four packs per day.  I tried hundreds of times to stop.  I couldn’t…until my life changed very drastically.  Long story short, I decided to end my miserable life.  I quit my engineering job, sold everything I could except my tent and my motorcycle, gave all my guitars and PA system to friends, and set out for the great Southwest on my motorcycle.  I quit smoking.  I no longer had the money to buy cigarettes; I no longer had all of those triggers that kept dragging me back to “just one more cigarette.” (By the way, I didn’t commit suicide.)  Can I do the same thing with food? 

Well, I can’t stop eating. But…I can change things so I don’t have all those triggers that send me off to raid the fridge.  But eating disorders are much deeper than that.  There are triggers deep down in my psyche driving me.  While I might be able to control some triggers, I can’t control them all.  I have to get to the root of it all.  I need help.

My wife, Ruth, and I started on the South Beach Diet over a year ago.  It was reasonably easy to do, being so overly obese that I had to do something…I was desperate.  Over the next year, we both lost eighty pounds.  We felt great!  For several months, we’d catch our weight slowly going up, and we’d counter it by going back to one of the early diet phases until we could get the weight down, again.  But, dieting gets old.  While Ruth was able to manage her weight to a reasonable degree, I exploded into a subdued feeding frenzy.  I put on eighteen pounds.  I feel it when I tie my shoes.  I feel it when I fasten my pants.  I feel it when I walk the dog.  I refused to weigh myself, knowing that it would confirm what I already knew.  I weighed yesterday afternoon—197 pounds with clothing on.  Fortunately, Ruth had already started us back on Phase One of the South Beach Diet.

I want this time to be different, though.  I’m tired of the cycle.  I’m tired of dieting.  I want change.  But I know that the change has to come from within, way deep down…perhaps in places I don’t even know how to get to, or honestly, maybe I don’t even want to get to them.  But I’m going to do it, none-the-less.

I have mentors and teachers that will help me.  I have Thich Nhat Hahn,  Dalai Lama, Dr. Wayne Dyer, Dr. Arthur Agatston  (South Beach Diet)  available in book form, and last, but by no means least, my wife, Ruth.  They have given me much in the way of guidance over the years as I deal with another character flaw.  I’m a recovering jerk.

I have tools.  I will mention my wife as the first tool.  She knows food, and she knows how to prepare it.  She can make armadillo taste like chocolate ice cream, I think.  She studies and works hard to prepare the healthy foods in great variety, and limited portions.  I could not begin to eat healthy without her dedication and help.

My second tool is meditation.   Meditation helps me order things in my mind.  It helps in ways too numerous to mention here.  I meditate at least 3 times a week, but more than that usually.   I will talk about my meditations more in future posts.

My third tool is my spiritual cadre, my spirit guides, my spirit teachers, and my spirit masters (masters as in masters of the trade).  I consult with them more often than I meditate.

My fourth tool is my dogs.  They exercise me, and they exorcise my bad moods.

Just a caveat.  I don’t pretend to have any answers.  What works for me may or may not work for someone else.  What doesn’t work for me may work for someone else.  More important than methods is the change I hope that comes out of this.  If anyone can take courage from these journals I will believe I have fulfilled the goal.  Obesity is an illness with its roots entangled deep down in the psyche.  This promises to be a revealing journey for me.


By the way, all work and no play makes me cranky.  I'm going to do a little more reading for fun.  I'm starting with the second book in a series written by Billie Jo Williams, Destiny of Dragons.  I have enjoyed her first in that series, and started the second one of the nine novels.  I might also pick up where I left of on the Dresden Files.  Looking forward to this.

Be Peace.

Be Love.

Book Review: The Zealot: The Life and Times of Jesus of Nazareth By Dr. Reza Aslan (Final)

Some of you may have read my initial comments on this book.  I want to preface these remarks with a few thoughts.  First, in my notes, I complained profusely about lack of documentation supporting Dr. Aslan’s statements.  Let me explain:  When I see a statement that makes an observation of a time or a place that the writer could not have experienced in person, I want to see the sources upon which he bases the statement.  For example:

“Whatever languages Jesus may have spoken, there is no reason to think he could read or write in any of them, not even Aramaic.  Luke’s account of the  twelve-year-old Jesus standing in the Temple of Jerusalem debating the finer points of the Hebrew Scriptures with the rabbis and scribes… or his narrative of Jesus at the (nonexistent) synagogue in Nazareth reading from the Isaiah scroll to the astonishment of the Pharisees…, are both fabulous concoctions of the evangelist’s own devising.”

Such a statement automatically evokes a series of questions in my mind:  1) How can Dr. Aslan know that Jesus could not read or write in any language unless he was there in person, or he has the direct or indirect testimony of someone who was there?  2) How does Dr. Aslan know whether or not a synagogue was in Nazareth without having been there himself, or without the direct or indirect testimony of someone who was there? 3) Without corroboration of the first two statements, his conclusion that Luke concocted the stories is totally unsupported and very probably unfair.

I demand that a writer support his statements with documented research, even if I may agree with his statements.   If I see statements like the one I just cited, and it does not have a footnote for its source, I treat it as opinion at best.  More importantly, it makes me immediately suspicious of the writer EVEN if I agree with the statement.

Secondly, I approach a book on its own merits.  I understand that everything we know, and everything we experience goes through our personal filters and results in interpretations of events and information.  Basically, regardless of evidence we may cite for or against a premise, it ultimately boils down to personal biases and opinion.  I don’t have to agree with the premise of the book to enjoy reading it.  In any case, the writer has to approach the topic with honesty.  I do not enjoy bashing, lying, or any kind of gratuitous slamming of an opposing view.  I will stop reading a book if that occurs.

Thirdly, I will not argue with the writer of a book in a review.  I can legitimately state that I disagree with the author, but I will not burden my reader with arguments for or against the premise of the book in question.  My purpose is to review the book on its content, not on its premise.  I will report the author’s point of view and how well he makes his case.  I don’t try to evaluate the merits of the premise except in my own private thoughts.

All of that said, let’s get to Zealot by Dr. Reza Aslan.

What I like:

It’s easy reading.

It gives some interesting historical and cultural background to the environment that Jesus of Nazareth lived in.

Gives interesting and seemingly valid alternative interpretations of New Testament scriptures.

If (and that is a BIG IF) you accept the background information Aslan provides, the resultant portrait of a “historical” Jesus is not unreasonable.

Aslan defines the term “zealot” in the context of the political and social environment assumed at the time of Jesus’s ministry.  A zealot would be a person who adheres strictly to the Torah and the law, refuses to submit to any foreign master, refuses to serve any human master at all, and has an uncompromising devotion to the sovereignty of God.  Some zealots were willing to resort to acts of violence against not only all uncircumcised people and Romans, but against fellow Jews that submitted to the Roman occupation.  Leaders of the zealots often declared themselves to be messiahs.  Messiah had a meaning that has been somewhat misunderstood in modern times, but in Jesus’s time a messiah by definition would be the King of the Jews, or the king of Israel.  Of course, Rome would accept only one king, and that was the emperor of Rome.  A Zealot, by definition was an enemy to Rome, and a messiah would necessarily be an enemy of Rome, as well.  Zealots and messiahs would be punished by crucifixion, a punishment reserved for rebels or revolutionaries.

According to Aslan, the typical person from Nazareth would have been poor and illiterate.  Jesus would have been no different, Aslan claims.  But this fact would work in Jesus’s favor, because Jesus spoke with authority in spite of his lack of education, confirming the influence of the Holy Spirit in him.  Jesus followed John the Baptist, and after he was baptized, he set out in a ministry of his own, delivering much the same message as did his mentor, John the Baptist.  Jesus was a Zealot, but his focus was on the corruption in the cult of Judaism, specifically, the priesthood.  Jesus, according to Dr. Aslan, was not the least bit concerned with the Roman occupation of the Holy Land.  Rome would not have had any concerns for Jesus’s activities.  But, the religious order, the cult leaders were concerned that Jesus would succeed in forcing the priests and scribes out of their lucrative and corrupt positions in the temple.  The very powerful high priest, Caiaphas, complained to Roman authorities about this Zealot Jesus who was claiming to be a messiah, i.e., a King of the Jews. This guaranteed the arrest and execution of Jesus of Nazareth.

Rather than use the conventional footnote system for citing his sources, Dr. Aslan provided sixty-four pages of notes by chapter.  In those notes, he cites not only the sources he used but a detailed discussion of other sources with explanations of why he chose one source over another.  His copious notes, to me, were more interesting than his main text.  Dr. Aslan did indeed research his information very well using easily obtainable and reputable resources. He understands many issues far beyond the scope of this book.  

Dr. Aslan offers several alternate interpretations of the New Testament texts.  Again, his interpretations are as skillfully supported as any other interpretation of the texts I have ever read – and I have read many, many exegetes of the New Testament in my life time.  This I can affirm, many of his interpretations and conclusions would not be welcomed in a fundamental Christian environment.  Dr. Aslan views the Gospels as highly contrived pieces, peppered with historical inaccuracies,  embellishments, and biased interpretations designed to convince other Jews that Jesus of Nazareth was the much anticipated “Messiah.”  The Gospel of John, being somewhat different in that it emphasizes the divinity of the Christ, as well.  Aslan constantly reminds the reader that the Gospels were written after the destruction of Jerusalem in 70 B.C. Luke an Matthew borrow much from Mark, but add text to answer some of the challenges against Jesus’s messianic role.  Ironically, since there are no extra Biblical references to Jesus of Nazareth, Dr. Aslan has to rely heavily on the Gospel texts, with all of its inaccuracies, to attempt to place Jesus in his historical surroundings.  Dr. Aslan does more to expose the unreliable nature of the Gospels than he does to place Jesus in a historical context.  Never-the-less, Dr. Aslan does provide many fascinating insights into the culture at the time of Jesus, both from what little information is available from extra Biblical sources, and from brief peeks into the culture gleaned from the Gospel texts.

Above all, I appreciate the enormous amount of research and thought Dr. Aslan has invested in this work combined with his relaxed writing style that makes it so much easier to put one’s head around such an overwhelming undertaking.   An open minded reader will gain a great deal of insight into the New Testament texts, the culture, and the Christian religion.  But, I warn the Evangelical Christian, and the fundamentalist Christian that this book will most likely make you feel uncomfortable at best, but more than likely will provoke anger.  In any case, it will force the reader to think. 

What I don’t like about the book:

The book purports to give the reader a non-theological historical picture of Jesus of Nazareth. But, as Dr. Aslan admits, outside of the New Testament and Flavius Josephus’s Antiquities, there are no historical sources that ever mention Jesus.  Even the one mention of Jesus in the Antiquities is believed to be a spurious interpolation by some well-meaning Christian.  It is no surprise, Dr. Aslan fails to present anything but a speculative view of Jesus of Nazareth based on assumptions he has made from the culture at the time of Jesus and, ironically, interpretations of selected texts from the four New Testament Gospels.

The book is just one more of many books that tries and fails to render a historical view of Jesus of Nazareth.  But that is not all bad.  The reader finishes the book with a much better understanding of the issues than one might have had prior to reading the book.

Mellowing

A few weeks ago, my wife expressed the desire to attend a church service. My son and his wife have found a church they like, and I had assumed that my wife wanted to check it out because she misses some of the fellowship opportunities in churches.

Almost as if my guides saw that coming, I had been thinking that I need to be sensitive to my wife's religious needs. I had decided a few weeks prior to her bringing it up, that if she wanted to start going to church, I would learn to keep my mouth shut, and attend with her. She did bring it up, and I told her that I was completely OK with it. I promised her that I would be a gentleman and not challenge anything that people said in Sunday school or in a sermon. It would be good for me to exercise grace in the face of teachings that I could not buy into.

I should not have been surprised when she announced that she wanted to go to Irv Cobb's church in northeast Omaha. We had been members there many years ago, and we both developed a strong, abiding respect for Irv and his wife, Jan. I have always been comfortable with Irv, even though we are not in agreement on theological or religious matters, we always seem to be able to just be simple friends.

Well, we went to Irv's church for the main service. We were glad to see many of the old members there as well as Irv and Jan. I have to laugh at myself, though. I was psychologically prepared to listen to Irv's sermon and not analyze it. I had totally forgotten about the hymns. Singing hymns that are full of doctrine, praising Jesus as God. Oi Vey! I could not sing the songs. To do so would have been hypocritical because I simply do not belief in the divinity of Jesus.

Irv's sermon was from Romans. The Apostle Paul is one of my heroes. He was a Jew's Jew. He was a deeply spiritual man. He understood the spiritual journey and the many obstacles to spiritual growth. I had absolutely no problem listening to the sermon. I always appreciate Irv's insights.

What touched me the most about the experience is something Jan told as as we were leaving, “ I don't normally say things like this, and maybe I shouldn't say anything, but I have been praying for you every day since you left the church.”

Wow! First, we know Jan and Irv well enough to know they do not put on airs, they are down to Earth, real, and honest. If Jan says she prayed for us everyday, I believe her. Also, I believe in prayer. My immediate thought when she told us that was, “Only God knows how many times her prayer has kept my family from some extremely difficult circumstances.” I thanked Jan for those prayers. I honestly do appreciate those efforts to intercede and keep us secure.

Am I contradicting myself? I mean, I have expressed my disdain for organized religion, so how can I find it in me to try to tolerate the religions and/or the people involved in them. I admit, I have struggled with that, and I think when one walks away from a religion, it is kind of like a death of sorts, and there are multiple stages one goes through until one finds a balance, or finds him or her self, again. I went through an anger stage, I went through a guilt stage (guilty for being angry and hateful, not guilty for walking away), a justification stage where I had to find the “logical” justification for abandoning the religion (included a lot of reading, and a lot of self examination), and now I am in a near resolution of it all. I am content with what I have done, I am aware of a lot of errors on my part, and I am more aware of people and how religion works. Like Dr. Jonathan Haidt discovered as he wrote his book, The Righteous Mind, humans work best in groups with common cause. The ablility of humans to bond together is what has kept the human race ahead in the natural selection game. Religion is one of the most powerful bonding agents. While religions have been inextricably part of tragic human history, religions have likewise been part of the stories of love and healing. Religion, like any other tool, can be used for good, or for bad. So, for me, I choose now to look at the good it has done.

And I look at people like Irv and Jan, the life they live, and how they work with in the structure of a religion to bring hope and good things to other people.

I am absolutely a lover of the Most High God. I don't just “believe” in God. It is not a matter of faith to me. I have experienced God in my life. I see God daily in my life. I love God above all things, even though I let life distract me, at the end of the day, I bow before Him and thank Him for His kindness and His love. And I thank Him for people like Irv and Jan Cobb.

P.S. It is becoming less and less important for me to justify why I have nothing to do with organized religions in general, and Christianity specifically. I don't need to convince myself of anything anymore, and I don't feel a need to convince someone else to follow me. I am convinced that God is far more loving and accepting than most religions make Him out to be. His love transcends our limitations ands brings us to Him in the end, no matter what we believe at this time. God works within whatever context we happen to be in. He loves us that much.

Heroes and Villains

Growing up in Roswell, New Mexico in the late 1940's and early 1950's had its good points and bad points. Roswell was a small town, made up primarily of military personnel and farmers and ranchers. It was mostly a quiet community with a conservative view in politics and morality. People were usually friendly and helpful. The community spirit helped in raising children, as well. People were not afraid to correct an errant neighborhood child. Perhaps Roswell is where I learned to be part of a community.

We lived on the southwest edge of town. For the first few years of my life, we had no neighbors to the south or the west. It was all farm land. My mother's best friend lived on a farm about a mile south of us. Then, more houses popped up on the block west of us. Then well before it was time for my brother to start school, Parkview Elementary rose out of the dust just one block west of our house.

By today's standards, perhaps my mother would be judged as negligent. She allowed me to spend my days alone in the desert, where I created my own world; a world with good and bad; a world where I had all the answers; a world in which I was very secure as long as no one else entered in to take away my control. This world became my refuge very literally. Even in high school, my friends would tell me I was a nice guy, but I was in a different world; I was out of contact with reality. That was true. When real life would step in and mess with my reality, I walked. I walked for miles; I walked for hours while I reconstructed my reality, trying to make sense of events that shook the foundations of my heart and soul, my psyche.

When I joined the Army, everything changed. I could no longer retreat. The Drill Instructors kept bringing me back to live in their world. My job in intelligence as a linguist showed no mercy to my childhood ideals. I could not get away to reconcile and reconfigure my world. I had to learn a new way to survive. My day dreams ceased. The notions of good and evil, the sense of control, all begrudgingly fell to the wayside. By the time I left the Army in 1969, I was fully integrated into a new world. Even so, I longed for that other world where I had control. It was gone; gone forever.

Unknown to me, part of that childhood world remained. While I had to develop the skills to survive in the world of real people, my self-concept had not changed. It would be that self-concept that would be the root of oh so many problems that plague me even now. In my mind, deep, deep down hidden so well, are all those notions of my perfection. I remain “the standard” by which I judge all of those around me. My childhood notions of goodness and rightness remain as the framework of my expectations, not only of others, but of myself. But when it comes to self, I am somehow blind to my own short comings, somehow not in touch with the things that I do so automatically.

Yet somewhere, I have come to realize that I don't meet my own standards, and I remain introspective, ever trying to reconcile, or somehow correct those errant parts of self. Now, at the age of sixty-five, I have grown weary of self. I have grown frustrated with the lack of fruit from never-ending introspection. I have become acutely aware of a growing list of double standards by which I judge all but myself. I have grown tired of looking in only to find a hopeless, twisted mess of humanity.

But in this twisted mass of contradictions, I still find hope as I come to a new realization. When I was a child, I was the hero; “they” were the villains. The new reality is this: I am the good. I am the bad. I am the ugly. I am the hero, and I am the villain. So are we all. That is what makes us who we are.

Maybe the words in the Beach Boys song “Heroes and Villains” playfully penned by Van Dyke Parks find a meaning for me: "I'm fit with the stuff to ride in the rough and sunny down snuff, I'm alright with the heroes and villains.”

Listen to the Beach Boys “Heroes and Villains.”

Response to Critics

Most people probably would have anticipated that my last post would make some people angry; some people concerned; some very uncomfortable.

Comments and questions from the angry people are:

“Why didn't your spirit guides mention me. Am I not important to you?”

“Many people suffering more than you are struggling to hold on to life and you are looking for an exit. You coward!”

People that are concerned are afraid that I'm suicidal.

People that are uncomfortable are uncomfortable for various reasons:

Some don't buy into my view of spirit life.

Some don't subscribe to my theology.

Some think I'm crazy and wonder what they should do to get help.

I'd like to address most of these concerns, starting at the bottom of the list, working up to the top.

My view of spirit life and God is really not uncommon. It falls probably into the category of New Age thinking. I do believe that I have an immortal spirit, that I've lived in previous lives, and that I will most likely die and comeback at some other time. I am not privy to the mechanics of all of this, so I won't try to explain any of it. My philosophy and theology falls somewhere in the category of Buddhism and Kaballism. I do believe in a singular Divine Being that is behind all we know, that It cares for each and every sentient being, is intimately involved with every sentient being, and while giving us all absolute freedom of will, has ultimate control in all things. Don't ask me to justify any of what I say. I simply can't, and don't feel it is with in my intellectual power to do so, and otherwise a waste of time to try to do such a thing.

I could be “crazy,” whatever that means. If that is true, I'm not the only one, and this insanity falls into the category of a harmless alternate reality protected by the U.S. Constitution under the religious freedoms amendments.

Am I suicidal? Absolutely not. My understanding of my existence in this dimension is that I am in a classroom. Suicide is very strongly frowned upon in the spiritual realms. Spirits are not sent to hell—there is no hell. However, souls in this dimension that take suicide as an out, do go through some form of retraining in the spirit realms. It is considered a spiritual setback of huge significance. I already have logged enough events of spiritual stupidity. I don't need anything of that magnitude to add to the amount of training and karma I have to workout in this life or future lives.

Even so, whatever I suffer in this dimension is designed to teach me, to stretch me, and to grow me spiritually. Growth does not come without some pain in this life, especially when one is as immature as I am as a spirit. I am sure I have created some of my own pain by my lack of wisdom. The degree to which I accept or reject this pain has much to do with my spiritual maturity. I have no problem in confessing that I am quite the dunce, and I make more fuss over the pain than would a more mature spirit. So, allow that I am a spirit in training, and I'm whining. Allow that I am also self-centered and much of the suffering I experience is designed to make me more aware of those around me that suffer. It is working.

Finally, in the process of this training, when my spirit guides feel they have to intervene, it is an indication that I have gone way off course. That confirms my suspicions that I am a very immature spirit. It confirms that I have a huge deficit in wisdom. However, the spirit guides have enough respect that they are choosing to intervene through an “adjustment meeting” rather than taking me out of this life entirely. They are confident, perhaps, that if they just give me a hint, I am smart enough to make the necessary adjustments in this life to continue growing spiritually.

The meeting I described, I believe, was designed to give me a hint. The outcome of that meeting was that I did spend considerable time and energy re-evaluating my attitudes, and found it necessary to make some adjustments to those attitudes in light of a revelation that I do have some specific purposes or missions in this life. It was totally unnecessary for my guides to review every relationship I have in this life. All the needed to do is point at one very contemporary relationship and let me evaluate my own behaviors, attitudes, and actions in that relationship, because all that has gone on in that relationship has gone on in every other relationship. If I can figure out what is needed in the most immediate situation, I can make the same adjustment in all other relationships.

As far as asking to be removed from all of this pain when others are suffering more: I have to tell you, that is part of the shamefully selfish person I am. At the same time I whine about my discomfort, I understand even more about how others suffer more. And believe me, that is going a long way to developing a great deal of compassion. Perhaps, someday as I mature, my whining will be changed to acts of compassion. That is my hope, but ultimately, the timing of my transition out of this dimension is entirely at the discretion of my spirit guides.

Not a Dream; New Meaning

Chest pains are nothing new to me. I have had them all of my life. I have complained about them to doctors and they just look at me like they had never heard of such a thing. Eventually, before I was even twenty years old, I stopped complaining about them. I could always control them by taking a deep breath and holding it until I could hold no longer. It might take several tries, but it never failed to stop the pain.

With in the last couple of years, the frequency, intensity, and the time the pain hangs around has increased notably. There have been a few times that it seemed the internal cramping and the pain was not going away. My arms would ache as well. This was something I had not experienced until recently. This last week there has been a general aching in the chest cavity. Not the cramping, not the sharp pains, just an aching like one may have after a lengthy coughing spree. I don't know what it is.

This morning, along with the never-ending leg pains, the chest pains came back. I sat in the big Lazy Boy chair wishing it would just go away. I felt my body sink, and slowly the pain started going away, as I felt my body sink more, and I felt my spirit rising out of the body. It felt so good to be pain free. I just hoped that I would continue in this state.

Cooper, my Lhasa Apso, sat on the floor near me. I heard him issue a guttural “woof” like he does when he wants my attention. I ignored it. He did it two more times. I ignored it and continued to go deeper into the pain-free state. Then suddenly Cooper jumped up from the floor and onto my chest. Of course, I immediately opened my eyes and came back to my surroundings and the pain. Cooper stayed on top of me, licking my face, and nibbling at the back of my ears, not willing to go.

Such behavior from Cooper is extremely rare. The last time he did such a thing was when I was crying uncontrollably over the recent death of our Tibetan Terrier. And he did it one time before that when I was on the edge of an out of body experience (OBE).

I have to conclude that Cooper has some sensitivity to spiritual movement. In the case of crying for my Tibetan Terrier, it was a deep, deep emotional experience arising from the depths of my spirit. In the case of the beginnings of my OBE, the spirit was leaving the body. Cooper sensed it and leaped into action to stop it. To an animal, perhaps when the spirit leaves the body, it means death. Cooper was not going to allow that to happen. And this morning, perhaps I was on the edge of another OBE, though the classical signs of the exit were not apparent to me. My personal sense of things is that I was dying and that was OK with me.

Dying is OK with me? Yes, more than OK. I am exhausted, tired, and I feel so, so old. My legs, especially my knees are in constant pain. I am exhausted by simply walking a block with my dogs. I can't seem to get enough sleep, and what I get is very broken by apnea and constant aggravation from restless leg syndrome.

On top of this there are stressors. Karen is my step-daughter. She has a very painful and debilitating genetic disorder. She is legally disabled, unable to work because of the pain, the pain drugs, and chronic illness. She has a thirteen-year-old son that is autistic. Karen also has Asperger's disorder. My wife has attention deficit disorder (ADD). I am mildly obsessive-compulsive. This combination of disorders makes for a less than pleasant experience. From the standpoint of an obsessive-compulsive person, indeed this situation can be absolutely exhausting.

I have been actively asking my spirit guides to let me leave this dimension. Last January, I received their response in a “dream” that I don't think was a dream at all.

The guides walked into the sterile white room one at a time. They sat across the wide, long white table from me. They wore dark brown hooded robes that hid their faces. Even so, I recognized them. I have been with them before. In fact, I had been in that room with them before. I was completely at ease.

“We understand that you no longer want to be on Earth.”

“Yes.” I answered without elaboration. There was no need to explain anything to them.

“What about...?” one of them asked, starting a string of inquiries about things that have been areas of concern to me in the past.

“I don't care.” I said without emotion.

They continued to ask me the “What about...” questions. I continued to answer without emotion, “I don't care.”

Then one asked, “What about Karen?”

I wasn't prepared for that question at all. I had been so focused on my own pain and on my exhaustion, I simply did not want any responsibilities. They not only exposed my selfishness, but more to my chagrin, the fact that I still care about something.

“I don't care.” I shouted.

“What about Benjamin?” they asked. (Benjamin is my autistic grandson living with me.)

Again, I responded in anger as I realized they had exposed my real feelings for him. “I don't care!”

The three guides looked at each other momentarily. Then the lead guide spoke.

“We will have to find another caretaker for Benjamin and Karen. You will have to wait until then.”

They rose from the table and filed out the opposite end from which they entered. I woke up from the sleep. I knew that what I had just experienced was not a dream.

I am compelled to suggest that life on this Earth, in this dimension cannot be separated from your spiritual life. We tend to think that we do “spiritual things” and we do “worldly things.” The reality is that whatever you do is inextricably entangled with your spiritual life. The purpose of this physical life is to promote spiritual growth. What you do in this life directly reflects your spiritual condition, and your spiritual maturity. The pain you create in this life goes toward helping one figure out what is right, what is wrong, and what is good. I dare add that what you do out of selfishness also pushes back or retards your spiritual growth,but only for the time it takes for you to realize the problem and correct it. Life in this dimension is sacred for that reason. It does not matter what life a person has been living, whether that life has made a contribution to society, or been destructive in this life, that life remains sacred because that spirit is still in training for the duration of that life. Spiritual growth without life in this dimension is extremely hard, if not impossible.

Since the meeting with my spirit guides, I have had a few attitude shifts; not profound epiphany type realizations, but gradual understanding of things I should have been learning all of my life. Primarily, I am acutely aware that I do have purpose in this life. I may not like it, but I have been presented with a situation about which I can do something. I have the opportunity to look beyond myself, look beyond my own pain, look beyond my own inadequacy, and do exactly what the situation calls for.

When one becomes self-centered, he eventually loses all sense of purpose. Life becomes a series of “entitlements.” That is, one starts thinking, “I deserve this; I deserve that. Why does that guy have that and I only have this.” The problem is that some of us die still thinking that were entitled to so much in the physical, never suspecting that we are starving our spirit. Our physical existence is always meaningful, because what we do in the physical realm will either help the spirit to grow, or will cause the spirit to stop growth. While we are tempted to tag the physical world as “meaningless,” the converse is true. It all has meaning. We need to be aware lest we trap ourselves by refusing to correctly and wisely use what is before us in the physical world.

This whole experience has caused me to re-evaluate once again what love is. I think I am beginning to get a handle on it, kind of, maybe. It is nothing like what I apparently learned as a child. Remember the Lone Ranger? He'd ride into town, fix the problem, and ride out before people could say, "Thank you." That was how I thought love worked. You see a problem, ride into town, fix the problem and ride out. There wasn't a real connection with those that benefited from the Lone Ranger. I don't understand it when things I do cause people to want to connect to me on some other level. In fact, it scares me. My thinking is "Just let me ride my horse outta town." And sometimes that is accompanied by an after thought, "let me ride out before you find out you really don't like me."

I think it is sinking in. I can let people connect. And I can also honor those feelings I have for others, as well. I don't have to ride the horse outta town, anymore. In fact, it might even be nice to hang around.

Today, I couldn't wait to greet Benjamin as he stepped off of the school bus.

"How was school, Kid?"

He answered in his typical insouciant manner, "I met Bill, the substitute bus driver. Where is Mommy?"

"In the house," I answered as I followed him in.

Walkin' In Memphis

I suppose I can't assume that everyone has heard the song by Marc Cohn, “Walkin' in Memphis.”

March, 1969, Memphis, Tennessee, I pulled my bag out of the overhead bin and walked off the jet liner. I scanned the corridor looking for a friend that was to meet me at the airport. I had never seen her in person. We had been pen pals while I served in the Army in Korea. I felt both excitement and insecurity as I continued down the corridor without seeing her. I didn't know what to think as I came to the end of the corridor. I knew something was wrong, but until Andy or one of her friends found me, there was not much I could do. She didn't have a phone. She couldn't afford one.

I studied the layout of the airport restaurant as I walked in. A waitress stood close to a series of tables and booths talking to the occupants. She stopped talking as we made eye contact. The people at the tables turned their heads to watch me walk in. I did not feel welcomed, and had no understanding why I felt that way. I quickly looked for an empty section. I did not feel comfortable finding a place near the crowd. An elderly gentleman sat alone at a counter on the other side of the foyer. I approached him, “May I sit here?”

The man bowed his head then looked directly ahead, refusing to make eye contact. “Humph! You can sit anywhere you want.”

'No, Man,” I answered, “I don't want to bother you.”

“Go ahead, have a seat.” He still had not made eye contact with me.

I placed my bag on the floor as I sat in the swivel chair. I waited for a waitress. I waited. And waited. Finally, I turned to look for the waitress I saw with the crowd of people as I walked in. She was still there, still staring at me, now, with a scowl. She said something to those around her. A few men turned in their seat to stare at me. They did not look happy.

“Gosh, I know the waitress sees me,” I said to the old man. He chuckled. This time we made eye contact. “Son, you are in the wrong section.”

I looked at him, I'm sure with a totally blank face, “What do you mean?”

“Over there is where the white folks sit.”

“You are shittin' me, man.” I was shocked. I thought segregation was something of the past.

The old man chuckled in his coffee cup as he lifted it to his lips. “No.”

I thought briefly, looked at the crowd of white people, their eyes now fixed on me like missile tracking radar . “Well, sir, if you don't mind, I'll just sit here until my friend comes.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Do what you want.”

That was my introduction to Memphis, but that was not the end of it. I spent the next two weeks in Ripley, Tennessee living with a black family in the Mississippi flats. Perhaps, someday I'll talk about that two weeks of walking with my friends, being shunned by the white folks of Ripley, living and learning first-hand about racism in America and coming to new understanding of the civil rights movement at a level that news papers never talked about.

At some point in that two weeks, my friends wanted to show me Memphis away from the airport. Like the bars in Ripley, bars in Memphis were “private” clubs. This was how these establishments continued racist practices in spite of the federal laws outlawing discrimination in public places. Even so, there was a strange air of mystery, of hope, of love, and of pain. I heard the music from the bars and the restaurants as we walked along the sidewalks. I felt the soul. I loved the soul. I felt a wonderful camaraderie with my friends. There were folks along the way that did not seem friendly. I felt fear. There were other folks laughing and enjoying the night out. We walked into a restaurant. I never saw the name. It was dark. It was crowded. The owner seated us right away.

Chopped Steak. I saw it on the menu. I had never heard of it. I thought of juicy bite-sized chunks of tender steak, sautéed in mushrooms. I ordered it.

As I finished the meal, the owner came to our table. “How was my chopped steak?”

“It was very good, Sir. Thank you. But you know, for some reason I thought it would be chunks of steak. This was like hamburger.” I absolutely meant no malice. I did not expect the explosion that came. He slammed his fist down on the table in front of me and screamed, “I have been in this business for thirty years. You don't come into my restaurant and tell me I'm a crook.” He went on with a rant for quite a while. I was totally embarrassed. I had no idea that what I said was in any way an insult or an assault on the man's integrity. I looked at my friends. They looked at the table, embarrassed for me. We eventually left, but we weren't talking anymore.

We went home in silence.