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Throughout my life, psychic eruptions have enveloped my senses within bliss, have demanded unheard-of changes, and have assuaged monstrous fears. Such turnarounds veiled their Source for decades, and puppet-like, I followed, not without experiencing its strangeness and the raised eyebrows of those around me. Still I knew better than to renege and walked away from religious and marital vows, cities, careers, and some friends. With the continuing support of my dreams and my Jungian analyst, I finally retired in 2001 to compose a story from the pieces of my life.

And such a story it is. Slowly, the shadowy outlines of the Source have evolved into fuller awareness: this same Source that is guiding my end time’s growth, one day at a time; this same Source with whom I long for communion that won’t withdraw within the pockets of my psyche. From them, nasty naysayers still harass me, still fling refuse upon my thoughts and choices, still frame my eighty-four year as failure.

But that no longer works—given decades of chronic illness and pain that’s rendered me with half-life and scraped me hollow. Within that same emptiness now flourishes fresh saplings yearning for light and moisture. Such nurturing continues with each day’s willingness to do the drill, no matter how long it takes. Although still homebound, my trips to the Source are unlimited.

Hope abounds.

 

 

“Be still and know that I am God,” Yahweh says to Elijah, prophet and miracle worker huddled in the cave at Mount Horeb. “I’m not to be found in mighty winds, nor in earthquakes, nor in fires,” Yahweh adds.

Like Elijah fearful for his life, I am stressed.

Winds of gibberish, earthquakes of exploding shards, fires of angst still assail my psyche when left unguarded. Left behind are swathes of distortion related to the progression of my terminal illness and the illusion of being trapped in nothingness. Instincts clamor for fulfillment, at any cost while controlling the uncontrollable stresses to the max.

When under siege, I know to wait and grip my crucifix, hard. Within the madness slowly emerges the longed for stillness and I adjust to my new symptoms, awash in the wordless swirl of Creator-Love.

Such is my continuous spiritual growth as I await the deliverance of my old body—something I have to pass through.

So it’s about being still and praying …

 

 

Only the whir of the potter wheel licked the stained walls of the studio as an apron-clad artist cupped a mound of clay slip with wet hands. Next to the wheel laid scalpel-like knives, sponges of various sizes and textures, wires strung to handles, other cutters, twigs, and leaves. But the potter’s sensitive hands, sinewy and dripping wet, caught my attention: She seemed to know when to pause, slow the wheel, add more clay, etch designs upon the lip, indent patterns, and so much more. With others, I looked on, hushed by the emerging bowl taking shape on the wheel.

 After the potter slip-wired the bowl from the wheel and set it aside to dry, she focused upon her students and smiled. “You can do this too. It just takes practice—That’s why I’m here.”

Then, as well as now, this experience mirrors Potter God’s ongoing intimacy in bringing forth new life, within limits of time and space. Like the hollow in the earthenware bowl, my body of eighty-four years has held a treasure—no matter chronic pain’s tenuous hold on my life. Light always emerged and I did find my way, albeit with new direction and resolve.

 However, my ILD with Rheumatoid Arthritis is unique: There’s no getting better, only imperceptible decline and with it, moments of terror until countered by CPA’s Step I and those following. In some future moment, Potter God will slip-wire my body from the wheel of life and set me free from my present diminishments. Until then, I wait and pray… and ask you to do the same. I’m grateful.

 

 

 

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