Anger--that tricky-feeling emotion...

When I started this blog I made a deal with myself: I wasn’t going to let my ego try to paint myself pretty. Whatever I posted had to be as authentic in my thoughts and feelings as I could possibly be in that moment.

So, my last few posts seemed to me to be a bit more vehement on the angry side than I truly feel comfortable with expressing, yet when I re-read them they seem quite mild and actually resolved by the time I’m through writing. They are nowhere near as scary as some of the things going through my mind and heart prior to writing it down.

I actually found myself appreciative (shortly after the writing and posting) of the people in the Census Bureau playing my “bad guys” roles so I could finally come out of hiding and express to the world who I am and what I’m really all about—just being myself.

One of the most troubling emotions for me to feel has been ANGER--I don't like how I am, how I look, the feeling like a victim that invariably seems to accompany it, or the pain of it. And I spent so much of my life trying to "handle it." I eventually discovered that the key to moving it out of my being for good was to simply allow myself to FEEL it.

But the hardest ones to allow myself to feel it with were those I loved the deepest--and often they had already left the planet.

Case in point: When my dad left my mom at the hospital, she told him out loud that she loved him. He didn't say it back in that moment and he beat on himself for it afterward because he didn't get another chance--it was the first thing he told me when I walked in the door into his arms that afternoon.

My mom very much played the gentle, yet strong, supporting woman behind the man--I so wanted to be just like her. She saw the things within my dad that he struggled with--she and I talked a lot--and one of Dad's greatest challenges was to see himself as worthy. He couldn't give enough of himself, sacrifice enough of himself, to ever be good enough. And because of that, he often took the "angel that he married" for granted, and a few times he was verbally cruel to her when I was present.

You know, those arguments that take place between married people when people just lash out like cornered wild animals fighting for survival. I, being married myself, of course, have done that exact same thing. Words just explode out of you and there is no taking them back so you just add a bit more shame to the old back-pack.

That was the hardest thing for me to feel--an adored, beloved one hurting another adored, beloved one. That one always got placed on the back burner—just didn’t know what to do with it.

I didn't observe my mom--maybe I just didn't see it out a sense of shock--telling Dad in those moments how painful the things he said were to her. She just seemed to take it, and then move on.

Then, when she died, I felt and watched my Dad try to go forward without her. He really tried, even tried dating another woman--but she wasn't able to fill that void left by his beloved Leona. I tried to pick him up, support him, be strong for him--but I knew even then that I was never going to be able to fill that void either. I had a father who was in so much pain and heart-suffering--and it was impossible for me to fix, and I knew it. So I watched it, took on a good portion of his pain, guilt, suffering through empathy, and made it my own.

I made it my own so much to the point that one night I had such pain in the joints of my arms and hands that it finally made me admit to myself, with GREAT DISMAY, that I was ANGRY with MY BELOVED ANGELIC MOM. I was angry with her for leaving me in the impossible position of trying to pick up the pieces of Humpty-Dumpty--because she didn't stand up to him in all those moments to simply say, "Dean--you're hurting me. Stop it!" Yes, I was feeling really victimy and icky and horrendous.

And so, that night I let myself feel the anger towards my mom, think the thoughts that fueled that anger towards her--and bawled my eyes out until the pain in my arms disappeared.

And afterwards I noticed an ease of breathing in me, a release, and that knowingness that the feeling of anger was okay--it, too, was simply a part of the human experience, and not something to be judged as always being a "wrong" feeling.

Sometimes, I discovered, it is appropriate. And just because I felt it in a moment, it didn't mean I had to feel it the rest of my life. I did it, not planning to hang onto it, but to release myself from it. I felt it in order to move it out--and move it out of me, I did. I no longer felt angry with her—but instead realized that because of her in her perfection of being in that moment, I learned something about myself.

I also walked out of that experience knowing that honoring my parents and loved ones didn't mean making all of their choices my own. Honoring them, to me, means thanking them for all their choices and then taking what I learned from their lives of choice and deciding which I wanted to try out for my own life.

I took my parents' journey together and chose to communicate my feelings, thoughts and my intentions with Kelly out loud, clearly. I chose to let him know when something he said or did brought about pain for me--knowing all along (and telling him and myself out loud) that he was just the closest human mirror to how I was internally hurting myself.

I knew I was solely responsible for all the joyful and the painful moments of my life--but also that in accepting that responsibility, I had to do it with full self-compassion. Self-blame and self-condemnation weren't going to change a thing--I'd already given those many years of practice, and they never worked for me.

For those of you who have chosen to read my posts—thanks for allowing me the chance to express that awful anger emotion out loud. It’s more of a gift than you can possibly know…

Much love,
Pen

I am that I am!!!

I am that I am, Penny, of sovereign domain!

What does that statement of My Soul--my entire Body of Consciousness--mean? It simply means that I am accepting full responsibility for my entire life, and beingness, and that no other has any dominion over me. I am a child of our Creator/Source of All That Is/God, Whom has bestowed me with Divine Free Will. I accept that Gift with Honor.

Many of us humans have been playing the game, most of us without consciously knowing it, of giving our sovereignty away on a platter to others who touch our lives—family, friends, neighbors, community, religious and educational institutions, government corporations, businesses. The list goes on and on.

We've all been deeply ingrained with Self Doubt. And our human minds have developed a type of pattern from this cycle of giving our GIFT of FREE CHOICE away, where we’re seduced into feelingly believing that we have to tangle with the web of illusion that’s been in place, for age upon age upon age. Frankly, I’m done being sucked on by some make-believe hairy-scary spider that really can’t touch me at all.

I’m tired of, and done with, playing the game of “who I am not trying to figure out who I am.” No more!

I know who I am—I know what’s in my heart and my intentions—and I know that I come from GOODNESS ITSELF, thus how can I be anything but GOODNESS?

The last twelve months, I had the opportunity to interact with the Census Bureau of the Corporate U.S. government—through one of its slave employees acting like a government agent. One of the ladies showed up ringing my doorbell on a bitterly cold winter day over a year ago. Being the kind person that I am, I invited her in and I answered her survey of very intrusive questions—many of which were about my husband, which I had no business answering. They asked me his salary, how many hours of overtime he worked the previous week, how much money we spent on groceries the previous week, how much we spent eating out that week, how many people lived in our house—I think by now you get the gist.

I didn’t mean to, but I was pulling figures out of the air and she was punching my answers into her long questionnaire. We finished up with this little episode, only for her to tell me as she’s leaving that she will be contacting me over the phone for the next three or four months to interview me some more about the previous weeks.

Okay—I allowed the bullshit to continue through the invasive proceedings into my husband’s and my own life for the following four months. I knew it was all crap and I was amazed at the stupidity of this survey, but I chose not to make waves and I kept telling myself that these women were just trying to keep food on their tables doing this dumb-ass job.

After the four months was up, I was told that they were going to contact me again beginning this past December, and then do four more months of surveys into my husband’s and my life.

December came around and I’d received a letter from the U.S. Census Bureau telling me of the survey starting again and that my participation was “voluntary.” I did not know this before or I would have turned the first person away who appeared on my doorstep. I chose to cooperate rather than make a stink—out of compassion.

So, when Field Representative, Aemilia, called me again to start the surveys over I told her that I realized this was a voluntary act that I chose to no longer be part of it.

And she told me, “You have to call your congressman in order to be taken off the list. Otherwise they’ll keep sending your name to us and we’ll have to keep contacting you.” In the meantime, she interviewed me to fill out her survey for that month—and I kindly allowed her to do so. All of this was after I had told her that the survey absolutely meant nothing to me and that I saw no issue-solving value in it whatsoever. BUT SHE DIDN’T LISTEN!

As we concluded that phone conversation, I told her—and I meant it from my heart—that I would have enjoyed meeting her under other circumstances, that maybe we could simply have a cup of coffee together as friends. I didn’t let my bitch loose on her at any time in any of our interactions.

But evidently, I should have. She contacted me again—and this time, Kelly answered the phone and told her I wasn’t interested in participating anymore. Then she asked him if he would—and he told her he was not interested either.

Evidently the “no” over the phone wasn’t enough. Doesn’t “no” mean anything? After the turndown over the phone on Saturday, I got an overnighted letter via FedEx from Cathy L. Lacy, Regional Director of the Regional Office of the U.S. Census Bureau in Denver, CO, informing me that their field representative will be “calling on me again in the near future.”

No “congressman” ever contacted me to ASK me to “volunteer” for this survey, so why should I have to figure out who he is and then track him down in order to have him take me off a list? A list volunteering me for taking part in something I was never consulted about, by him in the first place. I am a sovereign being—the Corporate U.S. Census Bureau should not even be messing with me using peon employees—they should be sending GOOD WILL AMBASSADORS, if anyone at all, to visit me.

In all their stupid long lists of mindless questions, not one asked the important things about me, and they should never have been asking me questions about my husband’s life--a sovereign being I had no place in speaking for, even if I was "married" to him.

These are the important, world-difference-making things people should know about me. I’m a benevolent sister, neighbor, friend and I’m sometimes that compassionate stranger you might meet while walking, or while out and about on errands. I’m not going to tell you what you should believe, nor am I going to grill you about what you do or don’t do.

I’ll honor your free choice to play out your life however you wish and I won’t pretend to have your answers. I’ll tell you to trust in yourself every time and I’ll remind you to remember the gift that you are--to be kind to, and appreciative and unconditionally loving of, yourself first, so then you can be that way with your neighbor, too.

As to the rest of you who would force yourselves and your ideas upon me—the first time or two, I’ll give you the chance to go on your own way quietly, but if you come back and try to negotiate with me, consider yourself served notice. The bitch will be set loose and you’re not going to gain one thing except an education in honoring sovereignty. And so I am!

In Loving Memory and Honor...Arlen

“Penny—you did it! I’m so proud of you!” He said this as he was walking up the steps towards me, smiling. And then he leaned over the rail and kissed me.

Few dreams have ever felt so good. And prior to this one, twenty years in the making, in all my other dreams/nightmares he was always angry with me for not waiting for him, for going forward in my life with Kelly.

It wasn’t really Arlen who was angry with me though—the dreams were a mirror of the struggle I was having within myself—and Arlen wasn’t allowed by me to come in, in any other way, until I resolved my feelings of guilt and shame and worthlessness surrounding him.

That dream of him being proud of me was the first chink out of a gigantoid iceberg. It was the marking of a point in my life where I had made the conscious choice to no longer beat up on myself. I had looked in the mirror one day, looked into my own eyes leaking over with tears, and realized how cruel and harsh I had been with myself—more so than I would be to anyone outside of me. I sincerely apologized, right then and there, to myself. And I began to actually practice loving myself unconditionally and with compassion. The girl who stared back at me in the mirror had tried and tried and tried SO HARD to do, and be, all the “right things”—only to be harped at and to go unappreciated by me. I was finally done with not being good enough.

Arlen was my first love. We were neighbors—grew up on farms and ranches—and he and my brother, Tim, were best friends from childhood. Tim and his wife, Cheri, pretty much orchestrated the two of us getting together, and from the moment of our first date we were a foursome who did everything together.

When I slip back into our year together, I remember it as being so fun and full of laughter. Arlen and I both loved animals and nature and looking at the stars--true romantics at heart. He picked me a bouquet of wild yellow sweet peas when he, Tim and I went to check out the damage after a tornado had passed through a deserted neighboring farmstead. When I quit school and returned home, he stopped the pick-up in the middle of the road on the way into our family farm where Tim and Cheri lived, to kiss me, saying, “I’ve been wanting to do that ever since you got home.”

He and Tim whole-heartedly threw themselves into acting like fools just to entertain their women. One of my favorite memories of those two is watching them run, in their cut-offs, down to the beach of Haley Dam, girlishly squealing as they held their towels in front of them and then daintily dipping their toes in the water.

The four of us were parked in the pick-up on the Big Hill, and I remember Tim making some wise crack to which Arlen replied as he kissed me, “Shut up, Lewton, I’m trying to seduce your sister.”

He hunted all over his parents’ home to find a child-size helmet that would fit me when he took me with him on a motorcycle ride in the pastures to check cows. As we stopped to open a gate, he told me, with the most charming grin, that I looked like a little kid in that helmet.

The memories go on and on, warming my heart with every one. I used to be terrified of forgetting anything from our time together, and I actually did forget for an awful-feeling frantic moment. But then my heart started filling in the gaps: and the memories, I’ve discovered, have gotten sweeter with age and experience.

That year was filled with a lot of firsts for me. My grandmother had passed away when college started, and Arlen, my first boyfriend, and I had just started dating that summer. I was in my second year at NDSU for landscape design when I hit school burnout. I was sick with something like walking pneumonia most of what was to be my last fall quarter, and the school thing was just something I was doing because everyone else my age seemed to be doing it. In looking back, it wasn’t my desire—I was feeling really empty and lost there. I was in a void.

The idea of an education in a life-long career of doing one thing was feeling really limiting and suffocating for me. I couldn’t put it into words then because of feeling so much shame at “being a quitter” in the first place, plus I was mentally exhausted from trying to perform to the level of excellence I was expecting of myself. Even then, I was wrestling with the “not good enough” theme.

At nineteen years of age, I was an expert at rote regurgitation of all kinds of subject matter—my teachers and instructors loved it—but I was losing my sense of unique identity, my own “I am-ness.” My sense of imagination and creativity had just torpedoed down a black hole. I was a conglomeration of everyone else’s ideas and belief systems, molding myself this way and that, immersing myself to the point I no longer even felt real. And so choice-making,for me, became overloaded with overwhelming and paralyzing fears of making the wrong choice.

So, I quit, returned home and went to work at one of the local drugstores part-time. I was a painter-for-hire with my mom and sister on our days off. And pretty much every weekend was spent with Arlen and Tim and Cheri, and my newborn niece, Crystal.

Arlen never once treated me like, or intimated that, I was only a fling for him. I was treated with honor and affection all the while we dated. So, now when I look back at one of our last times together, I’m astonished at how much an I’m not good enough self-perception managed to twist and distort what was really a very unconditional love-based act.

He had pulled over on the township road, after leaving Tim and Cheri’s, to talk. As he held me, he asked, “Do you think we should break up so you can go back and finish school?”

Believing he was sick and tired of dating pathetic me, I found myself bawling my eyes out at the thought of parting from him—and that only made it worse in my eyes, because I detested women using tears to manipulate men. And there I was seemingly doing that very thing—even though that wasn’t my intention.

It took me nearly twenty-five years to look at that moment from some other perspective than “I’m a loser nobody would want to be with.” Twenty-five years to even consider the possibility that that was maybe guy-speak for, “I’m feeling serious about us, but I don’t want to get in your way of happiness. And I’m asking you how you feel about us.” He sure kissed me afterward like he meant business. Grin.

But no—I couldn’t even let myself fully enjoy that at the time, because, in my mind, I believed he was resorting to kissing me in order to calm down a hysterical wreck and to smooth over an awkward moment of trying to break up with me nicely.

I was SO NOT PROUD of MYSELF back then, and for all those years afterward…and that made for a very long and difficult journey.

This is the start of my story with Arlen…there is so much more to come…but this is enough for now…

For more on the story of Arlen, click the titles here to read the posts:
Can Death Be Transcended?
Good-bye Conspiracy Theories

The Gift That “Autism” Is

A couple of years ago, I once again became aware of a sweet, silvery, comforting, ringing sound in my ears. I heard it all the time as a kid, and I associate it with nights of stargazing—I think of it as the singing of the stars. I could hear it out on the prairies, even when the frogs’ chirping down by the creek was so loud they sounded like a tractor running in the field.

All of our human dramas, lights (especially fluorescent bulbs), electronics and appliances put out a great deal of harsh noise—and it drowned out this sweet sound, until I started listening for it again. Now I can call it up and still hear it over the hum of my computer. To hear it properly at first, I had to shut things off, including my head chatter. And in order to stop the mind-racing chatter I had to learn to consciously breathe deeper all the time, and yes, to once again be kind with myself.

I had to practice over and over again the art of giving myself a SAFE and SACRED SPACE in which to be.

If I was anxious and scared, then I gave myself the safe space in which to allow the “unthinkable” thoughts to be thought, and the “awful” feelings to be felt—all in a place where I had set the intention to think and to feel, without causing harm to myself or another.

That little practice, along with reminding myself to “breathe into my belly,” stopped my frantically racing mind, and brought me to a state of peace.

Remember SAFE, SACRED SPACE—this is one of the messages that those people labeled with the term “autism” have brought to us.

Imagine for a little while that you, a being from the fairly civilized society of today (2010), suddenly got sucked through a time warp and found yourself in Britain during the Dark Ages. I recently finished reading Ken Follett's international bestselling novel, The Pillars of the Earth. I found myself skimming through some parts because they were actually painful for me to read.

Consider the assault of smells, sounds, sights, tastes, textures—and emotional feelings—that you might experience. Bathing wasn’t  a common practice, so body odors would be horrendous. People urinated and defecated right in the streets. Punishments were often public displays--gory and tortuous. Starving people ate anything at hand. Superstitions ran rampant. Class systems and prejudices abounded. Survival and safety were iffy states of being.

It would be an extremely painful bombardment of the senses to a person of our era. I have a feeling that is how our world today must feel to a highly sensitive being, the ones our society has labeled "autistic."

And last night, I realized what I do when I feel bombarded by what feels like chaotic energies all around me—I withdraw from the source of discomfort as much as I can, I seek the comfort of repetition, and I immerse myself in patterns familiar to me.

Some people rock themselves—it’s rhythmic--and rhythm is a function of the right hemisphere of the brain. The right hemisphere is connected to our divine Source, our intuition. It's our connection to All that Is.

Some find comfort in the familiar repetitions of their work. Some people find comfort in the patterns and beauty of numbers, some in the patterns of music, some in the patterns of artwork of all kinds.

Simply put, we seek a safe and sacred space in which to be. Too much change, all at once, away from the familiar can overwhelm sometimes, so the tools of BREATHING, and of the SAFE and SACRED SPACE, helps one navigate all that glorious change.

Safe and Sacred Space practices will help encourage those with autism to gradually let go of their comforting repetitions, which are like security blankets. I once knew a little boy, who found more solace in numbers, than he did in human touch. Human touch was too overwhelming for him--and now I better understand why that was so.

Autism is NOT a developmental disorder! These people just have a heightened sensitivity to the consciousness environment around them. For example, for a more multi-sensitive person, colors may have tastes, textures, and aromas, and maybe even some personality traits, too.

Our speaking language is harsh—there is very little lilt and rhythm to it anymore. And it’s become so over-used, in the sense that we are speaking from our human left brains, instead of from our hearts, that it’s been rendered meaningless and shallow--drab and loud.

How much heart is invested in all those cell phone conversations, I wonder? Why do we feel the need to fill our surroundings up with noise? Yes, I like to visit with people over the phone, but there also moments when I can't get that piece of equipment hung up or shut off soon enough, depending on the quality of what is said.

It’s been said that pictures paint a thousand words—they do for me. And so does music. I remember stories from my childhood because of pictures that captured my heart. I was born in 1964--so I grew up during the Vietnam War—and I remember listening to an announcer call off the draft numbers over the TV, holding my breath in fear that one of them would mean one of my brothers was being sent to battle. So I vividly remember songs from that era, like One Tin Soldier, Billy—Don’t be a Hero, Tapestry. They told the stories of those days, and they painted a picture of the relationships, on a heart level, that I could feel into.

I was so emotionally empathetic with my parents, that I “knew” when they were upset.

Kids are so tuned in to their parents that they feel their parent’s pain as if it is their very own. They KNOW intuitively when Dad, or Mom, isn’t feeling safe. And until you learn the difference of what belongs to whom—you REACT as though it’s your own issues and burdens.

That’s why the parents of autistic children (ALL children, actually) will do more good by their children if they learn the practice of Conscious Breathing and creating their own Safe, Sacred Space.

Example and personal practices are always the best standards.

You don’t need to find any miracle cures for your child, nor do you need to fight battles. Just learn to listen first, with your heart (which doesn't require a single word), in order to communicate with them. Help them “find their words,” or their own form of self-expression, by using tools (art and music) that are soothing and that appeal to their heart and imaginations. Sing them a story, read to them from books full of glorious pictures, and filled with lilting rhythms and rhymes.

Share with them the things, the moments, that have deepest meaning for you. Re-member your own childhood, with genuine authenticity--experiences with color and feelings--how you perceived things then, and how you see the same things now.

Be willing to share all your life stories of what it has been like to be an "imperfect human," and how you felt in the experiences. Talk about the moments when you "thought" you'd failed or done something wrong. Have compassion for yourself--and LOVINGLY LAUGH at all aspects of yourself. To love, means to unconditionally accept, and to release--to set yourself free--from judgment. His standard of being the FIRST to laugh at himself is probably one of the greatest gifts my Dad gave me.

All judgment of yourself, by others outside of you, actually originates with you. They're just being in loving service to you by playing the roles you've scripted for them, in order to have them mirror back to you something you're trying to understand--actually, to simply accept and release--about yourself. Thank everyone for playing all the parts for you--that GRATITUDE changes your reality and sets you all free.

And don’t throw any kids, whether diagnosed autistic or not, in rooms full of other kids. Those chaotic energies feel like an attack to a person already highly sensitive to the energies, of all forms, of everyone and everything around him. Get the safe space and breathing concept down first at home—they are tools that will help him get centered so that no matter what is going on around him, he knows he’s okay. He can then participate in life, instead of reacting to it.

I know this, because I have used these very tools, myself, over and over again these last several years. It took me a very long time to find my speaking words--I could write, but I struggled a long time with talking clearly when in groups of all sizes, or even sometimes in casual conversations with strangers. Public speaking moments were nightmares. This lasted well into my adulthood—sometimes the emotions that I was reading from those around me interrupted my train of thought. Words and full sentences would just dissipate before I could spit them out. It got extremely frustrating, to say the least. I experienced this even more drastically as I tried to fit in with the world around me, by taking on the burdens I was taught I should care about. The less worthy, and the more guilty, I felt, the less my confidence in myself. I began to lose trust in my ability to express myself. This is why I'm not a lover of the whole "born in sin" belief system--I see us all as gifts, and I'm sticking to that.

Sometimes the energies of crowded malls was so overwhelming that headaches and weird physical symptoms would exhaust me, and literally stop me in my tracks, until I reminded myself to breathe.

I've had my share of quirks as an imperfect human, but, thankfully, I never got a label, nor was I ever diagnosed as having any kind of disorder. No kid needs any kind of label. Mom and Dad and my brothers and sisters had me engaged in music and art of all kinds, and they shared with me lots of stories—some of them funny, some of them sad, many of them full of heart. And I had a feeling of unconditional acceptance, especially from my mom, who was with me the most. She never told me I should change, or be more like someone else. As a result, I usually had no problems clearly expressing myself with her. I treasured our relationship--it was a true friendship.

This autistic state of being is not here as a result of anyone’s wrong practices. We should be honored that they are here—they’re reminding us that we have come along far enough in our own evolution and consciousness that we’re ready to communicate on a higher, more heart-felt level than humanity has communicated in a very long time. Let them show us what we're capable of.

Embrace them, embrace yourself—and consider the possibility that maybe we don’t need fixing…

Viewing life from a different perspective for a moment or two isn’t going to hurt a thing…

Proselytizing Robots Armed with Pamphlets

A missionary once said that one of the biggest challenges in her work was first convincing the people (the ones she was out to “bring to Jesus”) that they were basically scum who needed saving—these are my words, not the missionary’s. She worded it more nicely, but the meaning is the same. Then and only then, could they teach them that Jesus was the only savior who could do the job properly.

The idea of that always brings a grin to my lips and a chuckle from deep within. You see, I’ve had the pleasure of being perceived as a heathen who needed a-savin’—along with the rest of my family members as we sat in the front rows at our dad’s funeral. The minister--whom I had asked to be included in the service, out of a sense of heartfelt appreciation for him being with us when Mom died--had turned what was supposed to be a celebration of my dad’s life into a spectacle. He made it into an egotistical “testimony” of how the minister had basically, personally brought my dad to Jesus.

Each of us kids (in front of all the other attendees) was handed a little white booklet filled with a bunch of words about Jesus—I’m sure there was a scripture or two in there as well. Out of a sense of being shocked and awed, plus being polite as we all were, we quietly took them without making a scene. But frankly, if I had a do-over with that experience—I’d have a HELL of a LOT of FUN making a scene!

On the one-year anniversary of Dad’s death, I was walking around Lake Nokomis with my nephew’s girlfriend when we were approached by a young man with a fistful of little white missives, who asked us if we knew God loved us. I replied, “Yes—I know.” I looked him in the eye when I said it—and he understood that I wasn’t saying the words without meaning. I had a sense of Dad having a good chuckle at my expense—and it made me smile to myself.

I don’t like the idea of judging God’s work as poorly done—and when someone judges any one of His Children as being any less than themselves or any others—I get a little irate. Actually, I get a LOT IRATE—extremely pissed. And if my words offend—well, maybe they’ve served my purpose of using them for some shock and awe of my own.

Through the years I’ve been blessed with all kinds of experiences of people who literally wanted to get me to “buy into” their beliefs. Selling belief systems is a business, and don’t try to tell me that anyone who sends a collection plate around isn’t in some sort of business. I’m more inclined to stick my monetary abundance into an unmanned donation jar, than I am with a manned plate being passed around.

And God doesn’t give a crap about money—even Jesus said that, and frankly, I do like and admire and appreciate Jesus a great deal. He’s been a great inspiration and reminder to me of who I am—I just never needed a savior because God/Our Source did a good job from the beginning with all of us, and I won’t ever be “convinced” otherwise.

When I read Jesus’ words I don’t see someone interested in being a suffering, sacrificial savior—I see a Divine messenger in human form who was sharing new perspectives with his fellow beings. He was saying, “Let’s open up your boxes of limiting beliefs. Let’s consider this old idea from another angle, something with more depth and meaning. The Kingdom of Heaven is at hand—it’s right here with you, all the time. You just didn’t see it. You’ve forgotten how to see it, and self-doubt has taken the place of self-trust. You’ve taken a simple, straightforward idea and over-complicated it in your mind, and now you think you’re lost for good. But you’re not. And don’t trust anyone OUT THERE to have your own answers. Trust that God made you in His image in all ways.”

I’ve had people inviting me to their church activities—Bible studies, services—and I’ve had them ringing my doorbell handing me pamphlets and quoting scriptures AT me. They weren’t in the least bit interested in having a REAL and meaningful exchange with me from their heart. They were only interested in saying AT me all they’d memorized of the “tree of knowledge”—instead of sharing WITH me the tales of the real human (the one standing in front of me) who’d been on an amazing and unique journey.

I’m excited to hear all these amazing stories from my fellow progeny of God, and instead I hear nothing but a whole bunch of dry, meaningless mind chatter and “poor, pitiful me” and “saved wretch” stories—and gossip. I feel like I’m interacting with hypnotized robots with pasted on smiles saying syrupy words just going through the motions of living, but actually dead. Okay—maybe “dead” is a bit strong—how about “in a DEEP SLEEP?”

But I can see through the pretense—people can, you know. I once watched a man get down on his knees, and clasp his hands together in verbal, whining supplication to Jesus to enlighten his brother—all this was done in intentional, full-view of me and a few others. We’d all just observed the praying man come into his brother’s place of business and provoke the fight. My eyes rolled then with the absurdity of it, and they still do now. I’m thinking drama queen. And that makes me laugh.

I want to grab the sleepers who are pretending to be “born again” by the collars and make them look me in the eye, because I know there’s a REAL being in there somewhere, hiding away inside of them. Instead, in the past, I either got the “poor, poor, poor little human puppets on God’s string” version, or the one where someone was blaming all the other people in their lives for their sorry life conditions. But I’m done with that.

To give everyone fair warning—don’t come looking for pity from me. I’ll probably grab you by the collar and if I don’t get something REAL right away, I’ll send you packing. I’m interested in talking with people who are willing to take COMPASSIONATE and COMPLETE RESPONSIBILITY for every single moment and aspect of his/her life. You’re all someone to celebrate and if we’re relating with one another, that’s what I’m focusing on.

So—you just got a whole bunch of words from me, but you don’t have to buy any of it, nor are you required to read it. Such as I am…

With love…ME!

Not a Sparrow Falls...

This story is a combination of my own and Kelly’s and Dad’s. I haven’t been sure how to write it down in a way that honors Kelly because this one began with him, and is truly his story for him to tell. It intersects with my own stories that take place later, and those stories have great importance for me, as well. It feels like a bit of a conundrum, but I’m going to start writing and see how it unfolds, then make further choices from there.

I believe I mentioned earlier that Kel had a difficult time with my dad being diagnosed with lung cancer—he’d lost a treasured uncle to the same illness many years before. It was so difficult for him that he chose to let me make the trip home alone to care for my dad, and while I was there, we hardly ever spoke over the telephone. I felt pretty much on my own, in that sense.

And while my poor little human ego said that was “wrong for him to do to me”--the truth is, he gave me the gift of honoring me with the opportunity to take a journey that helped me get really clear about myself. If I’d had a husband holding my hand, giving me a shoulder to cry on over every little thing, I’d never have discovered the amazing things that were in me, waiting for the chance to express. He literally took himself out of my way.

So I write this story, in honor of Kelly—my beloved partner in my journey of journeys of all time.

The last weekend before Dad died, Kel and my nephew drove from Minneapolis to see him. In spite of Laurie’s and my own agreed-upon efforts to make sure we took care of ourselves in order to take care of Dad, I had managed to get run down enough to get sick. Laurie and Terry’s sons had a football game that Friday night so our brother, Tim, came to spend the night with Dad in Laurie and Terry’s camper.

I’m not even sure how it happened anymore, but somehow Dad had agreed to try the camper one more time. He’d tried it a night or so early on and it didn’t feel right for him at the time—but he was in there alone. I’m thinking he probably agreed to try it again so anyone spending the night with him would have a place to sleep, rather than on the floor of his van.

Plus, our brother, Jerry and his wife gave us an intercom to use from the camper to the house. Dad’s anxiety was getting steadily worse, and he wanted someone nearby, in sight most of the time. I remember once not hearing him call us on the intercom, and getting a look from him only a few short minutes later that spoke of having seriously betrayed him by not being there the moment he buzzed me.

He was scared, that’s all—and didn’t want to leave before he was ready and didn’t want to be alone in the process. It’s an honor and a blessing that we mattered so much to him that he wanted us there beside him to the very end. Through my experience with him, though, I discovered that we leave our bodies when we’re ready—we have that choice. We just didn’t know it.

Some believe that they don’t have that choice, that some God out there is making all their important decisions and/or they’re stuck to playing out a destiny set in stone, so one’s free will to make that suggested belief his truth prevails--and they die before they’re ready to go.

Kelly and my nephew were only at Laurie’s one day, and I hardly saw him. He called me when they got back to Minneapolis Sunday night and told me excitedly of the conversation he’d had with my dad. I honestly admit, that at the time, I judged Kel as being selfish—putting his own wants before my dad’s. I didn’t say it out loud to him at the time, but I was thinking, Kel—how could you?

He had asked Dad that when he made it to the other side of the veil, if he would give him a sign that he’d made it. Dad’s answer had been, “I’m not sure if I can, but I’ll sure try.” I can still hear my dad saying those exact words.

Shortly after my mom died, Kelly and I started watching the show Crossing Over—a program where the psychic John Edwards would connect people on this side of the veil with loved ones who had died. I personally liked the messages he shared—they were comforting and they encouraged the continuation of relationships with those who had died, if only to heal, empower and see the gift of the relationship for the parties involved. And it was also filled with the message of unconditional love and gratitude. It was a show that helped me to shift my perspective and consider things from different points of view—to see this life as having more meaning than the things taking place outwardly on the surface.

I know there are those who judge all psychics as being charlatans—but every set of people has those who are legit and those who are out to swindle. It happens in science and it happens in religions and in governments, to name a few. As far as I’m concerned, life is full of challenges for each of us humans, and I’d rather get up each morning believing in something deeper, more loving and meaningful than what we’ve been taught. Survival of the fittest, that someone needs to lose in order for the other to win, that we’re just a bunch of disappointments to our Creator/Source, and that this life is about proving one’s worthiness so we don’t go to hell—well, those ideas simply don’t work for me. Something deep inside me says we’re so much more than that—and don’t settle or compromise for any less.

Dad died just a few short days after Kelly’s visit. Kel was in the midst of taking some college courses, so he didn’t come home again until the day before Dad’s funeral—he didn’t participate in the arrangements.

Right as the minister began the service a sparrow flew into the Ludlow community hall—and flew among the flowers, landing on the baskets of potatoes and vegetables gathered from Dad’s garden. And it made its way circling over the family. Now the minister, not knowing Dad all that well, didn’t get it, and actually glared disgustedly at the bird. But Dad’s closest family and friends knew its presence had meaning. No one else knew what Kel had asked of Dad, but my brothers and sisters and the grandkids recognized that bird as somehow being connected to Dad and possibly Mom. We have pictures of it.

After the service in the hall, we all drove up to our family farm just across the border in North Dakota to bury Dad’s ashes next to Mom’s on the Big Hill. The flowers Dad, Laurie, Kelly, Dave, Bonnie and I had planted the previous Memorial Day around the grave site for Mom were still thriving, even through all the dry heat and winds of July and August.

Before Dad’s diagnosis, he’d call me in Minneapolis from the top of the hill to let me know that all the flowers we’d planted (many of which I hadn’t expected to live up there) were growing. He had to have been hauling water—but no water was hauled the entire month of August. We’d even had a prairie fire that month in a field across the road.

On the drive to bury the ashes, I asked Kel if he thought the bird was his sign. He replied, “Yeah. At one point I almost expected it to land on my shoulder.”

When we returned to the hall for lunch served by an amazing community of people from around Ludlow, our little sparrow was still there, hanging out around the baskets. And it stayed with us until some time around 2:00 PM. As we were leaving, the bird left the building, too.

Kel left right after the lunch to return to Minneapolis. I stayed a couple extra weeks to finalize a few things with my sister. Even though my beloved cats were there, I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to return to my old life in Minneapolis. I had a feeling of no longer belonging anywhere—all I wanted was to be left quietly to myself in order to come to terms with all that had happened. I felt just lost—everything that seemed to have mattered before didn’t matter at all. I seemingly had no desires or passions or ideas of a possible future. And I wanted to separate myself from people, especially those who seemed to want something from me.

Laurie and I stopped at Dad and Mom’s mobile home to sort through a few of Dad’s things before I left. We found an obituary from Dad’s mother’s funeral. Dad and Grandma Pearl were very close—she died September 4, 1983; and her devoted son died September 4, 2003--exactly 20 years later.

I remember walking into my kitchen in Minneapolis six weeks after I had left. Kel was welcoming, and our cats were there to greet me, but I felt like I was in some type of time warp, or other dimension—I was unsure about whether I wanted to be there. Neighbors wanted to see me to pass on their condolences and I just wanted to be left completely alone. I was so empty feeling that I didn’t feel I had any kind of reserve left inside of me for myself, much less another person.

I had felt pretty much torn apart trying to see others’ needs and wants were met while looking after Dad, and then the funeral meant, for me, just another something I had to do to fulfill still more wants, traditions, beliefs that weren’t my own. I didn’t want nor need a funeral service—others did, so it was done. I wanted to make sure no one felt left out or unheard. I just remember the sense of putting my nose to the grindstone to get it all done, so I could be done.

A couple of weeks after my return to The Cities, Kel told me there was more to the sparrow story. When he asked Dad for a sign, his intention was to ask him to give him a sign at a specific time and date—around 11:00 AM, five days after he died—but at the last minute, decided not to voice that part of his request. Dad died September 4, and we had his funeral September 9, beginning somewhere around 10:30 AM.

I never quite understood how a minister could miss so entirely the significance of the sparrow’s presence. The words--“Not a sparrow falls that God doesn’t know of”--continually flow across my mind. I don’t know where I got them—I thought I read it in The Bible, but I can’t seem to find it there now. Regardless—it makes me feel like I have compassionate company, that I’m not as alone or as worthless as I once believed myself to be. And that’s comforting. And that is how I felt in Dad’s company—and how, I believed, a lot of people of all walks of life felt in his company.

Thank you, Kelly—thanks for giving Dad a reason to focus on getting to the other side quickly. You asked him to do something great—a way to be of service after his life as Dean was gone--with the belief in him that he could do it.

And he did it…he reminded us we’re listened to and we’re so NOT alone…no matter how small or insignificant we think we are...that our lives are valuable—even if we’re perceived by others as being “a dirty bird.”

With love, Dad...

A Blue and Golden Moment

A dear artist friend of mine, Marsha Lehmann, inspired me with the idea of a "blue and golden moment"--she had done a painting of a little cowboy--Small Adjustments--dressed in blue jeans and shirt with a background all in gold. I saw that painting and it brought to mind life in western North and South Dakota--a life filled with expansive, cerulean-blue skies and the fields of grain and hay ripening to a deep golden ochre. I get out in that openness and it invites me to take a deep breath of its sweetness and to open up my heart, to embrace the life dancing all around me in its myriad forms.

As I was writing about her painting, I began to recall many of the works of Vincent Van Gogh--and I had a strong sense that he would have understood my concept of a blue and golden moment. It's a moment so exquisite--so intensely joy-filled and golden--that the thought of its departure in the next breath causes a pang of deep sadness and tears--blueness. I've had many such moments, but the one that jumps to the forefront is a Tuesday in early August, 2003.

Just the weekend before, I'd made the long drive alone from the Twin Cities to my brother-in-law's and sister's farm in order to stay with them to help care for my dad, who'd been diagnosed with lung cancer the previous Monday. My mom had passed away 21 months earlier, and it had been really difficult for my dad without her, though, he really did try. He was just so lost without her. He'd chosen to not take any treatments.

I met Dad at the Gateway Inn Restaurant Saturday morning. As I was sitting in the booth awaiting his arrival, two of his friends talked of taking Dean (my dad) down to Deadwood to gamble one last time. I didn't like the assumption that he wasn't going to be around much longer (and them talking about it so openly in my presence when I hadn't seen him yet), but I stuffed it down and kept quiet. This is not to point fingers at Dad's friends--they had the best of intentions--it's just my attempt to convey my emotional state and thoughts at the time.

Finally Dad appeared and slowly, agonizingly, made his way down what seemed like an awful long distance from the front door to our booth. I quickly rose and went to meet him halfway and to give him a hug--but the hug felt like it back-fired on me. I seemed to be too close to him, robbing his precious air space--and guiltily I stepped back, so afraid that I'd harmed him.

That was the last hug I gave my dad in that way. I found a replacement for it, which turned out to be a good thing, but that's a whole other story.

Other family members were coming out to my sister's farm to see Dad about the same time of my arrival so the days were busy from the start. Dad had been set up with some supplemental oxygen tanks that he and my sister had been shown how to use--but he only had it on hand at night, and used it only to walk from his van, where he was sleeping, to the bathroom in the house. Laurie and Terry's home was newly built with freshly laid flooring, carpeting and freshly coated woodwork--plus it was an extremely hot, dry summer so the fumes from the glues and coverings were curing off. Anyone who's challenged with breathing knows how much worse it feels in those conditions. So, Dad was, for the most part, camping out in his van. He came in the house for meals and to use the facilities, but he was more at ease in his van.

I need to point out that Dad sleeping in his van was not a new thing. He'd done that from time to time even before Mom died, when he had trouble with feeling closed-in and with breathing. He began having difficulty getting his air years earlier and had doctored for it--even quit smoking after a lifetime of it--after getting into a grain bin that had some mold-tainted dust in it. In short, all of us understood that his van was pretty much his home.

The night before Dad was to leave the next morning with his buddies for his gambling trip (his sister had even given him some money to gamble with earlier in the day), he told me he was concerned about whether he should go on the trip or not. He was afraid of hurting his friends' feelings by not going, and feeling afraid that he would be hurting his kids and family by risking the trip and possibly dying while he was away from us. I ultimately left the choice up to him, but I also understood that his friends were important to him, too, and I reassured him that we (his kids) would be okay and support him whatever he decided was the thing to do.

The next morning his anxiety level was such that he couldn't make it up the stairs to the kitchen without assistance. His friends showed up and assured him that they'd stop in Buffalo (about 17 miles away) for breakfast, see how he felt there, and then decide whether to go on down to Deadwood. We sent an oxygen tank along with them, just in case--and off they went. I was anxious, but I also believed he was in good hands. I just knew how concerned he was with leaving from our talk the night before, and I felt his struggle as my own.

Terry and their three boys--an eighth-grader, freshman and sophomore--had gone out to a field, south of the place to pick up square bales that the boys were selling. After Dad left, Laurie invited me to go out with her to join them. They had nearly completed a load on the trailer when we reached them, so after a few bales more, the boys climbed onto the stack of bales and we climbed back into our vehicle and followed them over to the shed to unload.

I loved watching those brothers as they were chatting and laughing with each other, a couple of them chewing on the end of a grass stalk while riding on those stacked golden bales as the trailer and truck made it's way across the golden fields--all of it framed in the bluest sky you can imagine. The image is etched in my heart as well as my memory. It was glorious, and I still get a bit choked up and teary-eyed with the feelings it evokes in me. It was an absolutely loaded-to-overflowing moment.

We got to the shed and Terry unloaded the bales from the trailer while the rest of us stacked them inside. All was going well, when suddenly, I had no air whatsoever. I wasn't gasping for air, but I also wasn't breathing. I made my way out the door and around the corner and slipped down onto the ground with my back against the wall. The next thing I knew tears were rolling down my cheeks and I was sobbing--and finally breathing.

In all the time that it had taken me to drive from the cities and get into a bit of a rhythm as far as helping to care for Dad, I hadn't found a safe time and place to cry it all out. Everything had been stuffed down inside me until that moment--and when I finally got that moment it came packaged in the same symptoms my dad had. I guess that's what you call empathy.

Later that afternoon, Dad and his friends returned home--they were cracking jokes and laughing and having a great time together. Dad's eyes had his familiar sparkle. His feet were swollen (a first), but I was glad he had risked the journey--it had done us all good. And it got me ready for the days ahead.

It had truly been, in all manners of the words--a blue and golden day.


With love and honor, Dad...


The thing about having the blue with the golden moment is that the golden moment becomes even more precious, more so appreciated, by the one experiencing it. Otherwise it probably, sadly, would go unnoticed.

For as long as I can remember, I had been preparing for my dad's departure from this life. As a kid, and later as an adult, I used to have nightmares/dreams of driving down familiar roads that had been so much a part of our life together--only now I was driving them without my dad. One particular dream was actually pretty golden in color as I remember it now. It feels like we had an agreement--and we both recognized it.

The day I called home to Mom and Dad, crying my eyes out because I was burned out with school (I pretty much had walking pneumonia most of the prior quarter and I was emotionally exhausted trying to force myself to fit into a story that just felt suffocating), Dad left in the middle of the night to drive the 6 1/2 hours to Fargo to arrive on the dorm doorsteps at eight o'clock the next morning to take me home. No questions asked.

My parents never told me I had to go to college or that I had to get a job when it didn't work out--I made those choices on my own, and they honored them.

So, after getting the call from my dad and sister, Laurie, that Dad had been diagnosed with lung cancer, it only seemed natural to go home to be with him, though I had no idea how long it would be.

My husband wasn't thrilled with me--I had just completed the first three weeks of a 4-month program in massage therapy at the Aveda Institute, and I withdrew without asking him his opinion. You see, he thought he was finally on the road to having a wife with a career (hard to explain the other version to his peers)--heck, at that time, a job would have been just great--ha! I admit it, I was stubborn, and I hadn't quite fully let myself know why yet--I was enjoying playing the victimhood game of "poor me--Kelly just doesn't even try to understand me." The drama queen role is such a fun, irresistible one, don't you know.

Anyway, after a highly dramatic week of phone-throwing, T-shirt ripping, silent glares, packing like a banshee everything I owned into the trunk of the car, Kel and I finally came to a truce (I'm grinning and laughing here with the memories), and I headed to Ludlow, SD to spend what would unfold to be the last 3 1/2 weeks of my dad's life with him.

Okay--after stepping away for a moment to eat a bite, I acknowledged to myself that this particular story is too loaded and long to get down in one post, so I'm going to segue over to the ripped T-shirt story--I'm dying to share it, and my sister-in-law said she still got a chuckle over it the last time we were together.

Anyway, Kel and I had been glaring silently back and forth for a good part of the week, when finally somehow we started "talking." He was wearing a white undershirt T-shirt and was sitting in the big chair with the ottoman. I don't remember exactly what I said--just the key parts and the jist of what I was thinking at the time. He made some comment about my quitting school without his approval--or my even asking him his opinion. And my response was to straddle his lap on my knees, grab him by the shirt collar, dive straight into his eyes with my own eyes and say, "This is NOT 'F-enheimer' about you! This is MY DAD!"

And I must have been jerking on his shirt with each enunciation because at the end of my little speech his shirt tore off in my hands like a kleenex tissue--it ripped that easily. Caught us both by surprise. The "F" word caught me by surprise--it's not one I normally felt comfortable saying and I know Mom normally would have not been thrilled with my use of it. But in this instance, I felt her laugh--it felt like she said, "You go, girl!" (Remember--my mom really liked my husband,too).

Anyway, Kel kept the shirt as a joking reminder. And now it's been posted for anyone to read.

I'm leaving off here for now. For some reason, this story is going to have to come out in small bits. Every time I write a version of it down, more ah-hah!s come with it and it kind of explodes for me. So it's going to be one moment or two at a time...


"Make me into someone you can love???"


Okay--I'm sidetracking from my story with Dad, it seems, but this is at the top in my thoughts so I'm going with it.

Ripping Kel's T-shirt and using that embarrassingly harsh, yet delightfully wicked word had nothing to do with Kel. It could have been anyone outside of me playing his part--I needed someone to act this internal struggle out with me--and I'm fortunate it was him.

I felt that Mom was proud of me in that particular moment because I'd finally authentically found my words, and they came out short, simple, to the point, complete. I was standing inside of myself, being the real me, instead of the closely-monitored, just existing shell of a human that I was until then.

You see, before Kel came along, I'd lost my first boyfriend in a motorcycle accident--his name was Arlen, and he deserves a story all his own. But for now, suffice it to say that I believed for some twenty years after the fact that I'd royally screwed up with Arlen--taken him for granted--and that God had chosen to chastise and discipline me by taking him away. In my mind, I didn't deserve to be having a life without him, yet I kept waking up to a continuous string of new days.

I had recurring nightmares with Arlen returning or not really being dead, only to find that I hadn't waited for him--I was with Kelly. Arlen wouldn't have anything to do with me then. Needless to say--I hated the concept of love triangles in movies and books.

So, that was the foundation upon which I created the relationship I had with Kelly--I handed myself over to him on a platter and pretty much asked him to make me into someone he could love.

First--nothing like asking someone to do the impossible! But he tried--we tried--and we managed to get ourselves into a miserable recycling rut. Oh, the games we will play with each other, all out of love!

Fortunately, I hated playing the victim role enough that I recognized when I was playing that part. I struggled with trying not to be one, only to find myself still feeling like the victim. I tried sneering at myself, beating on myself, only to find it grinning and sticking its tongue out, taunting me.

Nothing like being an actress so immersed in her role that she couldn't seem to step out of character, even when the play and her script was being rewritten. Old habits--they're comfortable even when you're miserable in them.

Somewhere along the way I realized that beating up on myself wasn't changing anything. I looked in the mirror one day, and realized how hard I'd been working to be good, to take responsibility for my own life--all of it. But in order to do that, I had to actually practice loving myself with compassion.

You know, when God told me to love myself that day while washing dishes, I hadn't grasped at all what that meant at the time. It sounded and felt so good, and it resonated with me--but we were just getting started. It was so easy for me to be empathetic and compassionate with people outside of me--but then to do a one-eighty, and wail on myself like a demented taskmaster when I thought I'd screwed up. It didn't dawn on me to do otherwise, until that day I looked in the mirror and finally saw in those eyes someone who was trying so very hard, yet never being given a break by me!

After that moment though, I was given all kinds of opportunities to practice self-love. Kel and everyone else just wouldn't be either emotionally or physically available certain nights. Physical aches and body pains would force me out of bed in the middle of the night, and then downstairs into another room or into the bathroom, where I had to hug myself with compassion while I cried myself through the intense pain. I had buried a lot emotionally, and the physical pain actually helped me get honest about it. Feel, feel, feel...and breathe...and hold and hug...cry...release...

It's a very human thing to be the hardest on oneself...and a very wonderful experience to finally challenge that and see what it's like the other way...My dad was really hard on himself, while much of the time being very loving towards others, so maybe this isn't sidetracking after all...

Not sure what all I've written, but I'm tired of editing, so I'm posting...


With love, Dad, through your feet...


“Dad—I believe everyone goes to heaven. I don’t believe God would leave anyone behind, no matter what.”

“I think so, too, Babe.”

Dad and I had that little exchange two nights before that last highly confusing, life-changing night together.

I’ve heard it said that being born into our harsh reality is actually more traumatic than dying. And while that makes really plausible sense to me today, right now—it wouldn’t have during those last three and a half weeks with Dad. Our story was ending and my world was unraveling. I still feel all choked and my chest feels tight when I remember back to those times.

I felt like a newly-blind person, staggeringly feeling my way through each loaded moment, questioning and doubting myself every step of the way. But underneath it all was a strange knowingness--a standing-firmness--that I wasn’t going to give in to anything other than the belief that my dad was going to be okay. That ultimately he was always in God’s unconditionally-loving and compassionate hands all through life and all through the transition we call death. And no one and nothing was going to get in his way as long as I was around.

In retrospect, my dad had probably one of the most honorable and dignified deaths possible in the context of those times. My sister and brother-in-law, Laurie and Terry, and their sons brought him home to their farm and ranch to live out the remainder of his days. Each morning Terry would take a couple of cups of coffee out to have with Dad out in his van. He slept and pretty much lived in his van, as I explained earlier, due to the curing-off fumes from their newly built house.

One by one, each of their boys, Weston, Jerel and Heath would stop by to visit with their grandpa a moment before heading out to do chores, and then again throughout the comings and goings of their day.

Laurie would make sure he was fed and bathed and ready for the day and cared for in ways too many to list fully enough, and she and I took turns watching out for him at night.

While Laurie kept the home-front running, each morning around eight o’clock, I got the pleasure of accompanying Dad in the short drive in his van to a spot just off the road into Laurie and Terry’s where Dad could get cell phone reception. And Dad would call all our brothers and any other friends he could think of to connect with.

Friends and relatives of all ages from all over the country flew in and drove in to visit with Dad—everyone wanting him to know how much they personally loved and valued him. I loved that they cared so much. Yet at times it was so extremely hot and dry—100+ temperatures, and one day I remember the humidity was only 15% (even I had cotton-mouth that day and difficulty breathing)--and I knew that when you’re sick it gets overwhelming to try to visit. I was torn watching his energy get so depleted while understanding the visits were also amazing gifts meant to honor his life.

On my drive home to spend those last days with him I didn’t know for sure how long he had or even if he was actually going to die. I know people often equate cancer with death—but I didn’t, and still don’t, believe that to be true. And while it seems to be politically correct to blame cigarette smoking/inhaling as the big cause of lung cancer—that idea actually ticked me off--and I've never smoked! Some people live long lives drinking and smoking—and some die young. I've definitely inhaled more 2nd-hand smoke than I ever wanted, but I'm quite healthy, nonetheless.

I’m more inclined to believe it’s about a person’s belief system surrounding the idea of why they’re smoking and whether or not they’re enjoying their life. My dad was blaringly dying of a broken heart—the core reason, I believe, for the dis-ease/cancer in his lungs. And, also—more empoweringly so--because he was ready to end his story.

Inside, I was okay with the idea of Dad dying, but I didn’t believe he (nor I) had to suffer in it, nor did I believe that he had to die unless he chose to. I was set in honoring whatever choice he made, and I tried to convey that to him, but sometimes those words are so hard to find in those moments. This is why I feel so passionate about going beyond the old belief system of death--we've all suffered way too much in this natural process of transition out of our old stories and identities. I'd like to experience it without the traumas and diseases.

I did manage to tell him that I felt that this, our last time together, was meant to be—and he agreed. Not once did he ever bring up me needing to go back to be with Kelly, like he had done with me after Mom died.

Two hours of what was to become my last day of my massage therapy schooling was spent teaching us to do foot reflexology. Learning to give a good foot rub turned out to be the greatest blessing for me in those final days with Dad. Shortly after his return from his gambling trip with his friends, when his feet started to swell, I began massaging his feet using reflexology, where each spot on the foot corresponds to an area or organ in line with it on the whole body. (See archived post from Oct. 2009: A Blue and Golden Moment). The last couple of weeks I pretty much gave him an entire foot rub a minimum of two--and often three—times a day. One each morning to get him up, one after dinner and another to help him sleep at night.

Now, every one of my brothers and my sisters will have a special story about their time with Dad and with our mom—and every one will have its own unique beauty. No one’s story is greater or lesser in importance. The only one I know well enough to tell is my own. I got to have this most precious time, my story with my dad because of my brothers and sisters.

Dad and I bonded during those foot massages in a way far beyond anything either of us expected. After my disastrous experience of hugging him in the restaurant when I first got back to be with him, I no longer allowed myself to hug him for fear of taking up his space or air--and that was a tremendous loss for me. It had always been our custom to kiss on the cheek with a hug, and to wish each other hello, good-bye, goodnight.

I found myself slipping into only what I can call a trance-like state the moment we began the exploration of his body organs through his feet. I could tell by a crinkling, crackling texture whether or not his esophagus or thyroid or lungs were distressed at that moment, and I could relieve that area by massaging it out. And he’d often ask me if I noticed anything in the area of his liver and pancreas, and it would give us both a breath of relief to be able to honestly answer no.

Sometimes he’d have more difficulty getting his breath or getting his lungs free of phlegm and mucous—and his anxiety and panic would spike due to his fear of dying in his sleep, before he was ready to go. I found that by simply holding his feet, looking into his eyes and taking deep, calming breaths myself, would somehow reach him through my touch and slow and calm his breathing and anxiety. Actually, when massaging the point for the diaphragm, we were taught to slide our thumbs from the center outward and then back inward in conjunction with the patient inhaling and exhaling three times--this practice seemed to get us breathing through the whole process in tandem.

Day by day, his condition worsened. He didn’t want to be dependent on the canned oxygen, but his panic attacks got so bad in the middle of the night when he’d stop breathing while he was sleeping that Laurie and I began taking turns sleeping outside with him. Neither Dad nor Laurie nor I realized, until after one particularly hard and memorable night, that we could leave the tank on to help him breathe in his sleep.

I’m not really a nurse-type personality, nor was I there when he was shown how to operate the tanks so I was pretty ignorant on that aspect. Plus, Laurie and I left Dad’s use of the oxygen up to his discretion—neither of us believed in forcing him to do something he didn’t feel at ease with. If we came across a new approach on something, we consulted him first—and then only did it if we had his consent.

We all, and each, did the best we knew how in the moment at hand. I no longer do the "if only-s, woulda, coulda, shouldas."

Love you, Dad...


Ego Agendas, Clashes & Pedestals


About a month before these last days with my dad I met a new friend in the Twin Cities. We talked only once before my dad died and then it took us a couple of months afterward to reunite. But once we did get together, I made a fully conscious choice of being really honest with her about myself. She was my safe, sacred space. She had no connections with my family, friends or the community where I grew up. Anything I told her wouldn't go beyond her, and if it did, the people wouldn't know me anyway.

So, Cheryl, my beloved sister--this one is in honor of you...you were the gift I gave myself that made me able to speak my heart and soul out loud, in a blog on the Internet, of all things...

When you're human, victim hood on some level is seemingly a part of you...and it really becomes apparent when someone is sick and/or dying. You don't even have to be the one who is sick and dying--just a member of the crew is all it takes.

And if you're feeling like a victim, you're feeling powerless, helpless--and you're saying anything and doing anything to try to make yourself feel a bit more in control, a bit more at peace--and sometimes trying not to feel at all. It's quite a game--and I played it as fully and completely as anyone else outside of me.

I observed some people worrying about Dad's spiritual welfare--he allowed himself to be baptized for about the fourth time in his life, the second time within a year, all because someone wanted to "do something" for him, and he recognized that it was a gift he could give them.

He was willing to undergo all kinds of tests by other doctors in order to give another person a bit more sense of having "tried everything," but his physical condition deteriorated so quickly that he wasn't able to withstand the long drives to hospitals that were so far away. Sometimes doctoring can be a full-time job and commitment all in itself--and long commutes can be exhausting in themselves.

And when I started doing the foot reflexology with him, I squirmingly noticed that I, too, had my own personal agenda of trying to heal him. But then, one auspicious night, he gave me the gift of clashing his will with mine--a pair of stubborn "Lewtonschteins," as Dad would have called us. Grin.

It was, possibly, one of the best gifts he could have ever given me. I got so angry, I got real, I got honest with myself. I let go of trying to control the situation.

There was a big emotional tug-of-war going on the whole time we were with Dad. He was a rescuer, and when his rescuees began showing up, wanting more of his time and energies, he was so depleted he had nothing to give them--and more importantly, no desire to continue playing that old role with them. So he began to depend on us girls to intervene for him so he basically wouldn't look like the bad guy.

Also, when a person is sick and dying, I think it's pretty difficult to not feel angry. Anger often is a good signal of feeling like a victim in some way. And then you feel ashamed of yourself for such feelings when you love the ones with you so much and they're trying so hard to keep you comfortable and happy.

Yet that anger still finds its way to the surface, and because of the shame and the fear of being personally rejected--it comes out in even more insidious ways. He wouldn't complain directly to the person with whom he had the beef with, he'd complain to another one about the other--and I got so pissed at the blatant manipulations of us all by him, that I ran crying one afternoon to my older brother to just get rid of my own anger.

Yeah--there I was, doing the exact same manipulation game that my dad was doing--taking my beef with him to another.

But then one night, thanks to my monthly visitor, I didn't have the physical stamina to be the doormat with him that I was thinking I maybe should be with the "poor dying man." Yeah, Dad--I can feel you chuckling now with me, but it was a highly dramatic thing for me that night. I was supposed to be this all-loving, nurturing daughter, and the one night I picked to clash with you you were low on oxygen, in a panic...I replay the scene in my head, and I just know it would have made a very entertaining part of a movie.

When we got Dad ready to sleep at night (after the foot rub) in his van, we'd layer pillows in a specific manner to keep him somewhat in a partial sitting position in order to help him breathe and keep the mucus draining downward instead of toward his head. We'd tuck blankets around his feet in such a way that they were kept warm but not pulling his toes downward. We'd rip several paper towels in half and lay them next to him in case he had a spurt of needing to clear out his lungs in the night. We'd place a towel on his head to keep the draft off, and park the van so he had breezes flowing through just right. And then we'd have his oxygen tanks right at hand for him to use as he chose.

By the time this particular night came around, he'd had enough scares of dying in his sleep that I'd left my bed in the house in order to lay on the floor of his van to doze beside him. Laurie and I had just gotten him all tucked in for the night, when, after a panic attack, he decided he'd try to sleep in the room on the ground floor of the house. I think he was trying to go in the house so that I would have a more comfortable place to sleep.

We got all his blankets and pillows and tanks moved into the bedroom and there was a nice breeze coming through the window for him. I was in a sleeping bag next to him on the floor and Laurie had returned to her own bed.

We never did get to sleep. Claustrophobia hit, followed by a panic attack due to lack of oxygen and his "nurturer" was not physically or emotionally in a place to nurture him--I was exhausted, and I'd already awakened Laurie once that night to move him inside. I don't think we were even in there an hour and he was begging me to move him back out to his van.

The clash was on. When I tried to soothe him by reminding him that the big window was there, that he really wasn't in a basement, that he was all right--he got whinier. And I felt myself get ornerier and more unwilling to move from my chosen position--I was at my wit's end. I felt like we'd all been scrambling for days trying to do the right thing by him--and yet it never was enough. And, honestly, Dad was NOT a demanding, cantankerous individual (even sick)--it was just everything all together.

Heck--the reason he was playing the whole manipulation game with us was because he couldn't stand seeing himself hurt us. It may seem cowardly, but I've done it myself. Oh well...

When I dug my feet in to stay, I watched him get up from the bed, grab his oxygen tank on wheels and start to head for the door. I followed him out of the room, leaned against the wall by the front door with my arms folded across my chest and then watched as he opened the door just enough to stick his nose outside and take a breath. Then he leaned out a bit more, slowly edging himself out the door, imploring me to let him sleep in his van. Good martyr that I am, I finally gave in completely--he had parked himself on a chair just outside the door and I had wrapped one of his blankets around him.

I hauled all of his bedding and pillows and paraphernalia back out to the van, tucked him in just so, my eyes sparking and my mouth grim--and as I turned to leave the van, he sighed a sigh of relief and said, "Thank you, Babe..." I rolled my eyes, walked across the yard to my car, went inside and bawled my eyes out.

The next day I told my brother-in-law, Terry, that I didn't think I could handle taking care of him much longer. I was ready to put him in a hospital right then and there. I had no desire to even look at him that morning. Laurie saw to his morning needs and as she did so, he told her sheepishly, "I went against Pen last night." By that afternoon, we'd made up and I was back to rubbing his feet.

In my cry out in the car, I'd realized my healing agenda with him--trying to force my will, my desires, upon his own. With that recognition, I at last chose to let the agenda go--and a transition took place that afternoon as I rubbed his feet. I realized I could love every part of him, unconditionally: the good, the bad, the light, the dark--all aspects and roles of him--and I could do so simply by touching his feet and not trying to change, or fix, one iota of him.

After that night, I no longer had Dad or myself on a pedestal of expectation--we were humans doing and being the best we knew how in the moment at hand. And regardless of the scenes being played out on the surface--messy or nice--I knew REAL LOVE was always there...


Thank you, Dad...I love you...


“Well done, my… Son?…I commend you to…The Father...” I’d move to the next spot on Dad’s foot signifying another body organ or part, and again, “Thank you, my…Son?…I commend you to The Father...”

And on and on, I haltingly went, repeating the strange, unrehearsed, unexpected lines over and over as I moved through Dad’s right foot, the tears streaming from my eyes, feeling as though I was touching every aspect, every moment of him through his feet—and loving him All, and thanking him for it All.

And my head was berating me and ridiculing me for every syllable that slipped from my lips. Son? He’s not your son! Who do you think you are? What’s Dad thinking of you—calling him ‘son’! You should be ashamed of yourself! What are others going to think of you? You’d better keep this whole deal to yourself. They’re going to think you’re crazy, delusional. You are crazy, you know…

But even in the midst of all those self-accusations, I kept feeling it—LOVE, pure and simple--but so vast, so deep, so warm and comforting, so powerful that nothing (what others might say or think of me) mattered.

Nothing mattered.

And so I continued on, “Well done…” until I completed his first foot, looked up and saw that his eyes were closed. I suddenly felt so exhausted all I could do was crawl gratefully into my sleeping bag on the tiny bed in the camper a couple of feet away from him, and close my own eyes.

I awoke a couple hours later from a solid sleep-state, saw it was five in the morning, that Dad was awake, though quiet and no longer moving except to use his eyes. I leaned over him to tell him I was going in the house to get Laurie.

Laurie! I’ve spent the last several years questioning and halfway chastising myself for not going to get her when Dad’s organs began shutting down and when he was going through the hallucinations, begging me to take him outside—it was so cold out—and I knew he was dying. The thought that I should go get her had occurred, but I chose not to.

Honestly, I had spent all the previous days trying to honor everyone else’s ideas, and, selfish as it may sound, I chose to walk this experience on my own—just Dad and me. I believe I needed to take all other’s desires out of the equation, because if another person had been present, I wouldn’t have allowed the previously quoted words and experience to come out. I would have defaulted into my old “little-sister Penny” role and kept who I really was hidden away (especially from myself) inside yet again.

So, Laurie, thank you. I know I probably disappointed you—even betrayed you—and I accept full responsibility for that choice.

Earlier that evening, Dad’s brother had called and asked me how Dad was doing and if he should come. I had spent all that afternoon running last minute errands in town, trying to take care of Dad’s business transactions, getting groceries, running into people who would ask me how he was doing. And I was aware that I knew this was heading into his last hours, but I didn’t feel at ease revealing that to other people—the words just weren’t there. I told his brother to listen to his own heart and make the choice when to come from there because I couldn’t answer him.

Dad was having a hard time swallowing and feeling really congested—I’m thinking it was a choked feeling. In the past couple of years, he’d had some Coke on hand, which he drank occasionally to help in moments like this—he said it helped him “cut the carbon.” That’s a carburetor mechanic talking—one of his many roles. So he asked me for some Coca-Cola that night as I was getting him ready for bed. We tried it, but even the Coke didn't seem to help.

The previous day the hospice nurse had left us some morphine for him to use— just in case he wanted it. Amy had come out to administer an enema for him that day so he was much more comfortable, yet his dignity was still intact with his daughters.

It was around ten o’clock, and I asked Dad if he wanted to try the stuff so he tried a bit—he had difficulty swallowing even that little bit of liquid--then told me to lay down and get some rest. As always in those nights with Dad, I was completely out the moment my head touched the pillow until I suddenly came to sometime around midnight.

Dad was awake and really having a difficult time breathing, he used the urinal all on his own (my back turned) and he was up and down between our two beds. I was opening windows, running the little heater full-blast at the same time—nothing was working. Then he started begging me to help him walk outside and I told him, “No, I can’t.” Little though he was, I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold him up, and it was so cold outside—it just didn’t make any sense to even try it.

In desperation, I heard myself say to him, “Dad—Jesus will come get you…” The words felt empty—like a lie. And as I said the words out loud, I thought to myself, Penny! You don’t know that! Don’t lie to him—don’t spout beliefs you’re not sure of! Don’t get his hopes up expecting something that you’re not convinced within yourself will happen.

As his organs were shutting down, the hallucinations started. He eventually surrendered and laid back down on his bed. The towel we’d placed on top of his head to keep his head and sinuses draft-free was now long gone. He reached over and grabbed a couple of paper towels that I’d torn in half for him earlier, and using both hands, he slapped them on the top of his head and they flapped there off the sides of his head like dog ears. He had such a comical expression on his face, along with the motion, that I felt a little betraying smile on my lips.

I would feel so ashamed of that smiling moment of mine, that it would haunt me for years later. I didn’t think it was the “right” thing to do in such a serious time. But, in looking back, I realize now that Dad would have done anything to get me to loosen up a bit—and especially so when things were so serious. He was known for making himself the butt of his own jokes in order to put another at ease. And I really did need a good laugh right about then.

I think it was somewhere around two in the morning when I asked Dad if he wanted me to rub his feet. He nodded his consent, and so began our blessing of all of him. A couple months later, I was watching a TV drama where a priest showed up at the scene of an accident and said the very same words I’d spoken over and over again through my dad’s feet—it was a last rites ritual. I’ve never attended a church of any kind often enough to have known to say those words—I’m not a member of any organized religion.

The next morning, I went in the house and woke Laurie. She came out and lovingly asked Dad if he wanted us to call our brothers home to see him, and he said yes. So the phone calls were made and people began arriving. A couple of our brothers lived and worked a good three hours away, and one of them had just become a proud new dad just the day before—so each of his family members took turns sitting with him on their own throughout the day.

I pretty much felt like I’d had my time with him in the night—but at one point when there were only a few of us present yet in the late morning I suddenly had the thought occur that I’d only blessed his right foot. I hadn’t done the left foot--the one where the heart point is—and it seemed so important that I complete fully what I’d started. So I slipped into the camper alone and I explained to Dad that I felt I needed to finish his feet. I pulled up the sleeping bag roll that I used as my stool and I blessed all the points on his left foot.

But that still wasn’t seemingly enough. I felt myself drawn to stand up, walk up beside him and place my hand on his heart, and whisper the blessing. In that moment, he took a great gasp of air—and fearing I had somehow hurt him, I whispered, “I’m sorry, Dad.” And I bolted out the door.

Now, I didn’t know that there was a setting on the oxygen tanks where I could have put it on automatic for Dad that previous night when he was having so much difficulty breathing—basically suffocating. Had either of us known that, we would have done it. My brother Steve made us aware of it when he arrived that last morning—so Dad had oxygen then when I was doing the last blessing, but he wasn’t noticeably breathing. He was in nearly a coma state—but a conscious one where he was still able to communicate with loved ones when he chose to. He literally took a deep inhale of air when I touched him.

Months later, I would be reading one of my books from my massage therapy course. A nurse who worked with terminally ill patients said she often felt intuitively drawn to place her hand on the heart of the one who was passing. She said it seemingly gave them a burst of extra energy that enabled them to stay present long enough to take care of things, so their lives weren’t left with unfinished business. My youngest brother was the last sibling to arrive that day. He got there sometime between seven and eight that evening and he was bearing a picture of his newborn son to show his dad. Dad actually took a close look at the picture—and then peacefully left his body for good sometime shortly thereafter.

Three or four months later, I would read online that if you truly wanted to begin to understand your own self, go be with someone you loved who was in the midst of dying. No one could have spoken words that resonated more deeply with me than those. Things happened in those last days and hours and minutes with Dad that changed me forever—or at least, made me aware that there were things inside of me that were eternal—unchanging, just unrecognized or unacknowledged by me before.

This is only a part of the story…but it’s enough for now…

Thank you, Dad. I love you…SO MUCH!


It was all for me...


Contrary to what my Little Human ego (AKA, God’s Puppet on a Destined String) would have me believe, while trying to save face when she realized I didn't listen to her--I really didn't do, or say, anything that “saved” or “fixed things” for my dad in our last moments together. He didn't need fixing or saving. It was all for me.

Dad’s life was not my responsibility. I walked beside him and with him as far as I could go and not literally join him in leaving—but the choices surrounding his life and death were all his to be made.

When I take a moment, get really quiet, and feel and consider everything that those last moments with my beloved dad meant to me: Well, I wanted him to simply know how deeply I’d been touched by his presence in my life. I’d learned, and I am still learning, so much about myself through EVERY SINGLE MOMENT of our relationship. I wanted him to know as we parted, that I celebrated him--I celebrated us—our dance.

And all that I said and did in those last moments, I needed to express for my own sense of authenticity--for my own peace of heart and mind.

I was operating on the belief I had then, as I still have now: You don’t part from someone without making sure they know how much you love, honor and appreciate all that they have been and are…for YOU!!!

I remember standing in front of the bathroom mirror, shortly after Dad had left our presence for good, and I gazed into eyes and a reflection that felt so different, so deep and wavering, but with a bit of a sense of a glow, a luminosity. I’d moved something intrinsic deep within myself. I wasn’t Penny anymore. All her stories and previous beliefs about life didn’t seem to matter anymore. I didn’t know who I was.

In those final moments with Dad, religious teachings and beliefs, political ideas, business practices, even family and friend issues just flew out the window—none of it mattered or had any bearing.

I KNEW two things—I loved him and I was thankful for him—and that was all that mattered…

Related Posts:
Not a Sparrow Falls...
My Last Waltz with Dad
With Love, Mom