tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16273579679361934012024-03-05T13:42:36.857-05:00The Daily Draw<b>Weekly insights for your personal and spiritual growth.<br><br><br><br> <br> </b>
Tierney Sadlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508037058967261204noreply@blogger.comBlogger1260125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1627357967936193401.post-68241330858133236912023-09-16T16:56:00.001-04:002023-09-18T19:43:32.110-04:009/16/23—Sharing More About My True Crime Saga<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh5E3ge0m_SOAtxigoiTjzoSGyCWRaXNnloyA79Su5LF8tII71IhNw19COvZ2sjf6H03MRQVkh33L6N5MHq9T8L9aNEMFQzOE-MQX4VGnrA1ZjFAmwd-Mf1FugHQuaZRHGrLjMTCOYaaQPtl1zLfuXEBGG75Ozk2LJgM03UKOaChHLEZjEAIUQ3F9qLnvk" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /><img alt="" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="382" height="444" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh5E3ge0m_SOAtxigoiTjzoSGyCWRaXNnloyA79Su5LF8tII71IhNw19COvZ2sjf6H03MRQVkh33L6N5MHq9T8L9aNEMFQzOE-MQX4VGnrA1ZjFAmwd-Mf1FugHQuaZRHGrLjMTCOYaaQPtl1zLfuXEBGG75Ozk2LJgM03UKOaChHLEZjEAIUQ3F9qLnvk=w338-h444" width="338" /></span></a></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">My dad called me into the room and told me to sit down. He presented me with a stack of documents and said he needed me to sign them. I started reading the first one and he immediately got rankled and said, "just sign it."
I could hear the impatience in his voice. I got all flustered and couldn't think straight. </span><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">My dad never got physical with me. I might have gotten smacked once or twice in an era where that kind of discipline was commonplace. But I was always intimidated by him. He was, after all, what my mother threatened me with throughout my childhood: "Just wait until I tell your father." </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I think that sentence probably terrified more than one of my siblings. He'd come home. You'd wait, sweating out your fate, and the worst that might happen would be that would he come in your room, irritated, and say "don't upset your mother again." But by that time, you'd already sat in fear of him for hours. My parents were exceptional at the psychological game. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So when he pressed me to witness these documents, I did it. Without looking. I did get the gist, though. The one I tried to look at was an insurance policy that had my stepmother and her sons as beneficiaries. To this day, I can't tell you what the situation was on the rest of the documents or even how many there were. I just remember that he made me sign them without looking at them. And, frankly, I was left feeling confused and a little... violated?... betrayed?... by being forced to do something that wasn't "right" or "responsible" by pretty much the most honorable man I'd ever met. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">As a result, I was subpoenaed to testify for the defense at the murder trial. I guess her lawyers thought I would cop to signing all the insurance so they could say our family knew about the policies and were greedy and that's why this sweet blonde lady was being called a murderer. But that's not how it went down. They showed me the documents one by one and asked if it was my signature. I said, "It appears to be" each time they asked. I wasn't sure if all those were my signatures and if those were the documents I signed. And they asked if I remember signing them and I said something to the effect of, "I remember signing some documents, but I don't remember how many or what they were. She says she's good at forgery. So I can't say for certain." </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Last week I blogged about my father's murder. So if you are wondering what on earth I'm talking about, <a href="http://www.tierneysadler.com/2023/09/9823living-my-own-true-crime-drama.html" target="_blank">here's the link to that story</a>. I have since remembered some new anecdotes and a few experiences that were personal to me, so that is what this week's blog is about. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">For example, I was supposed to be at her farm with my dad the weekend of the murder. In my mind, it wasn't a set visit. It was more like, "maybe you can come with us next time we visit." I had been to her farm before and enjoyed its remote, country setting. I had even shot targets with them with a real, live gun. So I knew she could shoot. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So maybe the Thursday before this potential visit (he was murdered on a Saturday) she called me and told me not to come that weekend. She said she and my dad had things to talk about. It did strike me as vaguely odd that she wanted to make sure I didn't show up out of the blue because, in my mind, I hadn't been formally invited. I would never have just shown up without discussing what time I should show up and what I should bring. So it seemed a little weird. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">But a lot about her seemed weird. There was the life-size image of herself in a black lace bodystocking that lined her staircase wall. That could only be matched by the huge portrait of herself dressed like a Gone With The Wind southern belle, complete with parasol, above her living room couch. Your mom had those things in her home, too, right? Perfectly normal. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">There was a period before she was charged with my dad's murder that we pretended we didn't think she killed him...or at least didn't say it to her face. During that time, my brother and I went to her house. There were things of my mother's that she had left to me that my dad kept for safe keeping. So we went to retrieve them. They were things like her wedding silver—things you can't trust a 25 year old with, but you could totally trust a money-motivated serial killer with. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">BTW, probably 90% or more of our family memories and his memorabilia were either sold or burned. I think we got a box or two of things from her. But most any family memories we have—pictures and stuff—came from when my mother died. So I am forever grateful that we had the courage to face her and ask for the items that were earmarked for me. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">My dad was likely asleep when he was shot. He'd just had hot chocolate, so maybe that put him to sleep or maybe he was drugged. So when we arrived to pick up the silver and she offered us something to drink, we said, "NO!!!!!! Uh No. No thank you." </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">That was probably the last time I ever spoke to her directly. It was a very uncomfortable experience. Scary. Dangerous feeling. I had my 6'4" brother with me. We definitely had her beat based on size. But she trumped that by being a sociopathic murderer. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">My experience then and until today comes down to a single word: surreal. The movie <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TwuzI8Y0uW0" target="_blank">Blue Velvet </a>seemed to capture it for me. In the movie, a sweet, innocent, shiny faced couple find a severed ear in a field. There is a scene in the opening sequence when the camera goes into the grass. Then into the dirt. And down deep into the seedy underbelly (symbolically) of human existence. The couple then gets drawn into that world by the mystery of the ear they found. Along the way, they lose their innocence and purity. They ultimately return to real life, but it's not as shiny as it once was and neither are they. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I don't know how many times I've watched that movie. We all live in a world where women don't murder their husbands for the insurance money. Until they do. And then you live in a world where women murder their husbands for money. And you can never go back to the old world. We were lucky to be immersed in that seedy underbelly for just a year, more or less, because the trials were speedy. But that year took so much away. And it has echoed in us for 35 years. How could it not?</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Being raised in the military, I believed in justice. To the very fiber of my being. When she was declared not guilty, I nearly fainted. I lost my legs in the courtroom and one of my brothers caught me on the way down. Everything I believed about right and wrong and karma and all of that was brought into question. Can you come back from that? Yes. To a degree. But you can never go back entirely. The ideals upon which I was raised—the ideals ingrained into my version of reality—proved to be painfully invalid. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Another thing that year took away was our opportunity to grieve. At first you're in shock. Then maybe you're afraid for your life a little bit. The night he was murdered, after my brother and I got back from West Virginia, I and all three of my brothers slept together in one of their living rooms. I remember sleeping on the sofa with a brother on the floor beneath me, close enough to touch. I think we all felt safer together that night. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So there was some fear. Then all the investigation stuff starts happening. And each day brings new details. Then there's all the press. And the trials. There are journalists around. It feels like everyone knows. You have to maintain composure. All of the oxygen in your life is spent on the investigation, the trial and, frankly, her. And then the trials end. And the circus leaves town. But by then, a year has passed. And there are no more distractions standing between you and grief. But now it's too late and too anti-climactic to properly grieve. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiw8OWQT8y7H2xiA4obK1c8W78hCa0Rd5NMH_WUbr9_vAV2CYPe3l7Zr_Mrz9KbiVfAZmMGSNO1B2eiVwMehge3jKGFUaOrjr199WlhzkkLLOX9-JRQ8VS2kmrcI3cYgdJ0SHCt0dJhNI3KGXn0ZIYUuoAuMxtTHkwoRb56Bmzga6CQfHfA-Rd5j-DUQ6w" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1126" data-original-width="1600" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiw8OWQT8y7H2xiA4obK1c8W78hCa0Rd5NMH_WUbr9_vAV2CYPe3l7Zr_Mrz9KbiVfAZmMGSNO1B2eiVwMehge3jKGFUaOrjr199WlhzkkLLOX9-JRQ8VS2kmrcI3cYgdJ0SHCt0dJhNI3KGXn0ZIYUuoAuMxtTHkwoRb56Bmzga6CQfHfA-Rd5j-DUQ6w" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The way my mother looks at me, the <br />baby, while five other kids aged 8 and <br />under crawl all over her, says everything.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I feel like I've worked through all the trauma and found whatever good there was in all of it. But I can't say I ever grieved in the way I was able to grieve for my mother. Despite all the drama and chaos around my dad's passing, nothing will ever touch me <a href="http://www.tierneysadler.com/2014/05/51214remembering-mom-on-mothers-day.html" target="_blank">the way my mother's death impacted me</a>. I miss her every day of my life. She is the one who carried the mantle of forming us as people and being there when we cried. She did the work of raising six kids with a man who wasn't always present while holding down a full time job. At one point, my mom was working on a congressional campaign and raising six kids while her husband was thousands of miles away in Vietnam being shelled by the enemy. The fact that I never got to know her as an adult is the biggest hole in my life. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I'll share something interesting that happened before the trials in a voice-from-beyond kind of way. Maybe it was my mother reaching out from beyond the grave. But my dad told everyone a different story about how he and my stepmother met. Depending on who you were, they might have been introduced by friends, or maybe they met at an event or maybe they met in a bar. So this runs around in my head...why would my dad lie about that? I'm not sure my father had ever lied to me about anything in my life. Except maybe Santa Claus. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So I'm talking to a reporter on the phone one day and telling them that we don't know how they met. Then it hits me hard out of the blue, he used to enjoy reading the personal ads in The Washingtonian magazine. What if that's where they met? The reporter then did her thing and found the exact ad my dad replied to. My stepmother was looking for a high ranking military official or former senator (aka guys with pensions). And my dad, as lonely as he was, said "hey, that's me" instead of "well, that's oddly specific." </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Anyway, outside of the stuff that happened in <a href="http://www.tierneysadler.com/2012/01/12412stepping-into-void.html" target="_blank">the creepy room</a> when I was 4, this was the first thing I remember that felt like a "psychic prediction." It was around this time that I started getting involved in tarot, too. So, coming up with that "hit" fueled my psychic endeavors to a certain degree. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">You know, among my father's six children, there were six different reactions to his death. And six different levels of, and reasons for, anger in regard to my father. My dad was a great man, professionally. He was everyone's friend socially—a really easy guy to talk to. It used to piss my mom off because we'd stop for gas on the way to a family vacation, for example, and he would spend a half hour talking to his new best friend, the gas attendant, while we just sat there and waited. (Back in ancient times, you didn't pump your own gas. A man in a starched outfit used to do it. In fact, the jury foreman for the murder trial showed up in his gas station jumpsuit every day of the trial. But I digress.)</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">My dad also had a lot of integrity. He was a good man. But, for what I needed, he wasn't a good father. He was a provider and did a very nice job of it. But he was not a nurturer. And his work took him away from home, at one point for a couple of years. He worked a lot and wasn't around as much as many dads. All of us had different experiences, but my father didn't show much interest in my life. I am fortunate to have ultimately come to peace with the fact that I would never get what I needed from him as a father before he died. So I wasn't angry with him for how he died. I felt more like he just made a really bad judgment call. And if I had any anger at all, it was that he held all of us up to a really high standard of behavior and judgment and perfection, then he blindly follows this questionable woman to his death. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Their marriage didn't last long. I don't remember the dates, but I think he met her early 1986 and was killed in April of 1988. One of the odd things about this is that when I talk about it, it's like it happened to somebody else. There is a detachment from it. A matter of factness about it. And it still feels surreal. I don't think I'm in denial about anything. It's just how my mind works, I guess, because I have the same detachment with other things from my history. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">It all feels like it happened to someone else. And, in a way it did. Trauma changes you. It's like a portal to another, better, stronger you. And the worse the trauma is, the more you transform. <a href="http://www.tierneysadler.com/2018/10/102218asking-sasquatch-out-to-lunch.html" target="_blank">It literally happened to a different person. </a></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I have some spiritual beliefs about why it all happened and why it <i>had</i> to happen. As you might imagine, something like this impacts your life significantly. For me, though, it brought me much more good than bad. Yes. You read that right. I made a divinely inspired choice early on that no-doubt saved my sanity and kept me from being another one of the many victims she leaves in the wake of her narcissism and sociopathy. Stay tuned. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div>Tierney Sadlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508037058967261204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1627357967936193401.post-13165789844562630892023-09-08T17:35:00.005-04:002023-09-18T19:43:17.327-04:009/8/23—Living My Own True Crime Drama<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj3hsVzm1aLFKLYiU8wQd_W80Gges52jlsWpoadgvua_FE-D8Y_wnsvX0SSHofKJ9uYYJOhUwZKFo9dFwgw8uKYp2Mt8S20jFG6l-CKUsoKEdwrCaNc1fPcB-yDDMcbMBy9AJafmJSZii0il2e2aUcU1lyEA05SUkzd7hJvlaFYxmNf4AszAuJ2JRs2_v4" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img alt="" data-original-height="717" data-original-width="638" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj3hsVzm1aLFKLYiU8wQd_W80Gges52jlsWpoadgvua_FE-D8Y_wnsvX0SSHofKJ9uYYJOhUwZKFo9dFwgw8uKYp2Mt8S20jFG6l-CKUsoKEdwrCaNc1fPcB-yDDMcbMBy9AJafmJSZii0il2e2aUcU1lyEA05SUkzd7hJvlaFYxmNf4AszAuJ2JRs2_v4" width="214" /></span></a></div></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">There is a little old lady in Florida. She is probably 90 years old. Petite and feeble. And I have been waiting for her to die for 35 years. I wouldn't mind if she goes painfully...torturously. But the truth is, I would be OK if she died in her sleep. I just want her gone. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Let me explain. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">When my mother died back in 1984, my father was devastated. He was like the walking dead. A zombie, lifeless behind his eyes. My mother was truly his soulmate. She battled cancer and, to the end, they were affectionate and, frankly, sometimes sickening with all their public displays of affection. They had plenty of flaws and novel ideas for scarring their children for life, but I was also fortunate enough to be raised seeing both their strong partnership and their soulmate love. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">After about a year of deep mourning that, at times, had his kids worried, he started coming back to life. He had met a woman. A few months later we met her, too. She seemed nice enough, but there was a vague something about her that troubled us all. Maybe it was just that we couldn't see our father with someone else. And he thought she was just like our mom, but we couldn't see it. So maybe it was all of that. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The night we met her, while she was with us at a barbecue, her house got robbed. How horrible. Another notable thing at the time was that she was converting to Catholicism in her 50s. And despite having had three previous husbands and two children, she decided to remain a "virgin" until her next marriage. And then we found out it was actually four previous husbands, not three. Then my dad proposed to her. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">All of this set off red flags. So, one by one, five of my dad's six children approached him, the disciplinarian general, and questioned his wisdom. It was the only time in my life I had the courage to confront him. But he said we were all overreacting and he probably believed it was a case of adult children not wanting their dad to marry another woman. It happens. <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Life went on fairly normally after that. They married. They moved in together. And, as April approached, they were set to file their first joint tax return. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">On April 9, 1988, I had just gotten home from Popeyes. I will forever remember my order that day—nuggets and red beans and rice. As I settled in to eat, the phone rang. And in five words, everything that had been odd or off about my stepmother coalesced and I suddenly understood what was wrong with her. The words were "your father has been shot". At once, I knew he was dead and she did it. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I know what you are thinking, "I watch CSI. There must be all kinds of evidence left behind." Or, "If she and he were the only people in the room, there are only two possibilities." With my father's long military history and being a veteran of three wars, there was actually only one possibility. He was meticulous with guns and everyone that served with him and hunted with him testified to that fact. I grew up in a household with two guns. I never saw them. They were cleaned regularly with the door closed. And we all knew if we touched his guns and lived, he'd kill us. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Anyway, within an hour or so my brother and I were in a car headed to West Virginia where the murder happened. When we arrived there, I walked into the house and stood on the spot that, hours before, had been soaked in my father's blood, and I didn't even know it. The place had been fully cleaned. The furniture had been burned. And there was no police tape up. She told them it was an accident. He had been "playing" with the gun and it went off. They believed her.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiAxgepcSFgnqx4PFQCq9-rZuW_H5CdEE4orZEwiKcwe-k3bZqvxAFfEQpWxZO1PK7qkEP9WpDkj7YQ43-EuSnRGg1Ha4CnIYWJrdi6XKSpM9isZirwIKeQ6AYtkoj8g2j88eDEuObhfj6g-ICudCGc3AOqxXlu2OMWpLgLTP4SR_CXkgoOWj5JQN25AO0" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><img alt="" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="1014" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiAxgepcSFgnqx4PFQCq9-rZuW_H5CdEE4orZEwiKcwe-k3bZqvxAFfEQpWxZO1PK7qkEP9WpDkj7YQ43-EuSnRGg1Ha4CnIYWJrdi6XKSpM9isZirwIKeQ6AYtkoj8g2j88eDEuObhfj6g-ICudCGc3AOqxXlu2OMWpLgLTP4SR_CXkgoOWj5JQN25AO0" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">An interesting twist happened the next day. My brother, accompanied by her two biological sons, went to WVA to tell the police that they thought she murdered him. I'll repeat that. Her two sons went to the police to say they thought their mother was a murderer. They said, "We are tired of losing fathers." My dad was her 5th husband. Only one husband made it out alive (their supposed biological father, though they looked nothing alike and were probably 13 years apart in age.) All the others died while she was married to them. #4 oddly left all his money to her, despite having two daughters who were left orphaned and abandoned when he died. I don't remember their ages, but let's say 12-16. </span><p></p><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">When police determined the angle that the bullet took...it came from above and behind my father...and the fact he had no gun residue on his hands, her original story changed. Now the story was that he had been playing with the gun and she got up to wrestle it out of his hands and the gun went off. Those were the two official stories, but her story changed with the wind depending on who she was telling. It was hard to keep up. </span></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhzFaNJlkjS99vGqIh5gHPxfpfD6CvDqaiXdD8_VUm05u4iNkTgKyWwTkFxSTOTqVhx2BI-xY9MYhNReuT96JgEM7sjnQ8WpdaH5YwZO3M3wSTHSxccXB6qVB46PNgupbT9AgejKoC9pFa7pjSTf4iTKo5sUUvB_JgeJ1Zh4sjOLVQrKBAKEbGkmmIC-NA" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><img alt="" data-original-height="889" data-original-width="631" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhzFaNJlkjS99vGqIh5gHPxfpfD6CvDqaiXdD8_VUm05u4iNkTgKyWwTkFxSTOTqVhx2BI-xY9MYhNReuT96JgEM7sjnQ8WpdaH5YwZO3M3wSTHSxccXB6qVB46PNgupbT9AgejKoC9pFa7pjSTf4iTKo5sUUvB_JgeJ1Zh4sjOLVQrKBAKEbGkmmIC-NA" width="170" /></span></a><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The medical examiner determined my father was shot from an angle that eliminated the possibility of the gun being in his hands. That medical examiner had recently been through a messy divorce, though, and he owed his attorney money. His attorney was my stepmother's attorney. He revised the medical report to make it inconclusive as to whether or not my dad's hand could have been on the gun. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Meanwhile, this story is the talk of Washington, DC. The trial made it to the front page of The Washington Post every day, above the fold. It was on the news nightly. The story was also nationally broadcast a couple of times on A Current Affair, a tabloid show hosted by Maury Povich. People are hanging on for any new detail from the trial. And there are two guys from the Air Force OSI (the group the Six Million Dollar Man worked for...haha) poking around in trash cans and listening at doors. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhzFaNJlkjS99vGqIh5gHPxfpfD6CvDqaiXdD8_VUm05u4iNkTgKyWwTkFxSTOTqVhx2BI-xY9MYhNReuT96JgEM7sjnQ8WpdaH5YwZO3M3wSTHSxccXB6qVB46PNgupbT9AgejKoC9pFa7pjSTf4iTKo5sUUvB_JgeJ1Zh4sjOLVQrKBAKEbGkmmIC-NA" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">One was an investigator/spy and the other was a criminal profiler. They told us she was a narcissist and a sociopath and a black widow. But they kept their information to themselves for the most part. Their official line was that they were there to help the WVA State Troopers with their investigation. But they were collecting evidence in ways that would be inadmissible in court. Their job, ultimately, was to protect the federal government from having to pay her my father's pension for the rest of her life. Requests for their work product under the Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) results in heavily redacted documents that reveal nothing. I just got a report from them...135 pages, but more than 100 are blank/redacted. We won't get more until she is deceased, and maybe not even then. But that's not why I want her dead necessarily. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">See, she was acquitted of murder. She got to walk free. She was just an old lady who couldn't possibly do harm according to a rural West Virginia jury. It didn't matter that there were two people in a room and one is dead and they physically couldn't have shot themself. She got off. And she has been living quite nicely off my father's pension ever since. Murdering my father was her retirement plan. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">If it all seems fairly straightforward for a True Crime story, it wasn't. There was a car chase as she left her home during a search with evidence in tow. She disappeared for a few days while out on bail and her son put in a missing person's report. (The good Catholic was later found to have been in a hotel with a man having sex, according to the spent condoms in the trash.) There were stories about how she was a double agent and one of her sons was kidnapped as a baby. So maybe she was also with my dad for the access he afforded her to Pentagon types. Perhaps she even hoped to meet her next husband. Who knows? It was hard to know what was true and what was part of her carefully crafted delusion. And here's another interesting point: my dad met her in the personal ads of The Washingtonian. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The drama went on and on, which is why people were addicted to the story. And remember how I said her house was robbed while she attended a barbecue at our house? They found all the stuff she said was stolen behind a false wall in her house while they were investigating my father's murder. And then, as I said, on the eve of tax season when my father was going to learn that she had no income and was siphoning off of his, he ends up dead. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So, she murdered our father. She was found not guilty. And for 35 years she has drawn what may be near six figures a year of your tax dollars. I want her dead. I want it to be over. I do not believe in closure. I think you have to make your own peace. But my family has gotten none of the ordinary kind of closure you'd get in a situation like this. So many things have been left unanswered. And, frankly, we have to live with the reality that these things will never be answered. And justice will never be served. That ship left port over three decades ago. </span></p><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi4tu3PQlridBumWhCzunwBuC3-w6TY19EmNLoHEtqelkIVYNipyG7L87-DwagmpBcN089Ubqx-CD6ZoerZdb1iScjS9I-vibKHi7Nj4jBFjWnFtp9fu-rnOhy9BTkoE1cxUy_Q8lA5h3fzVH9UxCA8S7AVoawKeAV0FbD0meMo3G0dJL0O8h53ZaP8JoA" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><img alt="" data-original-height="888" data-original-width="617" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi4tu3PQlridBumWhCzunwBuC3-w6TY19EmNLoHEtqelkIVYNipyG7L87-DwagmpBcN089Ubqx-CD6ZoerZdb1iScjS9I-vibKHi7Nj4jBFjWnFtp9fu-rnOhy9BTkoE1cxUy_Q8lA5h3fzVH9UxCA8S7AVoawKeAV0FbD0meMo3G0dJL0O8h53ZaP8JoA" width="167" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">She was found guilty of the stolen crap in her home, however. But since she had no priors, she got a suspended sentence. She is now a convicted felon, however. And we sued her for wrongful death. So whatever insurance was left over after her lawyers and our lawyers were paid, we received. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">There are tons more anecdotes and oddities with this story. I don't remember them all. She wrote poetry and did self published books back in the day when that was what you had to do if you weren't a good writer. There's all the intrigue she wrapped herself around in, like the spy stuff. And lest you think it was a government hit, while my father definitely knew secrets, he had been out of the Air Force for a decade by the time this happened. And they had 36 years of his service as a veteran of three wars to know he wasn't going to expose anything. They'd have killed him much sooner if they were afraid he'd tell any secrets anyway. Another anecdote is that, before my mother died, she told my brother to "watch out for the next woman your father marries." She knew his vulnerabilities and had some sort of precognition. And then remember the guy my stepmother had sex with when she was a missing person? He is buried two rows up and maybe 5 or 6 graves over from my dad in Arlington National Cemetery. He was likely an accomplice. No shit. His grave overlooks my dad's. </span></p><p></p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhrYwZXifaNU9KtmWpqGqyzspy9fEkws1HoantEYDHpUHiSd7NAYh7N5WEz_2E3DnDTMFlGeKPScN-15qe20LzvV5FoUNE6V1VPuDZUyccRGcm_5YJEm_pZhUg8QSRO-QrY7pwkyjO8TgXm5MfPa9ygXZEzJGlcy5h6duVJUtGTmfCuMaqJ2k6_yisMlc8" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1294" data-original-width="1026" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhrYwZXifaNU9KtmWpqGqyzspy9fEkws1HoantEYDHpUHiSd7NAYh7N5WEz_2E3DnDTMFlGeKPScN-15qe20LzvV5FoUNE6V1VPuDZUyccRGcm_5YJEm_pZhUg8QSRO-QrY7pwkyjO8TgXm5MfPa9ygXZEzJGlcy5h6duVJUtGTmfCuMaqJ2k6_yisMlc8" width="190" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Sample page from <br />FOIA document</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So, for 35 years, I and my siblings have been living with this and waiting for her to die. It was a kick in the gut when my brother John, who fiercely wanted her dead, died before he got the satisfaction. Hopefully he is haunting her...and not being nice about it. But she just keeps living. Off my father's money. I think 35 years is very patient...to wait for closure...to wait for the government to tell us what their spies found. To wait for something—anything—vaguely resembling justice. But the Air Force feels we have no right to this information. Seriously, even my own interview with investigators was heavily redacted to protect her rights. I get she was not convicted and that's how the law works. But seeing so many blanked out pages does make me wonder if we will ever get any more information at all. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So that's my True Crime story. There may be another post in the offing as I tell you how it impacted me and my life and why I won't be writing a book about it. I mean, seriously, I wouldn't believe it if I didn't live it. And no, we haven't heard from her since she was found guilty of the insurance fraud and went on to start her free life as well-compensated widow. Most everyone—the investigators and witnesses—are long dead now. Only she lives on. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br />I know all of this is just fascinating to people, so if you have any curiosity, feel free to ask. Chances are good you can't ask a question that would offend me more than what I've already endured. </span></p><p><br /></p>Tierney Sadlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508037058967261204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1627357967936193401.post-25316985082285552662023-09-03T20:02:00.006-04:002023-09-18T19:44:38.867-04:009/3/23—Feeling Human Again. Finally. <p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjfi8QzJ43vr3uJWvOJ31EwM6Ts1kEhXxECg4jS47svW6e_1__ocx-ijZDthB1_fVaNV8fUYxGjmPztVln3r2jGi-26NcWv_RFGX9b0r5ofVzefiAR_DCqrHL1CHvtZq3KC4lmVGwrTQ_Ml4jxLg40-d-k2DnRl1OiMF5S1cq_ZkU4sr0IOZwev5RtRGSI" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img alt="" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="450" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjfi8QzJ43vr3uJWvOJ31EwM6Ts1kEhXxECg4jS47svW6e_1__ocx-ijZDthB1_fVaNV8fUYxGjmPztVln3r2jGi-26NcWv_RFGX9b0r5ofVzefiAR_DCqrHL1CHvtZq3KC4lmVGwrTQ_Ml4jxLg40-d-k2DnRl1OiMF5S1cq_ZkU4sr0IOZwev5RtRGSI" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">It has been nearly five years since I have made a new post here. And this post is in no way an indication that I am going to start blogging regularly again. But I have something I want to blog about. I need to get this out. And it is about my health. </span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Because I know reading about other people's health journeys can be unfun, I'll go ahead and skip to the end. For the first time in over a decade, I feel like a human again. That's all you need to know. But I need to write about the trauma in between to organize it in my mind and to understand. Writing helps me think things through. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Five years ago after a long illness and many misdiagnoses, I had open heart surgery to replace a heart valve. Basically, every time I moved, <a href="https://www.nhs.uk/conditions/mitral-valve-problems/" target="_blank">my mitral valve</a> would not pump blood correctly. This made it hard for doctors to spot because when I was still, my valve seemed to work well enough. It wasn't until they looked at it when I was moving that they saw the issue and immediately <a href="https://www.mayoclinic.org/tests-procedures/heart-valve-surgery/about/pac-20384901" target="_blank">scheduled me for surgery</a>. The doctor said she was "horrified" by what she saw. Suddenly my complaints over the previous seven years bore out. Over time, I had been diagnosed with everything from obesity to asthma to hypochondria. While they knew I had a bad heart valve, they always thought my problem was caused by something else. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Rheumatic valve disease is caused by rheumatic fever...or strep throat that has gone untreated too long. So the illness actually started when I was maybe 8. I never knew I had rheumatic fever, though I do remember a really bad strep incident. If it had been diagnosed, I'd have been on antibiotics all my life and doctors would know to keep an eye on my mitral valve. From what I can tell, antibiotics or not, when you get in your 50s your mitral valve will finally be damaged enough to impact your health. Can you believe that? This disease was in me for 40 years while it slowly damaged my heart valve! Mine went so long undiagnosed that a repair was impossible. So I have <a href="https://www.heart-valve-surgery.com/learning/pig-valve-replacement/" target="_blank">a valve made of pig tissue now</a>. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I always feel a need to say this. I am overweight. It is not healthy. But my heart has no issues that come from the horrible nutrition I've practiced all my life. All the doctors blaming my issues on being overweight were wrong. My heart was initially damaged 50 years ago. The damage it has now comes from the years of misdiagnosis that made other parts of my heart compensate for so long. There are no clogged arteries. I have plenty of issues from being overweight. But this isn't one of them. Doctors are frequently biased against heavyset people and it impacts their ability to treat them. My weight is what got me called a hypochondriac. That doctor—a doctor I had been to for years—made recommendations ("you just need to exercise harder!") that could have killed me based on his bias. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">In the last year of my valve journey, I no longer felt part of humanity anymore. I couldn't leave my house without someone to help me. I couldn't go anywhere because I couldn't get from the parking lot to a store. I had chairs placed throughout my 1200 square foot home so I could sit and rest on the 30 foot trip to the kitchen, for example. I fully believed I'd die. In fact, I was hoping I'd die. It was such a dark, painful time and it lasted a long time...long enough to damage me both physically and emotionally. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Everybody talks about how, after <a href="https://my.clevelandclinic.org/health/treatments/21502-open-heart-surgery" target="_blank">open heart surgery</a>, you feel so good afterward. That wasn't the case with me. I hadn't been able to move for over a year prior to the surgery. We are talking less than 300 steps on an unusually active day. So there was no cardiovascular capability left. And trying to rebuild in the wake of my surgery was difficult for me. I was OK. I could move about the house. But I still wasn't quite well. As early as last October when my sister came to visit, I was still having issues with energy and breathing. We went up to Skyline Drive to see the foliage. I could enjoy the view but I couldn't really get out and walk around. I felt like that was the best it could get. And I accepted that, because it was better than before. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I'm not sure entirely sure why it has taken so long. Part of it was physical. I was having a lot of afib. I don't even remember how many times I've had my heart shocked now. Six? Eight? And I'll be honest, I didn't work hard at the cardiovascular exercise because it made me worry about my heart and triggered memories of all the trauma I had pushing my cardiovascular capability prior to surgery. Literally, I could have died each and every time I exercised per doctor's orders. And it felt that way. Yet I felt doctors were unmoved by my complaints. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Last October, I got new medications. And things got worse. Then they adjusted the medications. And since then I've felt better than I have since I was in my 40s. My bad days now are exponentially better than my best days over the past decade. If I had to guess at what made the difference, it was regulating my heart rhythm. Once I started taking rhythm and rate drugs, my life turned around. I don't know why they didn't give them to me before, but they didn't. So there were many physical and medical reasons my health hadn't bounced back the way other open heart patients might.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">But there were also emotional reasons. There was a time in my life I power walked five miles a day. I loved walking...and walking fast. I was a beast. But when you have a health crisis every time you head out for a walk, walking becomes terrifying. There were many times I "got stuck" in the middle of my walk and had to nurse myself home. I've only recently felt confident I can go for a walk without having an episode. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Beyond the emotional (and just general living) trauma, though, I had spent years preparing for my death. I stopped dreaming of things I'd like to do. I stopped living. As I said above, I WANTED to die. I just wanted it all to be over. It was a very dark time and it still brings me to tears thinking about it. I have no idea how I got through it. Or how I continue to, because sometimes it gets overwhelming. My heart is not my only challenge. It just looms the largest. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The part that hurt the most for me was having the doctor tell me I was a hypochondriac when I was in such "pain". This made me afraid to complain about my symptoms to subsequent doctors. So I downplayed how I felt. And even then they were puzzled as to how I could be feeling the way I said I was feeling. But they saw it. They saw that I needed a wheelchair. They saw my gray skin. They saw the lifelessness in my eyes. They didn't know what was causing it until they looked at my heart while I was moving (a stress echocardiogram). </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So in all that time, my body atrophied. My home got incredibly cluttered. My finances took a nose dive. I was having traumatic and post traumatic stress. I was depressed. Everything people rely on to live eluded me, even after surgery. For much of the past five years, I had accepted that my life would be manageable, but hard. I had long since forgotten what it's like to just feel normal. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So imagine my surprise when, after my last medication adjustment in October and my <a href="https://www.mayoclinic.org/tests-procedures/cardiac-ablation/about/pac-20384993" target="_blank">ablation</a> in spring, I am like someone who has never been sick at all. Really the only indicators of my issue in the past year have been the mountain of medications I swallow each day and some limitations I can live with—I need to avoid the heat...even a really hot shower makes my heart go crazy; I need to rebuild my ability to walk (I can probably go a mile right now, but might need to catch my breath); and I have <a href="https://www.mountsinai.org/health-library/diseases-conditions/ulnar-nerve-dysfunction" target="_blank">lingering nerve damage</a> in one of my hands caused by the surgery...it makes two of my fingers numb and less capable. This last one is a daily reminder for me. I never not feel it. The damage occurred from the position I was placed in during my surgery. It's not uncommon. When I woke from surgery, my entire hand was "paralyzed". Now it's just two fingers that work well enough, but always feel numb and a little arthritic. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">But coming back to life has its own challenges. All of a sudden, now that I'm going to live, I need a life...haha. What I mean by that is that I need to dream about my life, have ambitions, chase goals. And since a decade or more has passed since the last time I had goals other than to live, I'm not sure what I want now as a 60 year old woman. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Also, I no longer have an excuse not to clean my house and clear out clutter. I have made great strides in the past year, but am still maybe only a little more than half done. I also decided to do my own yard work this year (not the mowing, though). So I look for days cool enough to do that. And I am behind on that, but have done a lot this year. All of this is teaching me a new rhythm. I have learned that if I wait until something bugs me enough, everything will eventually get done...haha. So I'm not forcing myself to "get back to normal". It is coming in its own time—timing that may seem slow to others, but divine for me. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I'm also leaving my house more now because I can. All my grocery deliveries have turned into grocery pickup. I will probably never grocery shop again for myself, but it won't be because I physically can't anymore. And I do normal person stuff more and more. I am and always will be a hermit, but my surgery was followed quickly by Covid and I rarely ever left my house for years. Covid doesn't scare me as much now, but back then I wasn't well enough to be a likely survivor. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">What I guess this all boils down to is that my life force was gone for at least a decade and it has recently returned. It is surprising to me. It's a new feeling. And I'm not entirely sure of what to do with it. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Last week I had a dental cleaning and when the hygienist was done, I let out a dramatic sigh. She laughed and asked me what that was about. I said, "I don't like being inconvenienced. I lead a pretty blessed life." That is all true, but I immediately wanted to correct myself because I wasn't owning the two cardioversions (shocks) I had gotten in the past year. The two hospitalizations. The ablation surgery. The two upper endoscopies and one colonoscopy. The CAT and PET scans. The cancer diagnosis (I'll be fine). The echocardiogram. The thyroid biopsy. And the stomach tumor biopsy, along with all the blood tests. All of that happened in just the past 12 months—the year I finally started feeling good. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The truth is that I have a doctor appointment at least once a month on average. I am inconvenienced at least once a month in ways that go beyond a dental cleaning. In my head, I'm fortunate. And I truly am blessed. And I DON'T like being inconvenienced. But I feel like I do myself a disservice by pretending I haven't been through hell and back more than once in my life. A dental cleaning is nothing compared to, say, the inconvenience of being a lifelong side sleeper having to sleep on her back with her legs elevated for a month with a fresh 12" scar going down her chest. <a href="http://www.tierneysadler.com/2023/09/9823living-my-own-true-crime-drama.html" target="_blank">Or waiting 35 years for my father's murderer to die.</a> So I have been thinking about how I view the whole deal in my mind. It's not nothing and I frequently act like it is. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I think that many people who have known me through all of this will say I've taken it in stride. Or I've been brave. Or positive. I've taken numerous knocks but keep getting up. That's all true, I guess. But I have also been deeply traumatized. Deeply traumatized. I have been frozen and unable to move forward. I have been lost. And I have felt alone, no matter how many people were there. That is the truth. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Each day I leave more and more of that shit behind me. There are good days and bad days. But right now, even my bad days are some of the best I've had in a decade. I'm no longer drowning in my own fluids for example...haha. But I am still brought to my knees by it sometimes. Recovery is as much a journey as illness is. I wish I could be one of those people who just bounces back quickly. But my brain isn't wired that way. And just as it has taken my spirit a long time to live again, it has taken my body a long time too. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">When I look back, all I see is darkness. It was a very hard time. And I have a lot of work ahead. One benefit is that I have emerged from this mentally healthy and happy. I have moments, but that is all they are. I have recently gone off my anxiety/mental health medication because I no longer need it and it interacts with other stuff...haha. And in some ways, I'm the happiest and most mentally healthy I've been in my memory. Possibly in life. And that colors everything. It means I'm no longer bothered by petty things. And it also means I no longer tolerate things I once did. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Essentially I wrote all of this for me. To get it on paper. And to show that, for every brave woman, there is a little girl on the inside who is in shambles, just trying to feel her way out. And she has had to make herself far more vulnerable to others than she ever planned. And that, even after she's had a lifesaving intervention, she may not be well. For me, wellness took its time, but eventually came. For the first time since my 40s, I know there's nothing "off" about my health that the doctors need to find. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I spent years saying, "but it's more than that" to doctors who were just trying to get to the next patient so they could go home and watch CSI. It sounds harsh, but that was the case. Nobody was working overtime to try to save me. Nobody seemed to care. And yet that is what I and countless others who have faced a life threatening illness have had to face. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Because of my spiritual beliefs, I think I was saved for a reason. I still have a mission from the universe that I need to complete. The way things went, it's a miracle I'm alive. There were many hospitalizations and 911 calls...many nights I lay in bed, gasping for air, hoping I wouldn't wake. But here I am, feeling better mentally and physically since any time I can remember. To have both mental and physical wellbeing at the same time, it may be since my 30s. And further reflection makes me doubt I was fully mentally well back then..haha. And, hey, I could still die at any time. But so could we all. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">It has been hard for me to be a great friend to those who are sick. It triggers fears and PTSD. I wish I could be the person others have been for me. I'm not there yet. It's still raw. And I'm good in other ways. But if you are and you know someone struggling with their health, they need a friend who will listen. And someone to believe them. And even cry for them or advocate for them. Or really just to listen. Even though I have talked about this a lot, I still have things to share. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Ultimately, we are all alone. You can have a posse of fans, but you will still go through it all alone. Such is the human condition. But never doubt that that person needs you. Maybe they don't know how to ask. Maybe they have a hard time accepting help. Maybe they have given up. But try anyway. Meet them for a cupcake and a Starbucks and ask them how they are REALLY doing. After that, all you need to do is listen. </span></p>Tierney Sadlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508037058967261204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1627357967936193401.post-66548221490069181182018-12-09T18:13:00.002-05:002018-12-09T18:13:39.179-05:0012/10/18—Being Born Again and Again<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This post was originally part of an Easter blog hop in 2014 where the theme was supposed to be about resurrection and rebirth. I have updated the content. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">What are the stories we tell ourselves about our lives? This topic came up as I recalled an <a href="http://www.tierneysadler.com/2014/03/31614rewriting-our-story.html">epic canoe trip</a> I took with my dad when I was a girl. Until I recalled that trip, I had always told myself the story that I never had a special connection or memory with my father that was just between me and him. Thinking about this was a sad thought. It was also untrue. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As I look back on my life, I can see a lot of similar unfounded stories I've told myself. Because I grew up overweight, I never had the endurance for sports. So I developed a story that I wasn't good at sports. Many years later I started exercising and lost weight. Then I discovered that I totally have "the eye of the tiger". I compete against myself quite effectively, physically speaking. I found I was good at a lot of physical challenges I had told myself I couldn't do and would even go so far as to say I excelled at power walking—my long stride, focused mind, competitive spirit and newfound endurance fueling the fire. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Writing this, trying to think of the stories I've bought into, most of them are really sad and pathetic...the kinds of things that undermine confidence and keep me "small". Today's blog isn't about feeling sorry for myself, though, so I won't share those. But I mention them because somewhere in the dark corners of your mind, you probably have similar stories. Whether they were told to you through the thoughtless comments of parents, siblings and teachers, ingrained in you by societal boundaries or produced yourself to explain or assuage places where you might have fallen short at one time or another, chances are good they're simply not true. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Here's an easy one to tell. I hate peas. I find them disgusting. And if you serve me peas in something, I will go to great lengths to pick them out. When was the last time I intentionally ate a pea? Well, maybe 50 years ago. So there's this story I tell myself about peas that may not even be true. What's true is that I love split pea soup. And even now as I think of buttery, salty, mushy peas, I'm thinking they're not all that bad. But I have this story that keeps me from ever finding out for sure. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The unfounded stories and "lies" we tell ourselves are not absolute. What was true at five isn't necessarily true at 55. And we can just as easily continue stories about things we like or do well long past their expiration date, as we can stories about what we don't like or can't do. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And what does all of this have to do with Jesus rising from the dead? In every moment of every day of every year of our life, we have an opportunity to be reborn. Somewhere along the line, the atheist inside me died and was reborn as a very spiritual person. The self-conscious, woman was reborn as confident. The fat girl was reborn as a hottie. Then the hottie was reborn as fat again...haha. Nothing is absolute. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Our stories often exist only to limit us. And sure, we all have limitations. But our limitations aren't nearly as broad as we make them out to be. Just because we're getting older doesn't mean we have to turn into our mothers. Just because we have a physical or mental handicap doesn't mean we can't be agile. And just because we're not good at something doesn't mean we can't pursue it as a hobby or even a career. Those things are stories. Most of the REAL limitations we have are things we don't even care about. Like I will never play for the NFL. Cry me a river. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Other things, when you really look at them, just aren't true. Like I might tell myself I'll never have children (in reality, I actually don't want children, so this is a hypothetical) but that wouldn't be true. I could adopt. I could end up in a relationship with someone with children. A child might land on my doorstep from some unforeseen source (hey, it happened with Moses, right?). So just because I'm past child-bearing age is no guarantee I will never have children. God forbid. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So rebirth isn't just a story you read about in ancient texts. When I think back over my life, I don't even recognize the woman I was at 20...30...40. I feel like I've been reborn, reinterpreted and resurrected countless times in my life. And while we're on the topic of Jesus, being "born again" isn't just for Christians. It's for everyone. And doing so is not "difficult", unless that's the story you're telling yourself. It's just an intention away. </span><br />
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Tierney Sadlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508037058967261204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1627357967936193401.post-77497422757398966172018-11-25T18:03:00.005-05:002018-11-25T18:03:30.177-05:0011/26/18—Letting the Light In<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">While some came at the hands of age/time/maturity, most of the big leaps came in the midst or aftermath of struggle or adversity. I’ve been thinking about why this is. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">For me, there are a number of reasons. Sometimes we see a repeating pattern in our lives and, at some point, the consequences of continuing on get kind of bad and we know the universe will just keep upping the ante until we learn our lesson. And sometimes crisis shocks us into recognizing that some behavior—or some aspect of our personality that we hadn’t recognized before—isn’t working for us and we need a change. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Some of the more game-changing shifts, however have come in the midst of some of my biggest crises and I surprised even myself with the leaps I’d made. They came in times of great loss or personal challenge. And I think I've pinpointed why this is, at least for me. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Some moments in life are so jarring, we’re shocked out of our routines. We’re in crisis. Life is seen through a different perspective. We’re broken. We don’t have the strength or wherewithal to focus on maintaining our defenses. We’re cracked open. And those cracks let in both light and darkness. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In those times, we look toward either the light or the dark. But if we don’t look toward the light, the cracks will grow larger and larger or they’ll crack and re-crack until we can’t ignore the light. Sometimes that takes decades. Most of the time, the shifts happen quickly, though. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When my father was murdered, for example, I didn’t have the energy to both hate and deal with the surreal circumstances of his death. So I made a leap in my ability to forgive. Another lesson I learned then wasn’t quite as high-minded. It was the lesson of how alone we are as individuals. Surrounded by the insanity of the situation, the differing emotional journeys of others, the dearth of precedent (in that I have never, outside of my siblings, met anyone else whose stepmother was a black widow) and the fact that the systems we rely upon for justice aren’t always just or fair, you definitely go home at night and realize that, while you might have support, sympathy and people who love you, you are nonetheless alone. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Some slip into the darkness in situations like that. After all, the darkness is all around you and you’re mourning and dealing with whatever you’re dealing with. Emotions like anger, revenge and hate bubble up and keep acceptance and letting go at bay. For some reason, I was blessed with a spiritual awakening and some big insights that changed the course of my life for the better at that time. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">All I can sense about why that is is that, with all my defenses stripped and weakened, I couldn’t take on any more darkness. And also, the more that's asked of me, the more I generally deliver. This was a large order and with the stuff in front of me I HAD to deal with, I didn't have much energy left to feed darkness and let it grow. So the same circumstances that may have shocked others into anger and hate, shocked me into a kind of understanding and forgiveness. It's like a switch turned on inside me that brought me clarity. A divine insight that couldn't have breached my defenses and gotten through so quickly under any other circumstances. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I noticed the same thing when I was sick. At times when I would normally protect and defend myself, I found myself making different choices, grounded in forgiveness and acceptance. Many (but not all) things seemed to just flow off my back. In some ways, I had enough fear to manage not knowing what was wrong with me or if I was going to be able to function tomorrow, that I didn’t indulge other fears so much. And interestingly, as I’ve gotten stronger and healthier, I’ve backpedaled a little on some that growth...haha. Things piss me off a little more now. But still when I look back, the net result is significant growth. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I can't say bad things happen to us so that we grow. I struggle with what things may or may not be fated to happen…or come “at the hands of god” or are karma or any of the other mystical reasons we assign. But I am certain bad things present an opportunity for us to experience big growth...if we choose to look for the light that comes in through the cracks created by whatever was broken. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I think letting go is key. Letting go of wanting to control a situation out of your control. Letting go of needing to blame someone. Letting of wanting to fight back. Letting go of wanting to displace your anger. Letting go of fear. Letting go of denial </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Like I said, I find this more possible the more severe the “crisis” is. So I’ll be less generous of heart to, say, a stranger who stole my parking space as I’ll be to a stranger who stole my wallet. Go figure. And, again, some of the letting go just comes with age, for much the same reason—we no longer have the energy to put toward the kind of emotions that drain us. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So there's something here to consider if you're in the midst of a situation like this. </span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There is no shame in letting go or forgiving. It’s not a betrayal to the deceased, it’s not a matter of principle, it doesn't give anyone the permission to hurt you again and holding on is not what god or any caring human would want for you. Not when it’s painful or toxic. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">What's important is to take care of yourself. And sometimes we need to indulge ourselves in the darkness, at least for a little while. But remember we can choose differently at any time and turn our darkest moments into something triumphant and beautiful—a last gift left behind by someone who passed or the light at the end of the tunnel in a bad divorce or a valuable lesson that prevents you from being taken advantage of in the future, whatever the situation may be in your life. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There is no shame in finding light within the darkness. And some of the moments in which you feel most vulnerable, actually hold the greatest power for change. </span></span>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>Tierney Sadlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508037058967261204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1627357967936193401.post-78720209578720384052018-11-18T17:25:00.000-05:002018-11-18T17:37:12.841-05:0011/19/18—Feeling The Fourth Season<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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They say you have to go through four seasons of grieving before you can move on.<br />
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Of course, that doesn't mean you necessarily "get over" things after four seasons. And it also doesn't mean the thing you get over is the death of a person. There are many things in life to grieve.<br />
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But let's say you broke up with your lover of five years. You were going to get married, but it all fell apart. Even if you enter into another relationship soon thereafter, a spring breeze will remind you of that camping trip you took together. A hot summer's day will transport you back to that time you tubed down a river. Fall's leaves will inspire memories of a romantic night enjoying a fire outside. Winter's cold will comjure that time you got snowed in together. And all the memories will be bittersweet. All the memories will stab you that place that was once so comfortable and right.<br />
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The seasons and temperatures and breezes and sounds and other mnemonic triggers help you tap into what you've left behind. So you have to go through all of them before you can truly move on.<br />
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The same is true, even if you're leaving unpleasant things behind. Last year at this time was the last time I was able to go grocery shopping. I'd been having a hard time getting around the store for a while, but the Thanksgiving shop was nearly the death of me. Literally. I kept looking for a place to sit and rest and couldn't find one. I was covered in sweat. Completely out of breath. Weak. Exhausted. It was a bad scene. When I finally made it back to my car, I sat there and cried, wondering how I'd get the groceries into my house. Worried about how I'd get groceries—or go to any store—in the future. Blaming myself somehow for this physical hole I'd gotten into, because all the doctors seemed think my issue wasn't medical.<br />
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As winter approaches, I worry that my memories of last winter may taint the season's status as my favorite. All three times I was taken by 911 last year occurred in the bitter cold, late at night. It was cold and snowy through all three hospital stays and snowed during my weeklong nightmare in rehab. From November through April, there wasn't a night I went to sleep that I wasn't worried about dying or having an emergency. I had PTSD about all of it for months after my valve replacement...all the years of suffering, all the fear, all the misdiagnoses, all the being told I just needed to lose weight, all the close calls, all the hopelessness, all the suicidal thoughts and all the mistreatment in that rehab.<br />
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Winter last year was the absolute worst time of my life. Worse than the winter my mother slowly died before our eyes. Worse than the late fall my father's murderer was acquitted. Worse than the winter we learned my brother had lung cancer. Worse than everything.<br />
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And now I brace myself for what this year's bitter cold days will trigger. Will a picturesque snowstorm remind me of feeling trapped in that rehab with caregivers who steal my pills and won't give me my pain meds? Will feeling extra cold remind me of being laced into a gurney with just a cotton sheet over me as I struggle to breathe? Will a late season light snow remind me of being rushed to Arlington, lights flashing, on the anniversary of my farther's death, hoping it wouldn't be mine, too?<br />
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At least one person in my life will say, "Tierney, why do you put yourself through this?" First, I can't control spontaneous thoughts that creep into my mind. I can choose not to acknowledge or indulge them, yes. That is commonly referred to as denial. The four seasons theory suggests that I have to experience those feelings as they come naturally in order to move through them. That makes sense to me.<br />
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You wouldn't expect someone to just forget about a past love, a deceased loved one, a divorce or other major life change. Those are things you have to feel your way through. And so is this. By next spring, my memories will be of the return of hope. But there is darkness to go through before I get there.<br />
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And, for me, this isn't about major surgery. It's about the years of decline I suffered. And the medical neglect from doctors. And the head job they did on me, making me doubt what I knew to be true about my health. And the feelings of being alone in this. And the way the walls of my life closed in on me. And the debt I've incurred. And the many thoughts I've had about rather dying than continuing to endure. And all the times I threw up or was too drugged and weak to function. And how I had to go back to work immediately just to earn money.<br />
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I can be grateful about the resolution and all the good care I had during that time, the way certain people came through for me and the way I feel now. I can be grateful for myself at the same as I'm grieving for myself. I've had many gifts come from this experience. I <i>could</i> focus only on that, but I need to heal the other part. So I have to focus on that, too.<br />
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So, here I sit in my favorite time of the year, at once excited and intimidated by it. In one way of thinking, I have a new body and have to experience the changes physically, too, as the seasons progress. I can already tell you my feet get colder faster than they have in years. Same with my body. The inflammation I had for so many years from the faulty valve seems to have kept me warm. So I'm appreciating socks more than ever before. There's that...haha.<br />
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Usually when I dread something it turns out to be less of an issue than I fear. Maybe by this time next year, I'll be remembering the breakthrough that came this winter as a result of all my past suffering and fear and I can share that with you instead. Let's hope that's the case! :)<br />
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Maybe 10 years ago or so, I drove past a farmer's field that was smoking from a recent fire. I had never seen this before, so I thought something tragic had happened. But then a few miles down the road, I saw another burned out field. And another. This was the first time I realized that farmers occasionally burn fields to kill all the old growth and weeds. Then, I suppose, they turn the soil and plant something new. It's like a clean slate. A field that used to grow soybeans can now grow corn. </div>
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The same concept is used by nature. Forest fires, for example, are actually necessary to keeping the forest healthy. Too much vegetation can prevent seeds from germinating, stopping the growth of new trees—and thus endangering the generational growth cycle. Also, the denser the forest, the hotter it burns and the more destructive the fire becomes. So occasional fires in the forest are mother nature's form of self-care and even damage control, keeping the forest at a healthy density. </div>
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Usually when we see a Ten of Wands, it's depicting someone so overwhelmed, burdened or oppressed that they can't move. They feel trapped in the fire with no way out. Whether it's work or financial matters, family or relationships, we all feel that way at one time or another. Then once the flames subside, whether we wanted it or not, we're left with a fresh slate upon which to write. </div>
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Over the past year, I have been caught a couple of times with fires burning all around me. And the ash they've left behind has exposed some things still left standing that no longer have a place in my life (along with a number of good things I want to keep). Some of them are the things I've written about here...attitudes toward others and the way I handle my own self care. But there are other things I haven't spoken so much about...thoughts about how I spend my time, who I call friend and where my energies have been misguided. </div>
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Sometimes fires happen to you. And sometimes you set them yourself, clearing what no longer serves to make space for new growth and a more evolved life.<br />
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As a new year begins to come into focus, there are a few places in my life I feel a need to douse in gasoline and set ablaze to continue to move forward in my life. Anyone else out there need a light?</div>
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Tierney Sadlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508037058967261204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1627357967936193401.post-24148569385491240592018-10-28T17:43:00.003-04:002018-10-28T18:02:01.472-04:0010/29/18—Contemplating The Tree<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm3qjq4QZMXm2fPC31A1yvQKopYurcy3S30GhuReiFA-L7msWh_amBGv9WSmtxtYGNZqfdr9rqpLt6pr3UzqWUim_bvMrvD5UtK-VJitxtXhtcj_6uT9pk6q7LfvNCARpKoOlvffMsFXA/s1600/Tree+New+Life+-+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm3qjq4QZMXm2fPC31A1yvQKopYurcy3S30GhuReiFA-L7msWh_amBGv9WSmtxtYGNZqfdr9rqpLt6pr3UzqWUim_bvMrvD5UtK-VJitxtXhtcj_6uT9pk6q7LfvNCARpKoOlvffMsFXA/s320/Tree+New+Life+-+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Back in 2015, one of my big dramas was <a href="http://www.tierneysadler.com/2015/11/111615cutting-tree.html">the decision to cut down the tree in my back yard</a>. I could have cut it down to a tiny stump, but decided, instead, to cut it into the shape of a "tree god", complete with a face I faux painted to match the tree. His arms are eternally reaching upward, summoning spirits to the backyard, like the lady who materializes in my backyard fires and the cardinal that chirps my name (see image and video below).</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Fact is, the tree had been a danger for many years. The limbs overhung three yards and two roofs and I worried about it with every passing storm. Though it kept growing fiercely, it also seemed to deteriorate at the same pace. As you can see from the picture on the left, it tried to regenerate by pumping out new growth. But the picture below reveals that, in the past year or two, it has given up entirely. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKBA4idFrULk3c6G3Lb0ff5CelxJ_NoWtdn91BnTqkbPQ33Pu_5RQySeZh8a1awLz8OkoD0ZWGXQqWpHvC2lIJB0khCHoAy-iDl4cpZjn5Gqjr_xphGmnOxMCgZs6i6b18_XJO-eAjxK4/s1600/tree+shedding+bark+-+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKBA4idFrULk3c6G3Lb0ff5CelxJ_NoWtdn91BnTqkbPQ33Pu_5RQySeZh8a1awLz8OkoD0ZWGXQqWpHvC2lIJB0khCHoAy-iDl4cpZjn5Gqjr_xphGmnOxMCgZs6i6b18_XJO-eAjxK4/s320/tree+shedding+bark+-+1.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Tree in decay, losing its bark.</span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">As I said, I cut it down because it was dying. So it's probably dying because it's dying. But I can't help but look at the deterioration in the past year and wonder if it's dying because the energy around it—energy from me and my thoughts and from the many birds that have drilled holes into the tree to create homes—says it's dying. I wonder if it's dying because it has come to believe it's dying. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Most mornings I'll go out back and sit and will inevitably contemplate the tree. The dogs like being outside better when I'm out there with them, so I'll go to make sure they do all their morning business. If I didn't go, they would pee and rush back in to me, having not gone on the lengthy hunt for the perfect poopy spot. It behooves us all to get that done before I dig my nose into my writing for the day. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">So I'll contemplate the tree and wonder if it has voluntarily given up on life because everyone believes it is dying. Or I'll wonder if it's just coincidence that the tree's decay began just as my decay ended. And I'll ask myself what I believe to be true about my own situation. I know that when I believed I was dying, I was. And when I believed I was "cured", I was. Of course there was medical intervention to create that change, so it wasn't all in my head. But there have been other, more subtle thoughts—Do I believe I'm worth fighting for, or do I want to give up an succumb to my darker fears?—that the tree has inspired me to consider, too. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Right now I'm seeing the tree shedding its outer layer and becoming something different. I'm on that journey, too. For both of us, it's an inevitable evolutionary step. Gone are the familiar, uniform brushstrokes of bark and they're being replaced by long streaks of unpredictable form and color. Those streaks have been in there, forming, all along. But they've only had the wherewithal to show themselves recently...after both of us came to terms with death and our own transformational rebirth. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu-jEpDidTGxpeveZNL1uzm7CJkCQC5NbqiRbbp4PRPghlLiOH1bJhAngMFsRDZvApvi_B__K1O5bT3ohNyutDabJq3KzHqUgXQaQNnKNCTiQMSZ6lCHDoYehcgE7BQFGAe8vKsqX1jiE/s1600/lady+in+smoke.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1600" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu-jEpDidTGxpeveZNL1uzm7CJkCQC5NbqiRbbp4PRPghlLiOH1bJhAngMFsRDZvApvi_B__K1O5bT3ohNyutDabJq3KzHqUgXQaQNnKNCTiQMSZ6lCHDoYehcgE7BQFGAe8vKsqX1jiE/s320/lady+in+smoke.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Click on the image to make it larger. <br />Do you see the lady gazing at the camera, chin resting on <br />her hands? She is in the smoke to the left of the flame. </span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Is this change the sign of the real tree god coming out? Or is the god falling apart, having long lost all that once made him powerful? I'm thinking that, in my own case, it's the former. Which is actually the scarier option. Dying and decaying don't really take much effort. But bringing out a powerful part of you that never saw the light—or saw the light so long ago it's a distant memory—requires you to engage actively in your own fate. And that's some scary shit, especially after being dormant for so long. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The universe got so tired of waiting for me to voluntarily engage that it is forcing me to step into the light and leave my comfort zone. Well, I still have a choice, but I know I have to choose to leave my comfort zone. Fate seems determined to not only change the course of my health this year, but that of my work, family and social lives. Like the tree god, I lifted my arms and summoned change and now I've got it. I thought it would come in slower and more gently, but it's not. I'm almost afraid to ask for anything more from the universe, because it is delivering so quickly and surely these days. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">So these are the things I think about as I observe the stump in my back yard. Never let it be said I don't possess a talent for overthinking. :D But it does beg the question—What do you think about yourself and how is that manifesting in your life? And, if that perspective were to change, what kind of change would that create in your own life? Personally, I'm never "ready" to tackle change, so I'm glad change has come to tackle me. What about you?</span></span><br />
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<br />Tierney Sadlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508037058967261204noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1627357967936193401.post-16105467008619625942018-10-21T18:31:00.004-04:002018-10-21T18:31:49.435-04:0010/22/18—Asking A Sasquatch Out To Lunch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBx5kcBhfKjy73x0lCl3730jfKBb7d1hny0ZjA8debIVHgcl2RCXs5_yEWiN3FKqF1JIdg_EqxJwDwd9JhqBO3XVTP_ERUpozLriQ76gdq1X2mwxY5Ud_1iQ2oc66roj9Y1r2OYy568Cg/s1600/Face+Collage+copy.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBx5kcBhfKjy73x0lCl3730jfKBb7d1hny0ZjA8debIVHgcl2RCXs5_yEWiN3FKqF1JIdg_EqxJwDwd9JhqBO3XVTP_ERUpozLriQ76gdq1X2mwxY5Ud_1iQ2oc66roj9Y1r2OYy568Cg/s1600/Face+Collage+copy.jpg" width="300" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I
have this weird thing. I don't seem remember much about who I was in
the past. It's like I'm totally detached from previous iterations of
myself and I don't even feel like past "mes" were me at all.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There
may be something deep and psychological to this. Or maybe everyone
feels that way. But when I look into the eyes of the girls in this
picture I know they all look like me, but I'm not sure I can say who
they were. I just know I'm a very different person now. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">They
all liked to write. They all had a sense of humor. And they were all on
a journey of self discovery. But to one degree or another, I was always
working to leave a part of them behind me where I would never have to
look at it again. That's what growth is in many ways...a constant
shedding of skin in search of the ever more luminous iterations of "me"
hoping to reach the surface. Or maybe that's exfoliation. I'm not sure.
:D Because, like exfoliation, the minute your "new skin" reaches the
surface, it begins on a course of death and flakiness until it, itself,
is shed. Just exposing it to the world to interact with outside forces
sends it careening into certain obsolescence. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The
girl in the top row was really just trying to figure out who she was.
The woman in the middle row...she's not someone I liked so much. She
fell into a superficial trap and cared more about how others viewed her
than how she viewed herself. The woman on the bottom row, well she's
more like the woman I am today. Still searching. But looking more inside
herself for the things she needs to be happy, rather than outside of
herself.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Still,
it bothers me in some ways that I can't identify with any of those
women, not even the most recent—the one in the sparkly fortune teller's
turban in the lower right hand corner. None of them seem to have
captured the essence of me, not in photos or in reality.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Back
in the days of the middle row, I used to feel like there was a "me
inside of me" that was curled up in the fetal position, crying. Sad, I
know. She would mostly come out at night, in the quiet moments as I lay
down to sleep. She used to really bother me, because she felt trapped
and I didn't know how to let her out. So I ignored her for years.
Pretended she wasn't there. Those last two girls in the top row used to
feel like her sometimes. It's like I swallowed them up and contained
them within a new, shinier container, thinking it would make the pain go
away. And it seemed to. For a while.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I
did eventually make peace with her, though. I had to. She became to
pained to ignore. So I nurtured her. I stopped a lot of negative self
talk. I got rid of toxic and abusive people in my life. I learned how to
handle my fears. And today the me inside of me is uncurled and living
peacefully within me. But I still feel like she's captive to a
degree...silent, content, but hoping to feel the air on her skin just
once before she dies. She hasn't been fully integrated yet. She's just
led by a kinder master.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Sometimes
I wonder if "the real me" or the "authentic me" is elusive like a
Sasquatch. You might catch glimpses of it, but you can never quite meet
it head-on and ask it out to tea. No matter how times I've felt like
I've finally reached my authentic self, I shed my skin again and that
woman is lost to history. But with each layer shed and with each new
iteration, I do feel like I understand my true self better. That "me
inside of me" seems to fill out my skin more and more over the years.
And I come more to peace with what I find inside of me, which brings me
more to peace with the people and situation I find outside of me as
well. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I
think we've been led to believe that "our true self" or our "authentic
self" is a destination that we reach one day when we have amassed a lot
of wisdom. But I'm coming more and more to believe that it doesn't
exist. I think "authenticity" is more like a continually evolving
journey. Sure, there's a core to us that remains constant throughout our
lives. But that core is surrounded by a continually changing and
evolving ether that, like quicksilver, is difficult to hold or contain.
And I'm good with that. It makes life interesting. And I'm certain that
if I ever stopped seeking—if there is a destination to ultimately
reach—then life would lose its purpose. I've invested too much in this
journey to ever be satisfied by reaching its end. </span>Tierney Sadlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508037058967261204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1627357967936193401.post-9125860170425583342018-10-14T17:41:00.001-04:002018-10-14T17:41:19.582-04:0010/15/18—Letting Go<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyeH2KfWGc7eXb2L17YsDZpCRvPaZfyJyiYv8KQkvAmqrdb7b4ox62n31JB3ecbpN5qqwYDYDc3YmW2_XemxXfWbFf3Tu9vL6VX05axy3nXyXa060ACyM1tham_CL2fHJXzlAaskz27A8/s1600/6209734716_88e1482ece_m.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyeH2KfWGc7eXb2L17YsDZpCRvPaZfyJyiYv8KQkvAmqrdb7b4ox62n31JB3ecbpN5qqwYDYDc3YmW2_XemxXfWbFf3Tu9vL6VX05axy3nXyXa060ACyM1tham_CL2fHJXzlAaskz27A8/s400/6209734716_88e1482ece_m.jpg" width="268" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">A. Reaves Photography</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Spirituality. Personal growth. Oneness. Transcendence. All the stuff we talk about on this blog comes from one thing. Letting go. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Now, granted, it's far more complex than that. But pretty much everything you want to achieve, can be achieved by letting go.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Say, for example, you want to become a published writer. The list of things you have to let go of could include fear, excuses, limited ideas of what you can be, a relaxed work ethic, some outdated definition of who you are, naysayers, expectations...the list could go on and on. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If you want to change a thought, you have to let go of the old thought. If you want to open your heart, you have to let go of the fortress you've built around it. If you want to be at one with others, you have to let go of the notion you're in any way different from them. If you want to move closer to god, you have to let go of needing to "know" and just trust. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If there is something eluding you in your life right now, ask yourself what you have to let go of. There is something you're holding on to—an attitude, dream, goal, outdated notion, belief, emotion, stubbornness, resistance, fear, concern, excuse, knee-jerk reaction, insecurity, thought pattern, paranoia—something. Of course, you have to be self aware enough—and honest enough—to recognize the things you're holding on to in the first place. Ultimately, the only thing that ever stands between us and the things we want out of life is ourselves. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If you've ever had a massage, meditated, practiced yoga or done any sort of relaxation exercise, then you know that your body holds on to tension in places you didn't realize. And you also know how hard it can be to let go of certain muscles...or to even know if you've let go of them...or to even know those muscles are there. Then, when you're "fully relaxed", you find another level of holding on beneath that. And you loosen that. And then, eventually, you're satisfied you're fully relaxed, even if momentarily.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This is the same process that happens on our personal journeys of growth. The more you let go of the muscle of the ego, the tighter wound you realize it is and the more places you see you're holding on that you never knew existed. And then, if it's even possible to reach a place where you think you've fully let go, you become conscious of a whole other nuance of holding on that you never knew existed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If you're angry with someone, you're holding on. If you're sad or lonely, you're holding on. If you're stressed, you're holding on. If you're pursuing a goal, you're holding on. Even if you're happy, you're holding on. In fact, if you're alive and conscious, you're holding on...haha. Even monks hold on to their practice and devotion. We get glimpses of letting go, but we can't stay there, partly because trying to stay there would be holding on and partly because our journey on earth counts on us holding on to something. Holding on is our gravity. It's what keeps us tethered to this reality. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As you begin a practice of self awareness and letting go, you also begin to see what's working for you as far as attachments go. A wise friend once told me "move toward that which makes you feel larger" and that principle applies here. If something is keeping you stuck or making you feel small, it's time to let go. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">For a different perspective, Buddhism believes that attachment is greatest source of suffering amongst humans. They define attachment as seeing the thing you're attaching to as separate from yourself. In their way of seeing things, it's possible to transcend attachments by being united with all things. So, in that way of thinking, letting go is actually the opposite of non-attachment. In non-attachment, there is nothing to let go of because there is unity in all things. In essence, you let go of your resistance to accepting this thing into your being. So that's another perspective on the situation. It doesn't make our journey as spiritual seekers any easier, though. It's just as hard to come to a place of non-attachment with something as it is to let go of it. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I estimate that some of my letting go is letting go and some of it is non-attachment. I know that the more I understand and embody something, the less impact it has on me. And I also know that I frequently feel like I'm fighting upstream with some struggles and I often visualize letting go and letting the current take me...surrendering to it. Two sides of the same coin, really. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">For the vast majority of us, there's never going to come a day when we'll be here on earth without having countless attachments or things to hold on to. But we can lighten our loads, which is what the spiritual journey is about. It's about being as clear a channel as possible to transcend suffering or to receive and transmit grace, God's light, universal energy, the goddess...whatever speaks to you. Whatever your beliefs, however, the path to God or happiness or whatever you're trying to reach, can never be found by reaching toward something outside of you. It can only be found by clearing a pathway toward it within. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>Tierney Sadlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508037058967261204noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1627357967936193401.post-50706909989106077642018-10-07T17:02:00.002-04:002018-10-07T17:04:27.501-04:0010/8/18—Passing Trauma Along<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9EATF04l_IcDhF_LfDoPEas2RACh0CXjdOcwkRZIcO3rYMf84KblPn5Mb_Qdq1Dy9pg4Hwt79YPCV6GN4jKSBW7Sf8oubu7M_8aJL1pYNJvLI8RogQ43MbKExwjtqUrDF1Wl9RAFGrRE/s1600/Momnthebaby.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1126" data-original-width="1600" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9EATF04l_IcDhF_LfDoPEas2RACh0CXjdOcwkRZIcO3rYMf84KblPn5Mb_Qdq1Dy9pg4Hwt79YPCV6GN4jKSBW7Sf8oubu7M_8aJL1pYNJvLI8RogQ43MbKExwjtqUrDF1Wl9RAFGrRE/s400/Momnthebaby.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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My mom went to her grave with a secret.<br />
<br />
Well, <a href="http://www.tierneysadler.com/2014/05/51214remembering-mom-on-mothers-day.html">knowing my mom</a>, there <a href="http://www.tierneysadler.com/2016/04/42516keeping-something-for-yourself.html">might have been many secrets</a>. But this one was big. She never told her children she was sexually abused by their grandfather. She may not have even told my father. If she did, he brought it to his grave, too.<br />
<br />
So how do we know? It's really just an educated guess. But to begin with, from time to time she would talk about her younger sister, who was sexually abused by him. She would allude her brothers were abused by him, too. So you gotta wonder—if he abused all of them, how did she get by without it happening to her? As the oldest, it probably happened to her first.<br />
<br />
She also hated my grandfather. I never met him. I never even knew his name. He was officially known as "that bastard". We know a lot of her hate comes from him cheating on her mother and leaving her mother alone to care for five children in the midst of WWII England. That makes sense until you realize she really didn't like her mother, either. One of her complaints about her mother is that she didn't respond the way a mother should respond when she found out about "her sister's" abuse. Most of the other complaints had to do with how her mother enabled "the bastard" in various ways.<br />
<br />
I remember as a young child of maybe 8 or 9, my mother got a phone call. When she hung up, she walked past me and I heard her say, "Thank god that bastard is finally dead" and then she went about her day.<br />
<br />
Beyond that, my sister says she remembers her saying, "If any man touches you, even if it's your father, you tell me and I'll believe you." Which is an odd thing to say, considering that my father wasn't anything like that. There were a lot of little mentions about protecting oneself from men, most of which I found normal. Moms warn children. But there was an energy or vibe behind it that made it a little less normal.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.tierneysadler.com/2016/10/101716putting-assault-in-its-place.html">I have blogged about my own sexual assaults before.</a> Not to minimize those episodes, but they were nowhere close to what most women experience. I think I can confidently say that the sexual assault that most marked my life was the never-spoken assault of my mother. It colored so much of my life. It sounds silly to say, but I have often felt my weight issues were much like that of a victim of sexual assault...protection from men. I've asked my older siblings, just in case I don't remember. I wasn't assaulted as a child. I believe I somehow absorbed my mother's trauma to that degree. But if not to that degree, it has certainly impacted my life. I also feel I've absorbed some shame from her, too.<br />
<br />
On the other hand, to my knowledge, neither of my sisters have been seriously sexually assaulted either. A lot of women lose their naivete and trust around men through sexual assault. Our naivete and trust, to a certain degree, was bred out of us. So we weren't trusting enough to put ourselves in certain situations with men. Not that it couldn't have happened anyway, but we had a leg up on other girls who weren't impacted by a mother determined to protect us from her own fate.<br />
<br />
Lately, we've been talking a lot about how sexual assault impacts a woman's life. But the reason I'm writing this blog today is because it also impacts the lives of her children, too, creating behaviors, attitudes and defenses they pass down to their children. And so on. This probably also works in reverse, too, creating sexual abusers from men who were abused or boys who emulate their abusive father's misogyny.<br />
<br />
In the past couple of years, the blatant misogyny and "let's not ruin a good man's life" attitude of our lawmakers has brought a lot out in the open. But don't misunderstand: Men are not the victims here. They created this for themselves and perpetuated it since the first caveman took liberties with the first cavewoman. This legacy is a birthright entitled young men claim without any care of what it does to their sisters, brothers, sons and daughters. Without any sense of what a cancer it is on our world.<br />
<br />
I don't have any answers here. I can say, "This has to stop." I can even say it emphatically. But I have clues as to what will stop it. It is bred in. Certainly, consequences for entitled white dudes will help. It feels like we're on the cusp of that actually happening in our society. But then it will still take generations to heal. After 150 years, black people are still healing from the generational impacts of slavery at the hands of racist, sadistic white people. And until the white people stop it with their sadism and racism, the black people can't fully heal. Because it's still happening. Same thing with this.<br />
<br />
The answer lies with men. The men who do this crap often find themselves with women who hate women...women who agree they are secondary to a man's wishes. So picketing with our vaginas won't work. Since we can only bring consequences with our vote and voice, we need to come out of the darkness, which we're doing. We need to heal ourselves for ourselves, regardless of whether or not men heal and evolve. We need to stop fearing men. Because the only way to help heal our daughters is to heal ourselves first. And we must raise our voices, as is happening in elections across the country.<br />
<br />
One of the things I learned from my mother, who was ahead of her time in this regard, is that equality isn't something you wait on being given. It's something you assume in every move you make. It doesn't matter if men let you. What matters is that they have no choice. We need, as a sex, to stop assuming "the weaker sex" role. Fact is we are not the weaker sex, because the weakest person in any room is the one who doubts himself. That's not a male/female thing. They want it to be a male/female thing. We've been socialized to believe it's a male/female thing. But it's not.<br />
<br />
Assault is about domination and control. It's about fearful, insecure, misogynistic men who need to dominate and control women to feel right about themselves. Certainly, most men are physically stronger than most women. That gives them a leg up. But the fact that women don't want to hurt or offend or make too much noise makes it easier for us to be dominated in other ways. The fact that we hope equality will be afforded to us, instead of just being equal, makes it easier for them.<br />
<br />
These men need consequences. Women need to stop holding in the pain and shame, thereby protecting their aggressors, whether they speak up 5 minutes or 5 years later. We need to stop enabling them. And we need to stop trying to keep the peace and be nice. Which is not to say it's our fault. It's not. But there is more we can do to make domination and control less worth their while. The roots of their need to dominate and control lie in fear. Let's give them something to fear.Tierney Sadlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508037058967261204noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1627357967936193401.post-9788377544365161912018-09-30T16:44:00.001-04:002018-09-30T16:44:05.668-04:0010/1/18—Growing Miracles<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi4dAZOUVeH-TN4EzrudjxCHIoS1avGfwaphpvEF1lFOE13PSM1NXxDknGuMO62HhYrnGfp0R92h5otQE2Po1FQbBRrW9KnMCjRsvCmigUmgG-5GpMBouh-qavKPKLhfXQjCbFfsW13kU/s1600/lemons+-+1.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi4dAZOUVeH-TN4EzrudjxCHIoS1avGfwaphpvEF1lFOE13PSM1NXxDknGuMO62HhYrnGfp0R92h5otQE2Po1FQbBRrW9KnMCjRsvCmigUmgG-5GpMBouh-qavKPKLhfXQjCbFfsW13kU/s400/lemons+-+1.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Lemon Tree, very pretty and the lemon flower is sweet. </span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Miracles happen every day on my back deck. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span> <span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">For the past two weeks, I have been watching in awe as the green "grenades" on my lemon tree have turned to yellow. I have five of them this year, a bumper crop. Way more than I would expect from the rather small potted tree that I drag inside every winter.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span> <span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I'm assuming it's a normal thing, but it loses its leaves every year and grows them back immediately. It blooms into fragrant flowers. And some of those flowers turn into lemons. The tree itself is pretty much exactly the same size as it was when I bought it 8 years ago. It doesn't seem to grow. It just regenerates over and over again. And, holy crap, I have lemons growing on my back deck! REAL LEMONS!!!</span></span><br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxKFIOZ8PbRWVcv-Cy37FnZ2TXVNjF1MJsUWycR5lzNn_gI7zln2tq8TEwEgdLY9iHEftk8taDLLJqHsIUIC40Bfy9wlnOSiVqkqAGNQie_lr0U9rMlFmhBV6z0ufnvxTrn1vHUPFOTpc/s1600/patchouli+-+1.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxKFIOZ8PbRWVcv-Cy37FnZ2TXVNjF1MJsUWycR5lzNn_gI7zln2tq8TEwEgdLY9iHEftk8taDLLJqHsIUIC40Bfy9wlnOSiVqkqAGNQie_lr0U9rMlFmhBV6z0ufnvxTrn1vHUPFOTpc/s200/patchouli+-+1.jpg" width="150" /></a></span></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Patchouli smells like patchouli.</span></span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I know what you're thinking: "Yes, Tierney. That's what lemon trees do. It's how all lemons are made." I don't care. When you make something like that happen yourself, it seems like a freaking miracle. I buy my food. I don't raise it. But next week I will have the need for a lemon and I'll go and pluck one from my tree and it will be incredibly miraculous and gratifying. It's not something that happens easily and automatically like a chive. It's a freaking lemon! </span></span><br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1WtH1-Rrk24DqXlOknzfCBWeZiJpYrLQIQT2sbGlkkQ5ofMpg0M8B2mlkB2dkhemTzINWlmeMOTjzbyMEPTcMrdW7EADbMMl-ounHo4XxnJRZEPfXsh91v35vKGt7c6VZPkekMWWBE_M/s1600/steviaparsleymint+-+1.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1WtH1-Rrk24DqXlOknzfCBWeZiJpYrLQIQT2sbGlkkQ5ofMpg0M8B2mlkB2dkhemTzINWlmeMOTjzbyMEPTcMrdW7EADbMMl-ounHo4XxnJRZEPfXsh91v35vKGt7c6VZPkekMWWBE_M/s200/steviaparsleymint+-+1.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Stevia, parsley and mint.</span></span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">My herb garden is pretty nice. I think I counted 25 different herbs out there one time. I have multiple kinds of mint, which always amazes me because it smells and tastes just like mint! In fact, I've had container herbs for 20 years and some things never get old:</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicHSerff9GLdbMz7x8wApnAFfNLruitX22YzZGBz6p9RE9k73KKw7sJSgHNL1odmlmEbBViPb7t-KWjmMnMwvoyocDdNVfeHWL5OQFXG1xnCrLOJ4hQvv7j-1Zba3O5x2_KIngrYozLqc/s1600/aloe+-+1.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicHSerff9GLdbMz7x8wApnAFfNLruitX22YzZGBz6p9RE9k73KKw7sJSgHNL1odmlmEbBViPb7t-KWjmMnMwvoyocDdNVfeHWL5OQFXG1xnCrLOJ4hQvv7j-1Zba3O5x2_KIngrYozLqc/s200/aloe+-+1.jpg" width="150" /></a></span></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Aloe grows so big.</span></span></span></td></tr>
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<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Patchouli, which I grow for fun and to combine with the white sage I grow in smudge sticks, smells just like patchouli. I don't know what else I expect, but the plant smells exactly like the perfume. It freaks me out every time. </span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Stevia is sweet as can be in plant form. Biting into a stevia leaf is like eating candy. There is a huge burst of sweet in your mouth. A green plant! Sweeter than sugar!</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Aloe, which used to be in a tiny seedling container, grows insanely fast and out of proportion to its container when you repot it in something larger. Most plants would die in a small container for so long because of their roots. And they would need very frequent watering. But aloe is "set it and forget it" and it thrives. Each time I look at it, it's larger than the time before. </span></span></li>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixyMx8qWE1BbKTaZ-HbkcSy7vNTEyFgYFpBPdXMYW6z_Fd2TMDV1yZbTjukD20OlbsYN1XkcljJQDKH0Cu-ccGwpseRBlEgnOfXuYsVFUUgt8ZoUkaEwfrozrMohWicrugTFHzjflmWK0/s1600/sage+-+1.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixyMx8qWE1BbKTaZ-HbkcSy7vNTEyFgYFpBPdXMYW6z_Fd2TMDV1yZbTjukD20OlbsYN1XkcljJQDKH0Cu-ccGwpseRBlEgnOfXuYsVFUUgt8ZoUkaEwfrozrMohWicrugTFHzjflmWK0/s200/sage+-+1.jpg" width="150" /></a></span></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">White sage: DIY smudge</span></span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It's not like I'm completely naive. I've had my container garden for a long time. It consists of maybe 50 containers and more than a dozen Buddha heads to pray over them. Rosemary, thyme, chives, tomatoes, basil and parsley are the items I use most. I grow perennials and annuals. Some of the containers hold flowers. So I'm not new to the phenomenon, but it amazes me every time—nature provides, growth happens, and with only minimal tending, miracles happen. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">That last point is key. Too much attention and tending, then it's not a miracle. It's more like you made it happen regardless of nature's intent. Too little tending, and it goes wild. But when you remove the weeds that crop up, water the plants, prune effectively and respect the natural process, miracles can happen. The same that's true for lavender and strawberries is also true for you.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Look at your life. How many amazing, miraculous things have happened without you even trying? Some may have come in the form of victories and some in the form of lessons. But look at you now. If you're reading this, everything you are is a result of both divine intervention and the pruning and watering you've done thus far to get here. In my experience, the universe doesn't always bring us what we want—my lemon tree wants sun and water every, single day—but it brings us the resources we need. We do this together with nature. And that's pretty cool. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span> <span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If you just confined yourself to my back deck, you could understand our role in nature and in our own lives. We are here to live cooperatively in nature. We can plant and eat what we grow. We can tend and respect. But forcing and controlling are not natural. They are not part of the universe's ways. Better yet, if you just stand out of the way and let the universe do its thing, exerting minimal control over the processes, life will give you lemons. And lemons, my friend, are miracles. </span></span>Tierney Sadlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508037058967261204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1627357967936193401.post-57496293367062009072018-09-23T15:18:00.002-04:002018-09-23T15:18:45.097-04:009/24/18—Dreaming Bigger<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRPhIPTzRN5osI-3blRcNqpFeoYFQjniBVtMYppjQHE-zdklSE4-QmghmUazQZVuGbG0BCOBpjUaIwKEDnIGtyNTTHg5Yq_iqjn_MntdXHf7J-Msj88etNa403VqIl78IHdiDD2A9BlTo/s1600/wallpaper-733738.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1600" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRPhIPTzRN5osI-3blRcNqpFeoYFQjniBVtMYppjQHE-zdklSE4-QmghmUazQZVuGbG0BCOBpjUaIwKEDnIGtyNTTHg5Yq_iqjn_MntdXHf7J-Msj88etNa403VqIl78IHdiDD2A9BlTo/s400/wallpaper-733738.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have a secret shame. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I like to look at the real estate listings that pop up on my social media feeds. In fact, I often go on Zillow and check out homes in cities I will never even visit. I'm not in the market for a home. I just like to look at the pictures and poke my nose into other peoples' houses. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Is there some feature I envy about the home? Do I like the way the kitchen looks? What does the back yard look like? Is there a big, stone fireplace? Do I suspect it's haunted? Can I imagine living there?</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But that is not my secret shame. My secret shame is that I'll only look at houses I can afford. Intellectually, I realize how ridiculous that is. As long as I'm just playing around, why limit myself to a particular price range? But I do. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I've recognized this before, but basically what this is is restricting my dreams based on a rule or limitation I make up in my head. It's like I'm only allowed to daydream realistically. Which is fine. But if I believe I can only achieve what I'm willing to believe, I'm limiting myself. And while I'm not consciously closing myself off to more, I'm not keeping my mind open to the miracles the universe routinely performs. The "order" I'm placing in the universe through my thoughts is narrow and limiting. So the results I get are narrow and limiting, too. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And here's the thing...I consider myself a powerful manifester. The life I live now was (more or less) once a conscious or unconscious dream of mine. Twenty years ago I lived in a tiny efficiency apartment and decided I wanted dogs, so I manifested a different home for myself and a different lifestyle fell into place naturally. So why aren't I doing a better job of that now?</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fear. Insecurity. Breeding...haha. Growing up, I somehow learned that if you don't ask for anything too big (such as a pony) you're likey to get it (and by "it", that might mean a bicycle). If I don't want for more than my parents can afford, then I will never be disappointed and I will get everything I want. This was a practicality that was innate in me. I was born fiscally practical, with a dash of impractical purchasing thrown in...but just a dash. My mother was the same way. And since the main breadwinner in the family, my father, was on a fairly limited career path (military) most of my life, we knew our means and kept to them. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Somehow all of this crept into my daydreaming and placed limitations on me. (It also benefited me in that I believe I can get anything I want. I just have to learn it's ok to want more.) Which makes wonder where else am I limiting myself? Romantically? Socially? Career-wise? Physically? Where else do deeply ingrained beliefs and habits serve to limit what is possible for me in the universe? Maybe it's not such a silly belief as "I can only enjoy dreaming of houses I can afford." Maybe it's not as "obvious" as that.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I know some people believe there are limited resources in the universe and they don't want to take more than their "share". Some women believe all the good men are already taken. Some may believe they're not smart enough or special enough to have the things they want. And some, like me, could just, plain <a href="http://www.tierneysadler.com/2012/06/6612dreaming-bigger-dream.html">dream bigger</a>. <--- If you follow that link there, you'll see this is not the first time I've gotten this message. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">These things work like the proverbial layers of an onion. Once you learn to dream bigger in one regard, you discover another place where you're holding yourself back. For me, at least, I'm going to start browsing real estate that is beyond my means, but not so opulent it makes me want to barf. And I'm going to envision a maid and caretaker, too, while I'm at it. :D What simple little change can you make in your life to dream bigger?</span></span>Tierney Sadlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508037058967261204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1627357967936193401.post-79200179193290884422018-09-16T18:17:00.000-04:002018-09-16T18:17:27.951-04:009/17/18—Battling Myself<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJy7jJk7DZMSszKZM-n2Tn3W9v12jS-WGPU6i-uwaNCPUmgqz4skZMtA3y-qhIRe20BVO0RFHq0HXaLNXZAgN1JjG1zYMICvDytODIxb68PgfQ7Rh4ut40_Em93VNf6x22BlZLlBfEefI/s1600/depressing_bg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="630" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJy7jJk7DZMSszKZM-n2Tn3W9v12jS-WGPU6i-uwaNCPUmgqz4skZMtA3y-qhIRe20BVO0RFHq0HXaLNXZAgN1JjG1zYMICvDytODIxb68PgfQ7Rh4ut40_Em93VNf6x22BlZLlBfEefI/s400/depressing_bg.jpg" width="315" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Tonight as I hopped in the shower, I realized I've been feeling frail lately. And, as the hot water poured down upon my head, I questioned myself, "Am I frail or am I stronger than I ever imagined?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In my moment of fragility, I wanted to answer, "I am frail". But even then I couldn't. I am alive and better than I've been in years. I'm stronger than I ever imagined.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I can't count how many times I came close to death in the 2010s...times I was in significant trauma that I can only now see how serious it was. The first three months of this year was a festival of those moments, with multiple hospital visits and ambulance rides. I slept with the door unlocked in case I couldn't make it to the door in an emergency. Turning over in bed left me breathless. Crying fatigued me, so I couldn't cry. I waited while my heart valve told me I was dying and my doctors told me my valve wasn't as bad as I thought. When they finally looked at it when I was moving, they were literally horrified by what they saw (I know this because my cardiologist told me as much afterward) and scheduled surgery immediately. The horror they saw was the horror I had been living with for years while they considered me everything from a hypochondriac to overly dramatic.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Nobody heard me. Nobody seemed to care. Meanwhile, I was terrified all the time. It was like a waking version of that nightmare where you can't scream. No matter what I said or how bad I looked, nobody heard me screaming.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When you're sick like that, you learn to cope by being frail. By being aware of your frailty, you make choices to protect yourself. You avoid drains on your energy. You sleep a lot. You cocoon. If you refused to acknowledge your frailty, you'd overextend yourself and make yourself sick. It's more than just a state of health, it's a state of mind.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I suppose I have been feeling frail lately because I got some sort of chest cold or something and it's taking a long time to clear up. But I also realized I had become comfortable with frail. That frail had become one of the ways I saw myself. And I also realized it had become outdated.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On the other hand, when you've been defined by your limitation for so long, it's scary to come out of that. You have learned to live with your prison. And you believe in the prison because when you tried to go beyond your limits, your limits stopped you. So, even though I'm well, it intimidates me to go beyond those previous limits. I've done it, of course, but my brain hasn't been reprogrammed to "stronger than I ever knew" yet. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's not just the feeling of frailty that I'm confronting lately. I'm confronting a lot of things. My mindsets of feeling unloved, not worth spending time on, and like nobody cares has come into question. So many stepped up to the plate for me once they knew I needed help. And, of course, my dogs understood my situation and took good care of me. So I don't get to go through life thinking that anymore...not without my higher self reminding me it's not true. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And I also gave my power over to doctors....as we all are trained to do. The fact is, they can perform miracles and can save your life, but if you're feeling horrible and they're telling you you're fine, it's your duty to your body/self to tell them to go to hell until you find one that listens. I have definitely learned to trust myself over doctors through this ordeal. So another fallacy I am challenging is that I have to defer to others who are "smarter than me" about my body. Turns out, even overweight and out of shape, I'm more of knowledgeable about how my body is feeling than they are. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And beneath these things are other truths I have to come to terms with. The world doesn't think I'm frail and vulnerable. I do. So I see the world through those eyes. And it's not necessarily the world that doesn't care about me or listen to me or see me unworthy (though those people do exist). It's me who does that. And I greet the world through those eyes, so it's no surprise I get that in return. In addition, I'm the one that enabled the doctors to tell me I was fine when I wasn't. They didn't trust my accounts and I didn't trust myself enough to make them. My lack of trust in myself supported their lack of trust in me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Maybe it's what I've been through the last few years, or maybe it's just my age, but there is a reckoning of sorts going on within me now. I'm battling myself and it can be nothing but good for me, as painful as it is to abide in the short term. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So consider the things you feel about your world right now. Maybe you feel insignificant. Or unloved. Or betrayed. Less than. Over the hill. Hopeless. Or incapable. Challenge those beliefs. Is it possible you're the one that perpetuates your insignificance? Do you actually betray yourself? Are you the one focusing on your limitations and not your possibilities? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In all my many years of spiritual exploration and looking inward, I have yet to come across a problem anyone else could fix for me. Except for my heart valve. :D But I'm talking about my beliefs and my issues with others. All of those things can only be fixed and healed by myself. Even when it's clear someone else is to blame, I find that I played a role myself. And when I start to heal the reasons why I believed something or put up with something for so long, the problem disappears...or I move beyond the problem. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So what's bugging you and what do you need to change to heal it? It may not be a fun process, but at least you can take comfort in knowing that I and many others are going through it alongside you. </span><br />
Tierney Sadlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508037058967261204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1627357967936193401.post-65701189379215988472018-09-09T16:29:00.001-04:002018-09-09T16:29:38.807-04:009/10/18—Waiting For Fall<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpHi3na3PjKBqrN6_BhZvy2T14-Jzczw8Em0lOw0yrnnY7Yepx6Zw4Us6Cb-LQFTcRy_cgbQUetIpBZ51nC0gZzidsRSDb3drn1lADzwLszeKSgD-R_ZUyJ-WaSjfvlC9yw4jLQnlLKz8/s1600/fallleaves36467709_t755_h8e6f59a8c3cda8eb14ed77e37359ac510f04f3f3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1128" data-original-width="755" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpHi3na3PjKBqrN6_BhZvy2T14-Jzczw8Em0lOw0yrnnY7Yepx6Zw4Us6Cb-LQFTcRy_cgbQUetIpBZ51nC0gZzidsRSDb3drn1lADzwLszeKSgD-R_ZUyJ-WaSjfvlC9yw4jLQnlLKz8/s400/fallleaves36467709_t755_h8e6f59a8c3cda8eb14ed77e37359ac510f04f3f3.jpg" width="267" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10pt;">I'm fortunate to live in a part of the US that has four distinct seasons each year—beautiful, miserable, breathtaking and reflective. </span><br /><span style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10pt;"></span></span><div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10pt;">I have declared summer (aka "miserable") over a number of times in the past month, only to have it return uglier than ever. I hesitate to do so again, but it is cold and rainy outside and I have hope…a NEED…for autumn to be here at last. It’s my favorite time of year and I believe it's especially spectacular in the mid-Atlantic. The temperatures are perfect for being outside, building fires, hiking on trails, leaf peeping. And as the leaves fall, they lay the branches bare, prompting us to do the same within.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10pt;"><br />For me, spring and summer coax my energy out of my body. Fall and winter lead it within, toward the core of my spirit. As days grow shorter and nights get cooler, the presence of spirit seems to grow stronger in me. To me, that means not just being "in good spirits". But it also means a deepening connection and communion with that energy or source that we are part of, yet is greater than us all, whether you call it God, nature, Buddha or something else.<br />
<br />I can’t deny "waiting" for a spiritual connection to find me, instead of going after it right now. I've been feeling disconnected for a while and nothing seems to "take" lately. While there have been times connection feels effortless, we still have to show up...and show up in the right frame of mind...to receive. We can't expect spirit to beam into us while we're returning emails, running errands or watching TV. In fact, for me, I am most connected when I am fully in the moment, and even more when I am fully in the moment in meditation or prayer.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #1d2129; font-size: 10pt;">Autumn has a way of supporting that connection in me. It’s cool. It’s beautiful. I want to be out and about. And the prompt of having those leaves falling off the tree triggers a shedding for me, too. It leads me within. While I’m always led within, there’s a different quality to it…creative, surrendering, safe. <br />
<br />There has been a lot of heavy stuff on my mind. Some of it I’m not ready to tell. Other stuff I can’t speak of to protect the privacy of others. All of it leaves me uneasy because I have dropped my connection and am counting on fall to bring it back to me. It sounds a bit lazy and silly, I know. But fall has a way of bringing healing to these kinds of things for me. It can’t get here soon enough.</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"></span></span></div>
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</span><style><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"MS 明朝"; mso-font-charset:78; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:-536870145 1791491579 18 0 131231 0;} @font-face {font-family:"Cambria Math"; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:-536870145 1107305727 0 0 415 0;} @font-face {font-family:Calibri; panose-1:2 15 5 2 2 2 4 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:-520092929 1073786111 9 0 415 0;} @font-face {font-family:inherit; panose-1:0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0; mso-font-alt:"Times New Roman"; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-format:other; mso-font-pitch:auto; mso-font-signature:0 0 0 0 0 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-unhide:no; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:major-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} .MsoChpDefault {mso-style-type:export-only; mso-default-props:yes; font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:major-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} @page WordSection1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.WordSection1 {page:WordSection1;} --> </span></style>Tierney Sadlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508037058967261204noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1627357967936193401.post-71517659316987612712018-08-26T18:13:00.003-04:002018-08-26T18:44:49.276-04:008/27/18—Finding My Inspiration<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGbmfTaVqUcG8KjezoEGp36VgdRTCIDOS4Ah8VOPKtOO8V7Laz9Q0r5fmkVuFDQ8PgCFmJweQA39r-ZyZnB16ETqGHlOSRuxblORYPxsafzTxvhO8HlcV0ODrul6RW4rInjdtvdaqozlw/s1600/19950.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGbmfTaVqUcG8KjezoEGp36VgdRTCIDOS4Ah8VOPKtOO8V7Laz9Q0r5fmkVuFDQ8PgCFmJweQA39r-ZyZnB16ETqGHlOSRuxblORYPxsafzTxvhO8HlcV0ODrul6RW4rInjdtvdaqozlw/s400/19950.jpg" width="291" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I started doing some writing this week on a book I'm calling <b>The Seeker's Guide to the Spiritual Path</b>. And it was a truly mystical experience. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I was writing the story of how I started on my spiritual path and all the influences that shaped my beliefs. I've told <a href="http://www.tierneysadler.com/2016/04/41116letting-light-in.html">short versions</a> before, centered around how I learned about forgiveness and set out on my spiritual journey in the wake of my father's death. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The story I've never told before was the FULL story that includes a tiny red book my mother kept in her bedside table. Neither of my parents were religious and, if it weren't for this red book, I would claim neither were spiritual, also. But my mother would frequently pull this book out and read it. It seemed to bring her comfort.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">At first I thought it was a book of love poems and thought it was odd my mother would refer to it over and over again throughout the years. But what I didn't realize until after she was gone was that the Rubaiyat by Omar Khayyam was a book of devotional poems written about the Divine. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I was too young and atheistic and, frankly, heartbroken at the time she died to care too much about that little red book. But when I look back over my life, I see that I was always curious about it, just not curious enough. That is, not until I really started on my own spiritual journey. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So, I was writing about all of this and got very emotional because I felt my mother all around me. I heard her in my ear and felt her in my fingers as I tapped the story out. My mother died when I was 21, so I'll never really know her relationship to that book, but I always thought it was like a Bible to her. And while she would quote from it from time to time, I suspect her relation to those words was something she kept private, as we all do with our most intimate and personal thoughts. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Part of why I got emotional is because it has been rare in the past 32 years to feel my mother around me. And there have been times I have desperately needed her. Even when I dream about her, I dream about her not communicating with me! It makes no sense because I felt she and I had a deep soul bond in life. We locked horns many times, but underneath we both understood it was because we were too much alike. As she was dying, we were very close. There were times I was the only one allowed to touch her and care for her. I felt there was a deep understanding between us about a lot of things. I thought if she were to come back to anyone, it would be me, if for no other reason than that, with my psychic capabilities, I'd be the easiest to connect to. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So I have felt hurt and been puzzled over this for years. I told myself it's because she and I have no unfinished business. My father and I had <a href="http://www.tierneysadler.com/2014/03/31214gaining-help-from-beyond.html">a lot of unfinished business</a> and he came around A LOT during certain times of my life. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So, as I was embarking on writing this particular book, and as I was insecure about my abilities and qualifications, and as my mother and her little red book were swirling up around me, I decided to randomly choose a quatrain from the Rubaiyat to read for inspiration. The number 28 popped into my head. This is what #28 says: </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow, <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="147"></a><br />And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow; <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="148"></a><br />And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd-- <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="149"></a> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"I came like Water, and like Wind I go." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">OK. So. Wow. First, it speaks to the role of a spiritual teacher, walking the talk. And the transcendence that can come from that practice. But then it also speaks to the seed planted within me by my mother's deep connection to the book at her bedside, kind of like she had passed the baton to me. Of all the 101 verses in that book, this one in particular, speaks most to the role of the teacher, the student and the seeker. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Then, I found my mother's favorite passage. As I read it, I connected to her sense of spirituality. As a child, I misunderstood the "Thou" for a lover. But the "Thou" is god and it speaks to solitary communion with the higher power (it also conjures up the thought of Buddha under the Bodhi tree):</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A Book of Verses underneath the Bough, <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="67"></a><br />A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread--and Thou <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="68"></a><br />Beside me singing in the Wilderness-- <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="69"></a><br />Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So as I was writing this part of my book, I dove deep into a swirl of my mother's energy for the first time in over 30 years. And I knew she'd be with me in some way as I wrote moving forward. And all of this gave me encouragement and peace on entering the author phase of my life. I'm already an author, I know. But the <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Deck-1000-Spreads-Creating-Situation/dp/0738733393">Deck of 1000 Spreads</a> was more a product than a book to me. Books like the one I'm writing now are what I'm becoming an author to relate. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Another thought has occurred to me over the past week, too. It involves why my mother waited so long to come to me. I was raised in a home that was about as free as you can get from religious or spiritual input. And yet look at me...a blogger with 1200 posts on spirituality and multiple books in progress. A discussion with my mother about that little red book would have been lovely. Her insights on her journey would mean everything to me. She died too soon for us to share this in real time. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So maybe that was our unfinished business. I hadn't even realized how much that book of hers influenced me before I sat down to write about it. In fact, <a href="http://www.tierneysadler.com/2016/10/this-past-week-i-unexpectedly-connected.html">I've been realizing her influence a lot lately</a>. I have zero doubt that if she were alive we would not only be kindred in our beliefs, but she would be my biggest fan in my efforts as an author. I'm feeling now that I am carrying a torch that she lit—a torch she couldn't carry for herself. And whether that's accurate or not, it is just the inspiration I've been looking for. </span>
Tierney Sadlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508037058967261204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1627357967936193401.post-25249294138617275742018-08-19T17:15:00.003-04:002018-08-19T17:15:43.266-04:008/20/18—Eating Boogers and Farting<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5wvs8D8GONYs6wm8ZXEFVODYiUvwbnthQeCDdoFRR0N8gQ7yUwJJRCn-bs2uXeOpWQwdCQalic12J9z3q94b2gIRVjb11MTtU7icatZZNk7rxZBCRjQLFyEhNztp8dqKMgd0GavqV3mM/s1600/picking-nose-1.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5wvs8D8GONYs6wm8ZXEFVODYiUvwbnthQeCDdoFRR0N8gQ7yUwJJRCn-bs2uXeOpWQwdCQalic12J9z3q94b2gIRVjb11MTtU7icatZZNk7rxZBCRjQLFyEhNztp8dqKMgd0GavqV3mM/s1600/picking-nose-1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A couple of weeks ago* I posted that one of my best kept secrets was that I liked to do ceremonies. To that, someone quipped that I have fewer and fewer secrets all the time. It seems as if my evil plot may be working. :D</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When I'm not being jibed for over-sharing or sharing the obvious, I hear people say I'm brave to post about my fears, anxieties and inadequacies (as well as more positive stuff) online for everyone to see. You wouldn't know that just a few years ago, the thought of doing that was too scary for me. In fact, for most of my life I felt I had to contain my more negative or weaker aspects, lest people would think differently of me or change the way they saw me. I had a lot of fear around that. I guess I wanted to look like I had things all together. But I also feared that if I ever tried to do anything notable, someone would stand up and expose me in some way...mar some image of myself I had tried to create.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Unlike most issues that people would rather keep hidden, when you're overweight most of your life, one of your biggest issues is right there for everyone to see and judge. So appearing otherwise charming and pulled together was also kind of like damage control for me. It protected me from further hurt. Or so I thought.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But the fact is you can't control what others think of you. Whether you're a mass murderer or Mother Theresa, you will always have people who dislike you for one reason or another. Those people will always whisper behind your back. Some will tell hurtful lies about you. Some will tell painful truths. And most will be doing it in their own effort to make it look like they're more pulled together than you.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Putting it all (well, not ALL) out there has actually proved to be very freeing. I don't have to worry about people saying, "well, did you know she sometimes wears her pajamas all day and into the next?" Or "she acts all happy, but I'll bet she has problems with depression." I don't have to worry about anything like that and, in retrospect, I wish I'd never worried in the first place. It has held me back in some ways. But now if someone were to accuse me of, say, losing my temper with telemarketers, I can just point them to a blog where I've already admitted it to the world. :D It's not news. Coming out as flawed and neurotic is very freeing. :)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But there's another reason why I open up about fears around mammograms, inner conflicts around moving on from friendships, anxieties around writing, sad moments from my past, internal fears and all the other stuff I've written about in over 1000 posts. I write about it because it's not stuff we talk about. It's stuff we keep inside because we're ashamed, have nobody to tell, or think we're the only one or whatever.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Remember when you were a kid and the most horrific thing you could be accused of was farting or eating your boogers? I was never able to understand why that was, because doesn't everyone fart? And doesn't every kid sup on a booger or two? So why all the shame around it? Why all the mockery and meanness around it? Even in kindergarten, I understood the unfairness and hypocrisy of it all. We were all booger-eating farters! And yet some kids got branded with the scarlet B or F, while the accusers (who often went home to a large plate of boogers, followed by a bonfire fueled by nothing but farts, btw) came out looking like they had no adverse bodily functions at all!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So this idea of shame and separation and limitation at the hands of things we all have in common has bothered me for a really long time. We all have dark moments and times when we weren't at our best. We all have self doubts and crap we kick ourselves over. We all have bad habits and blind spots. We all have guilty pleasures. And yes, we all fart. And I'll be the first to admit that some of the things I've talked about on this blog have held me back. In fact, this very thing—the secrets we keep, not because we cherish them, but because we have shame or embarrassment around them—has held me back...kept me in the shadows and contributed to fears around being all I can be.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So I say stuff here and, instead of being judged, people thank me because they no longer feel so alone. They no longer feel like a booger-eating farter. And the thing is, I still have private things. And you'd think I feel more vulnerable because of all this sharing, but I actually feel less vulnerable. By the time something makes it to the blog, I've come to terms with it. The blogging actually helps me work through it. Pushing "publish" is like getting another stamp on my passport to freedom on the matter. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Opening up your baggage and placing it on display like this isn't for everyone. But we're all carrying stuff around that imprisons us. Maybe we drink too much. Or our marriage isn't as idyllic as it's portrayed. Maybe we've got a kid who's struggling in some way. Have a lot of debt. Are afraid of the changes ahead of us. Or maybe we're a fully grown adult who doesn't even have the first idea of who we are. There's nothing in any of that that can't be understood and felt by people around us.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So today I just want to say that, whatever it is, you're ok. Your issue is understood and shared in some way by more people than you know. And that it's ok to find someone—or an entire community—you can trust to confide in so you don't have to carry the secret on your shoulders any longer. It's ok to slough that weight and move on.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I suppose there's some value to being more of a woman of mystery. But I'd rather be a woman of truth. Illusion takes a lot of work to maintain and you don't even realize how much until you start letting it drop away. Let's face it, we can't run from ourselves. We know who we are. To hide it from everyone else just keeps people from understanding you, seeing you as you are and loving you regardless. It just makes us feel alone. We're so much more alike than we know. And the fewer and fewer secrets we keep, the thinner the wall is between ourself and the rest of humanity. </span><br />
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*This is a classic post from 8/6/14. Tierney Sadlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508037058967261204noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1627357967936193401.post-61733007071648159962018-08-12T18:28:00.000-04:002018-08-12T18:28:26.453-04:008/13/18—Getting Back to the Silence<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaZ-ivHLqPYDePJiqlccs286qKNFMlzLnt9mEKbJCMcUnDFlRVvTMAQCgAZU-F3WFBOdxjVJur-VM065czU9jkZdegvPHTpiFMvw3v0klLQ7TbBdvdfL3Xn4JS9oEe6gmZvRfvaqDLt98/s1600/8660104345_f2cf4a9d8d_k.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaZ-ivHLqPYDePJiqlccs286qKNFMlzLnt9mEKbJCMcUnDFlRVvTMAQCgAZU-F3WFBOdxjVJur-VM065czU9jkZdegvPHTpiFMvw3v0klLQ7TbBdvdfL3Xn4JS9oEe6gmZvRfvaqDLt98/s400/8660104345_f2cf4a9d8d_k.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I've been avoiding silence lately. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I tell myself that I meditate and spend a lot of time in silence, but that is not currently the truth. It hasn't been that way for a while. I'm used to spending a lot of time in my head, but clear, constructive head space was overtaken by worry, fear and non-constructive chatter a while ago. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What's more, I find myself restless when I do sit in silence these days. If I'm outside, I go in the house where the TV is on. If I'm inside, I turn on the TV, peruse the internet or otherwise put noise in my head. Or I'll nap. Reading, radio, whatever...it's all noise that may make you think, but it distracts you from inner work. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The thing is, when I'm able to get a big dose of nothingness, I feel great. I feel more powerful. More connected to the universe and its flow. When I transcend earthly concerns—even for a few minutes—I get hours of relief from the list making or worrying or dreaming or self-flagellation or whatever else that's making my head chatter and keep me both out of the moment and out of constructive thought. So what am I avoiding confronting? And why am I choosing a noisy head over relief?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Some of it may be part of a gestation within me. Sometimes I feel like I process things unconsciously while being distracted, yielding passive growth. But some of it, I know, is self sabotage, holding myself in an outdated place because it's comfortable. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I was sick, few things past survival were possible. I lived in that reality for years, frustrated by my limitations. Now I have possibilities again but I'm not doing anything about it! I'm not even sure if what I wanted before is what I want now. Is it big enough or right enough to be worthy of a second chance at life? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In some ways, I have to reassess who I am, what I want and how best to serve. Which, of course, is a cycle we go through over and over again—catch up to our current self, move forward in our new shoes, coast, realize we've changed, catch up to our current self again. I'm just not sure I've ever felt it so heavily before. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So that's where my head is at. Right now I just want to escape and, for some reason, I think that's not OK. Maybe I fear I'm just procrastinating or I'll never make certain changes. But maybe I have to learn to give myself permission to just rebalance, reassess, figure out where I'm going and chart a course. For me, there's a thin line between the two. But I do feel a calling back to the silence, regardless. Hopefully I'll get there soon. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>Tierney Sadlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508037058967261204noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1627357967936193401.post-80371335014300268892018-08-05T17:45:00.000-04:002018-08-05T17:45:16.076-04:008/6/18—Stopping The World<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhou5WAUIFdPH2mivsWsjAGURY3eDWxiM7Qpyglfho-teTHsLR9FMe-COuGY_jlKb8LJsHuk1fQ5hnWN_sJF1mEFHfilbSXQb5FbimZQQYT9vTHGUZyCUkmWYqDEDh19A4AXJayn8LHiFg/s1600/stop-the-world-i-want-to-get-off-ry2lknl0.hv1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhou5WAUIFdPH2mivsWsjAGURY3eDWxiM7Qpyglfho-teTHsLR9FMe-COuGY_jlKb8LJsHuk1fQ5hnWN_sJF1mEFHfilbSXQb5FbimZQQYT9vTHGUZyCUkmWYqDEDh19A4AXJayn8LHiFg/s1600/stop-the-world-i-want-to-get-off-ry2lknl0.hv1.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Stop the world: I want to get off.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That was the name of a musical that came out a few years after I was born. I remember hearing the phrase as a toddler and not knowing what it meant. But I found it a very interesting premise.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Maybe five years after that, I remember watching a merry-go-round spin and contemplating the idea again. I still didn't understand what it meant. But I wondered why anyone would want the world to stop just for them.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As I meandered through adulthood, I came to understand. Sometimes life moves too fast. Too much is happening. You can't catch your breath. Maybe you're dreading some form of adulting you have to do. Or maybe you've had too much of humanity for a while. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Most of my world-stopping fits into that last category. I went through a protracted phase about a decade ago where I just really felt I didn't fit in with humanity. Recently, however, I've been struggling with all the other motivations. I've been through A LOT the last few years. And I just want to walk away from life. I want to drop all my worries and woes and never look back. But I can't afford to do that monetarily and, frankly, I think if I ever did just take off for a month or two, I would never come back. I might be lost to society forever. I'm just hermity and bohemian enough for that. Not that that would be a bad thing...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the musical, the main character takes issue with everything in his life. His wife isn't good enough. His job isn't good enough. His children are girls, not boys. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He has affairs. He attains wealth and status. Yet he continues searching for what's better. Then, one day, his wife dies and he realizes that he always had plenty of love in his life, but he never stopped searching for more long enough to appreciate it. With this, he is a changed man. He is no longer "selfish". He learns to put others first. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have a lot to be grateful for. When this year began, I was close to death. I had fought a years-long battle with some "mysterious illness" and it was taking my life while my doctors watched and dragged their heels. All of that is over now. I should be elated. And I am. I feel like I have conscious gratitude for that on a daily basis. I have a second chance and I truly appreciate that. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My complaint is that that struggle has moved on to another struggle—albeit a rosier one—without giving me time to take a breath in between. I only stopped working for two weeks after my heart surgery, ferchrissakes, and I spent all that time drugged and institutionalized. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When you are given a second chance, all sorts of considerations arise, including "why was I saved...what was I kept alive to accomplish?" Then on top of that, you need to earn money to survive. You may have obligations to others. We are truly on a hamster wheel that never stops spinning. And while you hear stories of people dropping all worldly responsibilities and trekking across the US on a shoestring budget in search of meaning, I don't have the balls to do that. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's not just me, though. I see others all around me struggling with that same thing. When my brother died, my sister in law didn't have the luxury of having a proper nervous breakdown because she had four kids to raise. When people have children, they don't get a breather in between. In fact, for most of us, life changes of any sort catapult us immediately onto another game board that we have to learn to maneuver. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fact is, if I had a month—or a year—of grace from life, I would do nothing and accomplish nothing. I wouldn't properly take advantage of the opportunity. I'd spend all my time in my head (and I can do that without a roadtrip!) Then I would bemoan the "waste" of a month or year of my life, even if doing nothing was my entire objective. Besides, even if you do stop the world for a little, you'll have to return sooner or later...or end up half crazy in some remote cabin in the woods. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It seems like the only way to win is to accept and find the gifts within the hamster wheel. The gifts for me lately have included being a little more social, a little less fearful and a slow return to the enjoyment of wandering around in nature. There is some excitement and growth unfolding for me now. Focusing on that, rather than the ways the world is either too overwhelming, too crazy or not enough for me, makes me long for escape a little less. And let's face it, even if you did stop the world, there would still be adulting to do—gotta feed the dogs, cook food, keep your space clean, etc. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If I had enough money not to worry, I'd take that sabbatical. But I don't. So instead, I'm going to take life. I've already had the alternative. I'm happy to just be alive. I may not be alive on some meditative spa retreat or on a roadtrip to National Parks with my pups, but I'll take it. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>Tierney Sadlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508037058967261204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1627357967936193401.post-56977444818454516292018-07-29T19:08:00.000-04:002018-07-29T19:08:40.492-04:007/30/18—Seeing The Light<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivwuH8OP0pcHm9y2ghiaIrGaTws6270hy0mRPRBXdohnykAo3N9FaTaUvoEAY4ZsbPIoU-4m20s_qTd-FZ_JkJ6oxXL6l1E7H6c2Cb3D8X6JUKpk8-pTywCk2FDHEA3022hLDw4HNWjfQ/s1600/1812-160524.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivwuH8OP0pcHm9y2ghiaIrGaTws6270hy0mRPRBXdohnykAo3N9FaTaUvoEAY4ZsbPIoU-4m20s_qTd-FZ_JkJ6oxXL6l1E7H6c2Cb3D8X6JUKpk8-pTywCk2FDHEA3022hLDw4HNWjfQ/s1600/1812-160524.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I apologize in advance if today's post gets a little gloomy. It was inspired partly by someone I thought I knew, but didn't, and partly by the recent death of Philip Seymour Hoffman (this post is from 2014). What the two things have in common is something we all have in common—a dark side. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Beneath the addictions, obsessions, bullying, lying, anger, abuse, excesses and other unhealthy behaviors lies pain and fear. And no matter how beautiful, rich, famous, talented or loved you are, you're not immune. Nobody is immune. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We hurt ourselves and others because WE are in pain and can't always pinpoint the source. Maybe we had something tragic happen to us, but really that's just an excuse. What's really at the bottom of this, I believe, is something we forgot before we were even born. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Before we come here and after we leave, we are without ego. Ego in the way I use the word is a self awareness that separates ourselves from others. So it manifests in us feeling "more than" or "less than" others. It seeks approval. Yearns for status. Desires recognition and understanding. Speaks in terms of us and them. Wherever you find ego, you also find a forgetting of our true nature...the one we'll return to when we die.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Our true nature is oneness. Universal love. It is inclusion. There is no separateness or self awareness because there is no individuality. All is one. If god indeed said "I am that I am", what that means is that we are everything we see. We are. There is no separation between you and the most vile entity on earth. No separation between you and the most beloved on earth. There can be no separation, because everything is one. And everything is an expression of love.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But, see, we come here to be individuals. And as long as we're individuals there will always be a pained, lonely, frightened place within that seeks the universal love we love we left behind. We may not remember, but the soul never forgets. There are times when we are so filled with light (or delusion...haha) that we drift far enough away from this place that it seems to disappear, but that is just an illusion. It is always there. This pain, loneliness and fear comes from believing we're separate from source. And it's the price of being human.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There are times that the experiences of life and the attachment to ego build upon our souls like so many magnetized barnacles that we draw ever closer into the gravitational field of this painful empty place. If we don't reach this place by our own volition, we may be pulled into it by a loved one. We may even be wired to explore this place through depression or mental illness. Sometimes it is all we can see. And the closer we get, the more pain we feel and the more pain we cause. We try to keep it at bay with drugs or purchases, anger or violence, lying or bullying. But that just makes it worse. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And the further into the hole we travel, the more it hurts and the lonelier it feels. And then even the most brilliant and fortunate among us end up dead of an overdose with the hypodermic still in our arm. And we think, "what a waste of such a gifted life." But see, that's just our ego talking. There are no adjectives or superlatives in oneness, only in our separation. Interestingly, however, even in our separateness, we are still the same. Because we all have this place inside. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But this empty, lonely place can be filled. The only thing that can fill it is universal love. And the path to universal love is the recognition of oneness. When we see an angry person, we recognize them as ourself and we love them...not from a place of being better off, but from a place of recognition of self. There is no human atrocity we can deny being within us (albeit dormant, perhaps), just as there is no human grace. We are all of that. We are. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And while there are many paths that can lead us there, regular communion with god or source or light or whatever you want to call it, is key to spending as much time as possible in a place where the gravity of the empty place is the weakest. This is why we seek to raise ourselves and grow...so we can balance our humanness with what we've forgotten. Not so we can forget we're human, because that's why we're here. But to remember we're so much more.</span><br />
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Tierney Sadlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508037058967261204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1627357967936193401.post-42853510010149538412018-07-22T17:57:00.000-04:002018-07-22T17:57:06.425-04:007/23/18—Forgetting Stuff<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXoJJZVGal6x_diMY048SDl68XDFo_v7_1G5TVDT0lZQFC64pxWk1JFk2OXvJkZdPMooDY4vLBGQMcoo1Zax5UtZ04L95SHQN-7-h-YlZhC67bykYWgBl8eDrh9-AbIDS0ZTIOyv3EgcI/s1600/Forgetting-Can-Make-You-Smarter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="620" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXoJJZVGal6x_diMY048SDl68XDFo_v7_1G5TVDT0lZQFC64pxWk1JFk2OXvJkZdPMooDY4vLBGQMcoo1Zax5UtZ04L95SHQN-7-h-YlZhC67bykYWgBl8eDrh9-AbIDS0ZTIOyv3EgcI/s400/Forgetting-Can-Make-You-Smarter.jpg" width="400" /></a>I'm forgetting things in my old age. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'd be afraid it was Altzheimers, but I googled <a href="https://www.alz.org/alzheimers-dementia/10_signs">the warning signs </a>and I don't have them. What I have is <a href="https://www.webmd.com/alzheimers/features/is-your-memory-normal#1">normal memory loss due to aging</a>. Unless I forgot some incidents of forgetfulness, that is.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Since it's a normal symptom of aging and post-menopausal life, I imagine most of the people I know experience this—male and female. For me, it has manifested as spelling issues I've never had before and "difficulty thinking of the word I'm thinking of," as well as forgetting was I thinking to say in the midst of saying it. Yet those who know me agree that I know and remember where everything is in my house, so I don't lose things. However, I may go into a room looking for something, then forget why I went in there in the first place. For me, it seems my memory loss is more verbally than visually related. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When it happens, it drives home the fact that I'm getting older. How did I get here so quickly? I remember thinking that there's no way I'd ever be as old as 36...the age I'd be in the year 2000. That seemed REALLY old. And here I am at 55. I don't even think that qualifies as middle-aged anymore. In fact, it's old enough to live in a retirement community. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">How the eff did that happen? It feels like I just left my 30s. I'm willing to get old because there is no point fighting it. But my god, does it have to happen so soon? Can't it all wait until a few moments before I die of old age? :D</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The good thing about recently "escaping death" is that you know the universe isn't done with you yet. I clearly have unfinished business. And I trust the universe gave me long enough to finish it, whatever it is. And while my memory loss is annoying sometimes, it doesn't get in my way. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My surgery gave me the opportunity to grow old. That is not lost on me. But you don't need to crack your chest open to get the gift of growing old. As long as you are alive, you've got that gift. We all know someone who didn't get that opportunity. So I forget and feel stupid sometimes. It's a small price to pay, considering the alternative. </span>Tierney Sadlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508037058967261204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1627357967936193401.post-46547705641181473232018-07-15T14:38:00.000-04:002018-07-15T14:38:56.220-04:007/16/18—Discovering Myself<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Sometimes it feels like I woke up from a long sleep to discover that somebody new was driving the bus.<br />
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All those years I was sick, it didn't just affect my body. It affected my mind, too. The combination of sleep apnea, asthma and a bad heart valve limited the amount of rest—and oxygen—I got. The asthma diagnosis improved things. And getting sleep improved things. But while they were improving, that heart valve was deteriorating. I sometimes don't know how I managed it. It sounds dramatic, but I wouldn't have lived much longer without open heart surgery. Things got really bad last winter.<br />
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But even though I spent years in some degree of haze or exhaustion, I still grew and matured. I put most of my energy and clarity toward work during those years. Then after my deadlines were met, I shut down. There were years where all I could do was sleep, work and feed myself. But apparently something was happening beneath the surface in regard to my soul. Add to that the sobering and transformative effect of coming close to death—then recovering from having my sternum sawed open—I'm no longer the person I used to be. I won't ever be that person again.<br />
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After I emerged from the trauma of all that, it was as if a new me moved in while I was gone. And she's better in pretty much every way, except for maybe one or two things. It's strange. I'm still getting to know her, but she surprises me in many ways. Like she chats up strangers—primarily male ones—much more than ever before. And she has a greater sense of adventure. And ambition. She walks away from drama much more often. She cares less about whether or not people like or approve of her. And she's much more energetic and alive. In short, she's a much more dynamic version of the me I was before.<br />
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We all change without noticing, and we even have times where we pleasantly surprise ourselves. But this is like that on steroids. It's like I went to sleep one person and woke up another. More shocking...I kinda like this chick. And all it took was being brought to the brink.<br />
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Now that I'm on the other side of it, I'm forgetting a lot of the trauma. Some of it still revisits me. But we tend to forget pain. It's a gift the universe gave us. Forgetting emotional pain keeps us seeking relationship. And forgetting physical pain helps keep us propagating the species. Forgetting pain is integral to the survival of humanity. It's what humans do.<br />
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This new me is happy to move forward without rehashing the years I was sick. The old me still has places I need to revisit—a few traumas to work through—before I can fully catch up to the new me. Or maybe I already am the new me and I just need to let go of the old me once and for all. Both thoughts sound right to me. But even now I know that, soon, it won't matter. This unsettling struggle, too, will soon be forgotten.Tierney Sadlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508037058967261204noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1627357967936193401.post-17064540110913949342018-07-08T14:19:00.001-04:002018-07-08T14:19:16.225-04:007/9/18—Confessing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHWn17Qww3Sf6a0W-u86UFIpxcZTVhYUkTFoPXyKCCGX3O25UXB0TF5EC0ZDbUpxYHM9aOiEKRsi766uWbXvY49DlGnGqB89U2jO0smU22ton6Zs1mwx0Kf1PGtB550vZWBM0QeKNcAGw/s1600/15665393_10208690820451385_5781651704038867_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="336" data-original-width="290" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHWn17Qww3Sf6a0W-u86UFIpxcZTVhYUkTFoPXyKCCGX3O25UXB0TF5EC0ZDbUpxYHM9aOiEKRsi766uWbXvY49DlGnGqB89U2jO0smU22ton6Zs1mwx0Kf1PGtB550vZWBM0QeKNcAGw/s400/15665393_10208690820451385_5781651704038867_n.jpg" width="345" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I'm a mail order reverend. I sent my email address to a website and that was good enough to get ordained, though my ordination isn't recognized in my state. But I run a confessional on Friday nights for my Facebook friends anyway.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The confessional is presented in a tongue-in-cheek, somewhat-irreverent way, but it's serious business. I take it seriously. And readers and confessors respect the process. There is no judgement. Everyone gets forgiven. It's a positive thing for everyone involved.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Most things are easy to forgive. From time to time, difficult things come my way. I don't say "Forgiven!" mindlessly. I really have to believe the forgiveness. But I promise to forgive everything. So I have to forgive everything. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There are a lot of people who just like to read the thread without commenting. But the confessional relies on those who confess in public. For some, it takes courage. For others, it's just fun. And some just need to get something off their chest. All are welcome.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Now, for the most part, nobody's confessing to a crime or anything like that (though it has happened before.) I usually start with a few confessions of my own. Recently I confessed to liking blue eye shadow. And I also confessed to lowering myself to another's level in a disagreement. Many of the confessions are along those lines...either silly stuff or things that fall into the category of personal struggles and failings. Just when you think it's all in fun, someone comes along and goes deep. It's like a sociological roller coaster ride. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Most—if not all—of the confessions reflect our shared humanity. Who doesn't know the shame and glory of consuming "sinful" portions of food? Who among us can't relate to feeling insecure? Or diverging from the path of our personal development? And, really, who hasn't farted in a public situation, either intentionally or unintentionally? Haha. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">For those who read and don't comment, I imagine they are entertained, but I also imagine they feel a little less alone when they see others struggle with the same everyday things they do. For those who comment, they usually have fun, but they also have a safe place to get things off their chest, and they get to join in a process they trust and enjoy. The reverend was, of course, gone while I was sick and people really missed having their confessional, even if they don't use it every week. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Really, I'm the one who benefits most, though. Sure, sometimes I don't feel like doing it. And sometimes the confessional sits empty with nary a confessor in sight. But having just returned after a long absence, I'm reminded of how powerful an exercise it is. Because I have to forgive everything (because what kind of reverend would I be if I didn't?) I am exercising that muscle within me. Nearly everything is easy to forgive, but there have been times I've really had to struggle with my capacity for forgiveness, suportiveness and compassion. And there are other tests I face...non-judgment is one. Grace is another. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I also become a different person when I'm the reverend. When I'm in the confessional I'm more loving, encouraging, empathetic, understanding...all kinds of good stuff. Because as much as it's tongue-in-cheek—I'm not a Christian, nor do I believe in "sin" or hell—I also take it seriously. Because if you're going to call yourself a reverend (albeit a mail order one) you should strive to be your best you while wearing your smock...or whatever they wear. It's a test. A spiritual muscle builder. And a gratifying act. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Frequently I find I'm not sure how to respond to someone's confession. Many times I feel they need more than just a "forgiven!" Maybe I think they need to feel better about something they shouldn't have felt bad about in the first place. Maybe their confession sparks a discussion. Maybe I decide a little added wisdom might help the non-confessing readers. Or maybe I just want to feel smart and reverendy...haha. And I'm not always sure what to say to create a win-win-win between the readers, confessors and the reverend. But what I've found is that a no-judgement, loving response is always the best answer. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I don't always have the patience and presence of heart to walk through life as "the reverend". But each Friday night when the confessional opens up, I'm reminded that I can. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>Tierney Sadlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508037058967261204noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1627357967936193401.post-75558125332777830252018-07-01T15:53:00.004-04:002018-07-01T15:53:26.179-04:007/1/18—Letting Go<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Spirituality. Personal growth. Oneness. Transcendence. All the stuff we talk about on this blog comes from one thing. Letting go. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Now, granted, it's far more complex than that. But pretty much everything you want to achieve, can be achieved by letting go.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Say, for example, you want to become a published writer. The list of things you have to let go of could include fear, excuses, limited ideas of what you can be, a relaxed work ethic, some outdated definition of who you are, naysayers, expectations...the list could go on and on. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If you want to change a thought, you have to let go of the old thought. If you want to open your heart, you have to let go of the fortress you've built around it. If you want to be at one with others, you have to let go of the notion you're in any way different from them. If you want to move closer to god, you have to let go of needing to "know" and just trust. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If there is something eluding you in your life right now, ask yourself what you have to let go of. There is something you're holding on to—an attitude, dream, goal, outdated notion, belief, emotion, stubbornness, resistance, fear, concern, excuse, knee-jerk reaction, insecurity, thought pattern, paranoia—something. Of course, you have to be self aware enough—and honest enough—to recognize the things you're holding on to in the first place. Ultimately, the only thing that ever stands between us and the things we want out of life is ourselves. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If you've ever had a massage, meditated, practiced yoga or done any sort of relaxation exercise, then you know that your body holds on to tension in places you didn't realize. And you also know how hard it can be to let go of certain muscles...or to even know if you've let go of them...or to even know those muscles are there. Then, when you're "fully relaxed", you find another level of holding on beneath that. And you loosen that. And then, eventually, you're satisfied you're fully relaxed, even if momentarily.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This is the same process that happens on our personal journeys of growth. The more you let go of the muscle of the ego, the tighter wound you realize it is and the more places you see you're holding on that you never knew existed. And then, if it's even possible to reach a place where you think you've fully let go, you become conscious of a whole other nuance of holding on that you never knew existed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If you're angry with someone, you're holding on. If you're sad or lonely, you're holding on. If you're stressed, you're holding on. If you're pursuing a goal, you're holding on. Even if you're happy, you're holding on. In fact, if you're alive and conscious, you're holding on...haha. Even monks hold on to their practice and devotion. We get glimpses of letting go, but we can't stay there, partly because trying to stay there would be holding on and partly because our journey on earth counts on us holding on to something. Holding on is our gravity. It's what keeps us tethered to this reality. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As you begin a practice of self awareness and letting go, you also begin to see what's working for you as far as attachments go. A wise friend once told me "move toward that which makes you feel larger" and that principle applies here. If something is keeping you stuck or making you feel small, it's time to let go. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">For a different perspective, Buddhism believes that attachment is greatest source of suffering amongst humans. They define attachment as seeing the thing you're attaching to as separate from yourself. In their way of seeing things, it's possible to transcend attachments by being united with all things. So, in that way of thinking, letting go is actually the opposite of non-attachment. In non-attachment, there is nothing to let go of because there is unity in all things. In essence, you let go of your resistance to accepting this thing into your being. So that's another perspective on the situation. It doesn't make our journey as spiritual seekers any easier, though. It's just as hard to come to a place of non-attachment with something as it is to let go of it. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I estimate that some of my letting go is letting go and some of it is non-attachment. I know that the more I understand and embody something, the less impact it has on me. And I also know that I frequently feel like I'm fighting upstream with some struggles and I often visualize letting go and letting the current take me...surrendering to it. Two sides of the same coin, really. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">For the vast majority of us, there's never going to come a day when we'll be here on earth without having countless attachments or things to hold on to. But we can lighten our loads, which is what the spiritual journey is about. It's about being as clear a channel as possible to transcend suffering or to receive and transmit grace, God's light, universal energy, the goddess...whatever speaks to you. Whatever your beliefs, however, the path to God or happiness or whatever you're trying to reach, can never be found by reaching toward something outside of you. It can only be found by clearing a pathway toward it within. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>Tierney Sadlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508037058967261204noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1627357967936193401.post-86719209844317433352018-06-24T17:16:00.002-04:002018-06-24T17:17:12.208-04:006/25/18—Struggling With Anger<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO1VdC_lJy2x94ZqG9u5nuUAWv4yPLfDOzbA_JOH29XZuShyphenhyphen8EkSL1pzQicKxYsde1UZavySiHFZidSBSbshkpqOH_uKFn7nIzw9Ho-pVIkWoIiBDk9vWf01mEJNB1Fh1R3eENIN36m78/s1600/s-l300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="300" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO1VdC_lJy2x94ZqG9u5nuUAWv4yPLfDOzbA_JOH29XZuShyphenhyphen8EkSL1pzQicKxYsde1UZavySiHFZidSBSbshkpqOH_uKFn7nIzw9Ho-pVIkWoIiBDk9vWf01mEJNB1Fh1R3eENIN36m78/s400/s-l300.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Sometimes doing the right thing, making the right choice or having the right opinion can be unpopular. It can certainly <i>feel</i> unpopular. Sometimes it can make you feel like a pariah. But when you walk the spiritual path, you have to keep growing. And those around you may not be ready to grow. Grow anyway.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Each time something like this happened to me, I was rejected and ridiculed by people who couldn't stretch themselves. Maybe I forgave someone too soon. Refused to lower myself to someone's level. Walked away from groups I no longer resonated with. Maybe I saw something others weren't ready to see. Maybe I thought or believed something others hadn't come around to think.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">It's hard not to hate these days, especially if you're an American. It seems to be that way on all sides of the situation. I struggle with it myself. But I feel this situation is asking me to grow. And it's also asking me to risk becoming "unpopular" because I don't want to join in the hate anymore.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">If you abandon your values and beliefs when times get tough, then the proper foundation hadn't been built, no matter how spiritual you think you are. (And, frankly, we regularly outgrow the foundations we build in life anyway.) It's easy to love and forgive everyone when your world is stable. It's easy to connect with your higher power and elevate your vibes. But when others challenge, offend, gall, anger or befuddle you, godliness can fly right out the window.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">So how much do you <i>really</i> believe we're all one? How willing are you to forgive? How much do you really trust in your higher power to steer you safely through chaos? How much do you want to turn toward love instead of hate? How much do you want to seek what makes you feel larger? How badly do you want to be part of the solution instead of being distracted by the problem? And, most importantly, are your heart, mind and actions reflecting those ideals?</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I ask myself these questions a lot. And some days I'm disappointed in the answers I have to give. It's a struggle. And there are times when you make decisions for your own growth that may not the serve the growth of others. We're all here on our own missions. My forgiveness may be what I need to stretch, and another's lack of forgiveness may be what they need to sit with. My decision to move on may be what's right for my soul's journey and another's decision to stay and love them anyway may be what they need.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Forgiveness and letting go of hate are very similar in that neither mean you have to continue surrounding yourself with the person. Neither mean you have to engage the person if you see them in the future. And neither mean you're OK with what they did. Both, however, DO mean you're shifting the energy in your heart. Neither are about the other person. Both are about you and the energy you carry in your heart. And neither is "complete" until you not only do and say forgiving or loving things, but also <i>think</i> loving and forgiving things. The thinking part can still be a challenge long after your outward facing self seems past it. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Interestingly enough, when you make that shift in your heart and mind, the other person often finds their way to growth, too, because the "you vs. me" energy has been broken. You could be half a world away and they can feel it. It shouldn't be your intention. Your intention should be to free yourself and move on. But it does demonstrate how the energy all of us hold shapes the energy of everyone else.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The Buddhists have a loving kindness meditation they do where you imagine you're walking down a road and and someone you love crosses your path. Your heart opens as you greet them. Then you continue on the path and come across an old acquaintance. Your heart opens as you greet them. Then you come across someone you had a beef with long ago, but have forgiven. Your heart opens. Then it's someone you don't even know, but disagree with. Then it's someone who has hurt you or you currently disagree with.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">It gets harder and harder as you go down the path. But life is like that, too. You learn to forgive stupid stuff, then you encounter something new to find "unforgivable". And so it goes. It's like that with every lesson and every layer of the onion you peel away. But as you look around you and see others modeling principles you admire, know this: they are still on the same path as you. They haven't graduated, they're still struggling the same way you are, just maybe a lttle further down the road.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Sometimes growth can be painful. Sometimes it drops you off in the unknown all by yourself. And sometimes you wonder what the benefit is if you lose companionship because of it. But it's not about being popular or right. It's about living in the fullness of your ideals. It's about walking the talk. Cutting the strings that tether you to your smaller self. It's about integrity. With each step you come closer to your god and closer to the tribe that will take you again to the next level.</span></span>Tierney Sadlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13508037058967261204noreply@blogger.com2