In shallow heart
Without youthful vision
Or elevation of the soul
From this swirling world of chaos in my mind,
I must fly away to some place of peace,
With imagination unfurled, my chains unbind,
Where heroes make my wars to cease.
And here Beauty will kiss once again my tears,
As outflows needed comfort and love,
To take away all of my frustrations and fears,
To dance in the sunlight shining above.
For only a little while in this place can I stay,
As reality eagerly waits in the wings,
And yet this world of mine will not go away,
Nor will soon flee the song I will sing.
Sounds of serenity serendipitously serenade the soul situated twixt time and eternity
With songs rising in the heart that longs to belong to youth renewed in silent beauty,
Believing in living in life and love, speaking in an heavenly language from above,
Running and laughing into the New Year, unbounded, free and unchained from fear
To hold another so dear, to bring cheer where there are tears, and light in the dark
Places of the world so stark as we ourselves become our own spark of angelic grace
That we interlace with the souls of sisters and brothers around this one wide globe
. . . . . . .
Happy and Most Blessed New Year to One and All!
Monstrosity of darkness, howling winds and waves of ferocity ~
Homes swept away, steel shells of grand buildings left in tortuosity ~
Scourge of God, perhaps, or mindless chance,
Who really knows about the turbulent dance
That we call by the same name as the warrior archangel of heaven,
Which beckons recognition of power in a position of submission,
And all our glory from before lies shattered on the floor of earth,
As the storm sunk the worth of worldly goods, leaving us in dearth,
And so though we cast our bread upon the water, the pain will last
As we hold fast to some sliver of hope among death and destruction,
While we arduously work at reconstruction in upward direction
Without any eruption in jubilee, for we mark our enemy in the sea,
Wondering when we will next be forced to flee such dark reality
Continuing my reflections begun in “Temporary Insanity,” I would like to share my memories from my first few days in a SpectraCare group home, one of many located in the Wiregrass area of Southeast Alabama.
The day I first moved in I felt both relieved and anxious … actually, manic. I was relieved to be in a well-structured, safe and secure environment, which was located in the rural outskirts of the small town of Samson. Yet I also felt very high-strung, like I couldn’t settle down to save my life, and, indeed, I had serious problems even going to sleep at night, which fueled an unreasonable fear that I would never sleep again.
Point in fact, though I was thankful to be where I was, I didn’t know if I would be able to stay. I thought I might actually have to be moved into more intensive care … somewhere, though I didn’t know where that would be. To make matters worse, I was nearly frightened to death that if I were moved into more intensive care, I would never get out. Why this particular conclusion? I can’t really say, but that was my state of mind.
Oftentimes I just felt like screaming, not because of where I was — I was grateful for my new locale — but because I deeply felt totally overwhelmed. My Ordeal followed me into the group home, but what else should I have expected? Naturally, it was not going to end simply because I’d moved somewhere new.
I can distinctly recall lying in bed as early as 7 to 8 p.m. wondering if I’d be able to rest … to fall asleep. Of course, the attention I gave to this question only aggravated the problem. Thinking about it made it worse.
As an answer to my difficulties in sleep, the staff psychiatrist upped my dosage of Seroquel to a whopping 600 mg just before bedtime. For my constant agitation and anxiety, he prescribed both Buspirone and Vistaril. The good doctor also increased my dosage of Depakote to 2000 mg per day … so I ended up quite drugged, to say the least. This bothered me, but not as much as feeling severely agitated all the time and not being able to sleep at night; consequently, I took all of my medication without hesitation.
Strangely enough, during these first days in the group home I really didn’t allow myself to wonder all that much about God and where God might be in my Ordeal. In fact, I really didn’t pray much. It was almost like I was spiritually stymied. Spiritually I felt numb … not able to engage my soul in … whatever. I did still believe in God; that was never a question. I was, or felt like I was, spiritually impotent. Did this bother me? At the time, no it did not, and this is what I mean by feeling numb.
The first rekindling of the flame of faith came in our Sunday morning attendance at a semi-Charismatic, racially-mixed church, and it came more through the praise-and-worship music than anything that was actually said… Well, at the time I really did not need, nor probably could have handled, any intellectual/theological engagement of my mind. It was my heart that needed nourishment and encouragement, and this is what that church provided, much to my gratitude.
After about four to six weeks I had calmed down and settled in to what felt more like an actual home. And it is probably well-worth noting that I received no visits, nor even phone calls from family and friends during this initial stage, which was ultimately good. To tell the truth, I really did not want to shoulder the burden of visiting or even talking on the phone. During my first days in the Samson Group Home, it would have been too much. I just couldn’t do it, but what I could do, was rest and recuperate … thankfully.
When finally I was able to receive my first visit from family — specifically my eldest sister and her husband — I was ready. But that’s another recollection for another time.
On far horizon
All of my dreams do brighten,
Fears scattered by light
Of the Son shining in sight
Of the darkness of stark night
Worry to worry, hurry, scurry,
And all in such a baseless fury;
Sigh, cry with eyes so blurry,
Fly so high to crash and burn,
You may never learn to discern
Where to turn your concern …
Hostile regions of your mind
Bind and blind, and you find
What kind of peace eludes you,
Confuses and then abuses you,
And misuses and accuses you,
As you sulk over easy living lost
While attempting tempting plans
To escape the banality of reality,
Yet you must come face to face
With the case of unsullied truth
That traces lines of finest wine
Of life no longer rife with pain,
But this begins without the sin
Of pride or fear to be so near
What only angels hear
In the realms of glory,
Where your story is boldly told
With a hold on part of a heart
Which has been so very cold
Till now, when there is no reason
To worry, hurry, and super scurry