Recovery Day Festival, 6&6th, New Westminster

I arrived early.  Everyone is setting up.  Great to see known folk, Already received a hug from a beautiful Orchard organizer.  Good chat with a Last Door fellow.  Actually spoke to a Cedars volunteer.  Recovery is all about connection. I’ve also got a t shirt, We are #evidence.  

I am always astonished at how good looking everyone is.  It’s a night and day experience with the active addiction folk in the DTES. The men and women here have substance. Considering addiction knows no boundaries.  Recovery is open to all.  I think the women are looking particularly attractive not just healthy but fashion conscious. I remember Avalon centre holding fashion shows for the women in recovery.  After months and years of obsession with drugs and booze they celebrate self care in recovery. An oft heard saying in AA is ‘we’ll love you till you can love yourself’.  The shame in addiction is replaced by the dignity of recovery.  

I remember Dr. Graham Cunningham, Homewood Treatment Centre, now the former director saying, “People begin to eat again and next they visit a dentist,”. Cocaine does horrors to the teeth.  Doug Lovely, my cosmetic dentist and all around great guy  has an office  right beside the bandstand.  I noted several booths representing various dental clinics.  

There’s more tattoos here than at a church picnic.  More piercings . The spirituality here is inspirational.  Addiction is its own religion with alcohol, substances or other addictions as the God that is worshiped. No surprise the old folk called it ‘demon drink’.   People in recovery say ‘religion is for those who don’t want to go to hell and spirituality is for those who’ve been and don’t want to go back.’

A couple of older guys stopped and talked to me.  Shaking my hand and making ‘connection’.  The recovery community is friendly that way.  Addiction is isolation in a bubble with predators trying to take whatever money or life you have.  No surprise they call addiction a country and western song where you lose your family, home, job and truck. Recovery is country and western song played backwards.  All the good stuff comes back.  Health and peace of mind. 

The band is warming up and the female singer sounds New Orleans.  Such a powerful voice.   Powerful drums. 

I always love the dances in recovery because the guys are so enjoying themselves.  The same guys who used to need to be loaded to dance now are having a great time without staggering into tables and starting fights in the parking lot.

There’s Harm Reduction represented here too.  It’s either Palliative Care or a stepping stone to abstinence the’cure’ for addiction, There are some who get recovery either by stopping completely or going at their own speed. All roads in recovery were heading slower or faster away from the abyss.  You don’t have to take the elevator all the way to the sub basement.  You can get off at any floor.  Dr.  Ray Baker’s research showed that recovery from addiction was like other diseases, the earlier the intervention the higher the success.  No one is judging.  The inclusivity in the community is the recognition none are perfect and no one is a saint.  Honesty begins with the recognition of a problem and asking for help. I loved the banner at the IDAA, International Doctors in AA meeting which stated, “We are not alone”.  Addiction is so lonely.  Egomania with an inferiority complex and such a load of lies.

Lots more people here, I’ve had a muffin at Waves with Cafe Latte.  Madigan loves the smells of all the other dogs passing by.  He insisted on a taste of the muffin.  

Well the bands gone funky with a raw rock and roll sound that’s telling me I’ve done enough writing and must get into the present.  One day at a time.  Practicing the presence of God. It’s called the present because it’s a gift.  Getting my head in the same room as my ass is.

I’m so glad I’ve come. Great weather. Great people.  Such a terrific vibe. 

Writing, psychiatry, development, blogging, gratitude

I just read C.S. Lewis on writing.  I am a writer but I am not writing as I could.My stream of consciousness open journal blog project is a bit old.  I like writing my thought. I’d originally thought to share these because so many ‘bad’ people were attempting to censor not just speech but thought. I wanted to clarify that sanity was not a sanitized mind.  As a psychiatrist I wanted people to see that creativity and imagination could be cluttered.  I wanted to share that all the drives and impulses and good and bad thoughts passed through the mind of a supposedly ‘bormal’ or ‘well’ person, The distinction was what one focussed their attention on,  

Cognitive behavioural Therapy certainly teaches us that what we focus or dwell on is what matters.  

The Twelve Steps teach us that we commonly hold resentments and fears and that they underline our daily actions and achievements , 

Mystics like Brother Lawrence have taught us to remain in the present. Carpe diem.  Seize the day.  One day at a time.  Get your head in the same room as your ass is.

Christianity and other faith healings taught the rational person to be aware of their addiction or obsession with the various ‘sins’ ‘errors of distraction”. These were Pride, Lust, Gluttony, Sloth, Envy, Greed, Anger.  Peace of mind and focus on the’ good’ were goals of enlightenment.  Moderation was sought rather than extremes.  

The psychoanalyst taught us that there was an unconscious which influenced our day to day life.  Fundamental drives influenced the rational.  Reproduction or sex.  Fear of death.  Aggression and competition,  

Psychology taught us that the mind wasn’t the Lockian tabula Rosa like the computer or chalkboard but rather a mixture of nature and nurture.  Genetics and imprinting and epigebnetic factors affected our behaviour. 

The philosophers taught us about existential angst.  Victor Frankly taught us the need for meaning and purpose, what he learned from surviving Auschwitz.  

Positive Psychology looked to resilienc, determination, meaning, motivation.  

Motivation therapy helped break old coping strategies which had once been beneficial but now had become chains,

The desire to be ‘free’ was fundamental yet cooperation was necessary for evolution and advancement of individual and group,  Sociology, sociobiology, history, tribal wisdom, memory all contributed to allowing the individual and group to ‘actualize’.  Maslow delineated the various developmental processes and stages.  Freuds original Oral, Anal, Genital stages of development was much expanded by. Erickson with his 8 stages of development. Piaget showed the progress of Neuro development from concrete to abstract. Today we know the brain doesn’t really achieve maturity till 25 and indeed neuroplasticity is such that learning continues throughout life despite the pruning and focus of the neural network towards certain pursuits.

I ‘ve enjoyed journaling my inner confusion, the likes of the play Waiting for Godot’.  I’ve enjoyed sharing my journeys and adventures.  I’ve imagined that others have appreciated seeing that the ‘unneditted’ work precedes the editted work.  Indeed for creativity we encouraged presence, childlike mind and stream of consciousness.  The artist is necessarily at odds with the police.  

Freud described the Id, Ego and Superego.  This was later developed as the Parent, Adult, Child model of Transactional Analysis.  The artist is necessarily more childlike in their approach to reality while the police man is more parental.  Interactions are often at conflict in tone due to these differences in mods of communication.  Don’t talk down to me is a telling phrase.  Who do you think you are is another.  The content or data may not be as problematic ass the carrier wave or tone as in communication theory and ‘static’ seen in Hamm radio frequency 

I like to take pictures, I like to share them, I like that my journal serves to be a reminder of my own history.  If we forget history we are bound to repeat it.  I am amused at the repetitive challenges I encounter when I look back at my journal here.  This is unedited. It was to be the basis for edited works. I have three books in preparation and I’m making low progress because it’s more work.  Writing is fun.  Editing and organizing and such is more work.  I miss having an editor.  I like the division of labour.  I wrote columns and magazine articles saying I became a master of the 10 page piece.  Now we’ve moved to sound bites. I am hoping to complete the book. One is on travel with dogs.  Another is on psychiatry another on spirituality and addiction,  I seem to need time and spac to organize these.  Blogging I can do in a half hour. I don’t need a desk or floor to lay out the whole work . Yet that’s where I want to go and imagine if I retired I’d simply retire to a desk with the three projects set before me and devote three months to each.  I’d like that but frankly I like my life as it is now,  I continue to write as exercise as well, It’s like rifle target practice,  It serves many purposes. For years I wrote and buried the journals of cursive writing in baxes in the basements,  That was before politic abd dark web and social media.  Today we know there is no black and white but always grey and a rainbow of colours. I’m grateful for that. I’m tired of being around the paranoid and angry. I want to play in imagination and dalience enjoying the journey more than the destination, Thank you

.  

Camping Gratitude

Thank you Lord for the morning Thank you for the quiet.  There is only the sound of the creek rushing by. The sound of the highway has hardly woken. I heard one truck go by. There are no sirens. I don’t even have a heat making noise.  She mumbled in her sleep a bit. The dog didn’t make a sound till I got out of bed and used the toilet. Thank you for indoor plumbing and water.

Thank you that I have water. Yesterday I backed the trailer into the water hose post catching the hose on the trailer and pulling off the top causing an unstoppable geyser requiring public works to be called.  She was sitting beside there and didn’t call to tell me I was going to hit something. I couldn’t see it in the mirrors. I’m no good at backing up and relied on her there to help. « I didn’t know what you were doing , » she said, « I couldn’t see. » 

I was blaming and upset.  Another expense I thought. I could pay but equipment costs too much to maintain.  I did damage my last trip out also backing up the trailer.  There are problems in design of the equipment. I’ve asked for help and been brushed off.  It’s the story of my life these days.  Aging.  I express concerns and they’re brushed off. I aware of death.  

Thank you for this day again. I’m glad to be alive.  

Yesterday I got lost in the back woods driving my quad. I took a left turn thinking it would lead to Jura,  It eventually lead to Eris.  But I’d started to secondary main looking logging road only to have it descend into a rock strewn steep trail that had me descending in a bit of terror using first gear and a lot of braking. Madigan was on the Honda Tracker quad behind me.  I’d long given up looking for game and was focussed totally on the descent and not pitchpoling or tipping to left or right. I was glad to cross the railway path but turned north rather than south.  Fortunately some kids on motorcycles appeared and I headed down from where they came up.

That’s when I found the Eris fire department. Across the road a delightful man was backing up his hoe. I drove the quad to him. He got out of his cab when I asked him how I’d get back to Heimbre Mountain Road.  He asked how I’d come to be there and told m I’d made a wrong turn at the sand pit.  He drew me a map. His kid come out to watch the adults. His dogs visitted my dog.  I turned around the quad and headed back out only to find myself in a private property. 

I came out of the private property and turned up a road leading up the mountain. It didn’t seem steep at first but when I hit the bend I could see the next stretch was way to steep. It was broken rocky uneven and I’d have to stand the whole way up if I hoped to make it. I tried to back down but the path was uneven and I immediately feared tipping to the side. There was only one hope, gun it. I did. Ending on a bit of flat beside the trail, heart racing and breath shallow. I didn’t even bother looking back at Madigan. He was leaning into my back his little heart thumping. I was about to be frozen so gunned it again making it to a turn on the off road moss not quite tilting over as I came around.  Then it was straight and back down the trail convinced I’d been guarded by angels and nearly escaped rolling with a quad on top of me,  I headed back to Eris and took a different trail up the mountain eventually arriving at the railway trail , back to the sand pit and onto the tunnel, the helpful guide had marked in his hand written map.  The tunnel clinched it . I was going to be okay.  I found the highway and took the Hiembre Mountain road back to my truck.

Thank you God the truck and trailer were undisturbed. Thank you God that Madigan and I were unhurt.  Thank you God for the beautiful sunny day with just a touch of rain and cloud now,  Thank you God for the Camper. It was great to see it there and great to see Laura sitting outside. I’d thought on the way I’d ask for her help backing in.  But as she was  sitting outside I thought she’d be watching, That’s when I backed the trailer into the tap and created havoc the geyser creating a puddle as I went to get the manager.

He returned and called city works. It was a municipal campground, 

They had it fixed and I was thankful.  I was tired and didb’t know what I was thinking. That they’d shut down the camp. Catastrophising as usual. They did shut the water off for a few minutes but only to that site.  

With Laura’s help I actually backed the trailer into the site without hitting anything else.  I then unhitched the trailer and backed in the truck. For future reference I won’t bring a trailer to this campground. We’ve been coming here thirty years and only twice have I brought a trailer. This is the only time on season and the park was packed and maneuverability was anxiety provoking. I’m exhausted at the end of the day of hunting too. Too much time on the couch and Netflix since Covid. I walk the dog but no athleticism sinc the crisis.  The camper has been in repair half the time too during hunting season because I keep breaking something or it’s just wear and tear. This weekend a happy jack failed and I’ve had to hand crank the jack.  When I get back I’m hoping John will fix it. The waitlist for repairs on trailers is 3 to 6 months. Now I’m in the season when I actually use the trailer.  Oh well, Thank you God I’m alive, Laura’s alive, Madigan’s alive and we’re out here in the wilderness taking a break from the city and the work demands and insaiety.  Thank you for all your blessings ,Thank you for Oxford which has been continually distracting me and filling me with doubt and concern.  Looking back is difficult these days as there seems so little forward. I’ve begun reading old books and watching old movie s and enjoying them. I simply don’t see a future. I’m just muddling along and that’s okay but the new adventure just isn’t there. I m. I’ve a list of achievements but I read Thomas Merton on obscurity and consider the need to surrender and question letting go.  I am going gentle into the night and I’m not raging. Just muddling. I dob’t like the politics and the lies and taxes and the corruption upst me.  Gratitude is the answer. God is good all the time. The Infinite holds every possibility. Phillips was right . My God is too small. I must trust and accept grace. This too will pass. The Hound of Heaven will find me. The long dark night of the soul will end, I’m do the next right thing,  Time is of an essence, Joy awaits. Thank you Jesus. 

Colonial

« You’re just a colonial, bloke. Without us, you’d be nobody. » said an English fellow. I was a Canadian living and working in England in the 70’s and was often mocked and bullied in this way. The English society was rigidly hieararchal.  My buddies, some working class blokes I’d met at the local pub were friendly and would always say ‘don’t mind him’ when someone would spout off .

This group I hung with were what might be termed ‘lower middle class’.  They commonly had some college education and office assistant level job.  They weren’t ‘posh’nor were they ‘common’.The rigid class system distinguished upper, middle and lower class. There didn’t seem to be much movement as position depended so much on your parents, their past, where you lived and the dialect of English you spoke. As a ‘colonial’ I was an ‘outsider’ , welcomed by some , disparaged by others. I was novel and appealing to a certain extent but if I crossed some secret law of class behaviour I was « corrected’.  « Bloody colonial. » 

I’d read some 80% or thereabouts of land in England was still owned  or controlled by some relative or ancestor of the Norman Conquerors of a thousand AD. 

Years later I was working as a doctor in a small town and this local woman approached me inviting me to a ‘party’ at her estate.  She said that ‘we’ve had a discussion about you and observed you this last year you’ve been here. We think you’d be a good addition to our social group. We’re all the right people and tend to make all the important decisions in the community together. You’d do well to join us, » she was rather pleased with herself.

I thanked her but stayed apart remembering how I’d  been rushed for several fraternities and remained aloof then too.. For a social person I’m really quite the loner. Today I most enjoy hanging out with my dog , going for walks and getting together with the girlfriend on weekends.  I have a few close friends and many acquaintances I hold fondly. I’m anxious to get close to people at my age. So many of my closest friends have died and divorces and betrayal has taken it’s toll on my trust and socialization. I feel rather raw perhaps as a nature of my work, sensitive to the ‘loudness’ of peoples emotions.  

I encounter people today who disparage me as a ‘radical’ politically but I’d characterize myself as middle of the road,  libertarian really. It’s ironic how those in their left or right bubbles believe they are in the middle.  It’s difficult being in a world where people argue constantly about two humped versus one humped camel. Frankly I don’t care much about camels.  

People often identify with the larger group to give their own meaningless insignificance value.  The family is brought into the tribe and the tribe the nation.  Now there’s the Globalist One World Order. They want everyone to identify with their latest totalitarianism.  I cringe.  So often I want to be left alone.  Often I feel even a bit paranoid as if  I’m targeted already by the Borg Like government burearocrat. If I don’t ‘conform’ I’m one of the  ‘enemy’.  

I  read Voltaire , « Patirotism is the last refuge to which a scoundrel clings’.  Identification with the group and knowing right thing to say is fear and anxiety reducing.. 

There’s comfort and solace in being ‘in’ .  I so enjoyed reading Arendt on the ‘Banality of Evil’ after she’d seen the Nuremberg trials where everyone denied accounatability.  Robert Graves in the Golden Bough said that the choice of a king or chief was that he could be sacrificed while the group survived.  It’s like blaming the mind today as ‘he was of two minds’ and couldn’t focus whereas in the not so distant past it would be said ‘his heart wasn’t in it’.  I’m always reminded of my colleague who specialized in anal surgery. Asked why this rather than heart or brain or kidney, he replied, ‘I’ve done them all but when I could relieved a person’s constipation they were the happiest and most grateful. I get cards at Christmas from patients I saw 30 years ago ».  Not surprising we call people assholes when we’re not fond of them .

I must remember I’m loved by God and that first and foremost I must love what I am and have for so many people driving Honda’s wish they had Lamborghinie’s,  So many people poor wish to be rich.  There is never enough in this world.   reigns.The wise also warn that we should beware of what we wish for.

The Buddhist master describes the west as  suffering ‘spiritual consumerism’. It’s no surprise that addiction rules not just the gutter world but Wall Street and politics.

I’m reading David Baldacci’s the Calamity of Souls. It’s a story of a trial of a black man accused of killing white people in the south.  It’s set in the time of Rosa Parks.  

In the 70’s I eventually moved home to Canada.  I haven’t been called a ‘colonial’ in decades.  The feelings of shame have come and gone for other reasons.  Life is changing.  I still feel an outsider a lot. 

Shakespeare’s King Lear said, « So we’ll live, And pray, and sing, and tell old tales and laugh at gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues talk of court news , and we’ll talk with them too - Who loses and who wins who’s in who’s out - and take upon ‘s the mystery of things as if we were god’s spies,’  

Enlightenment

In a cave in the far east there lived an old man, well over a hundred, but no one knew by quite how much.  He was a legend, known far and wide for his wisdom, deeds of kindness, and some would say miracles.  An American news agency had heard of this man and sent a female journalist from Boston  to interview him. She was to gain insight into what was so special about  him that he’d gained thousands of followers and was visited by eastern dignitaries.  Indeed a shrine had been built in his honor an immense service, an outpouring of wealth and love from his followers.   Still he preferred to live in the cave high on this mountain in Nepal with just a few of his disciples.  It was here that the female journalist found him after a rather arduous trek with her LA photographer/videographer.  She was blond and wore a khaki skirt and jacket and sensible shoes. . Her white blouse was streaked with sweat. So she took a few minutes to tidy her appearance before she was to be introduced to the venerable sage who some would call a saint. .  Long ago he’d been called a zen master.  Now he was just referred to as ‘the one’.

The photographer/videographer was tired.  He’d humped his camera gear up the mountain. The day was passing and the light wasn’t very good. He hoped his partner would get on with it.  He was always in a bit of hurry.  To get the story. To get the film. To get the copy out to the publisher. Seeing the zen master, he thought he must be the oldest man he’d ever known. The man was so thin and his skin was like parchment.  He was standing near talking to his disciples in  loose fitting pyjamas.  The photographer had taken the tripod out of his pack and attached it to his camera.  The disciples were motioning to them to come forward.

When he came closer something about the old man’s  face caught the photographer’s well trained eye. . A kind of inner illumination. He saw it but did’t know if his camera would capture it.  He hoped so.  The old man bowed to them.  His hands were together before his chest.

« Namaste », he said. His voice a rich baritone.

His translater said to the journalist.  « My holy master is greeting you.  Namaste means ‘bow me you’ .  Some say it also means ‘the divine within me salutes the divine within you.’  The master was standing very still. He was sinewy rather than frail.  He waited patiently as his translater spoke to the beautiful young woman who having heard the translation put her hands together and bowed back to him. « Namaste’ she said.  He smiled..Her voice was like bird song. 

There were couches set in a semi circle and the master took a seat on one, She sat across from him. the translater to her left and the camera man with his tripod up, now positioned to the right with his back to the light of the cave opening.

The journalist brushing an errant strand of golden hair from her forehead looked  down at the notebook she’d place on her lap. It held all the questions that she’d discussed with her producers back in Boston.  She looked up and asked , « Great master, can you tell me what is enlightenment? »

The master looked to his right at his translator who leaned forward and conveyed her question in their dying language.  He nodded.

Smiling ,he turned back to the journalist and translated the words of his master.

The journalist looked to the translator.  The videographer’s camera was filming.  It’s a film that remains today a century later long after the old man had died along with the young who were there that day.

He says, « I shit when I am shitting: the translater conveyed

There was some more questions and answers after that but the interview didn’t last much longer. The sage grew tired easily at his age. His disciples were very protective of him. Perhaps  he felt too he had said what needed to be said,    Soon the young couple were leaving being shown back down the mountain by the monks.  The sun was setting in the western sky. The master would be give no more interviews.  This was certainly the last time he spoke to a westerner especially a weestern woman. It was the only time he’d been filmed too.

« I shit when I am shitting ».  

The journalist repeated this several times on their journey back to the city..

She remembered reading the words of Brother Lawrence a western monk who’d encouraged the ‘ practice of the presence of God:. She spoke with her photographer, He shared he’d  remembered  hearing  a  Canadian soldier in a lull in the war he was shooting, say, « you’ve got to get your head in the same room  your ass is. » 

« I shit when I’m shitting » the old man had said. 

The network published the story.  It aired as a piece at the end of one days news.  The journalist had considered every synonym she could think of but in the end said exactly what the translater had told her. It did get a laugh.  People laughed when she told them They laughed when the show was aired.  Though the acoustics and light in the cave were not that good  they all got to see the old man and hear the translators words. The episode was called ‘Enlightennent’. The producrs picked the title.   Sitar, violin and flute  played in the back ground.  The audience laughed a bit awkwardly at first but then a bit more loudly as they because aware others were laughing too.  

The film was shown again and again occasionally. The tape was eventually changed to digital and stored in the library archives.  Serious students continued to come acrosss it in their studies. Professors referenced it in future courses.  Despite the lighting the camera man had caught the subtle illumination that reminded some of the halos seen in medieval paintings in the Louvre.  It was less of a circle above the head but more of a sheen radiating from within.. One could even imagine his eyes twinkling as he said « I shit when I’m shitting’ , that refrain that would be recorded and shared down the ages for anyone seeking enlightenment to hear.

 

Control

The oldest law in the world is the ‘chinese law of the fish, there are big fish and little fish. The little fish must be fast and numerous.

The psychiatrist is first and foremost and agent of control. Insaniety has been described as being ‘out of control’. There is some kind of ‘normal’ to which psychiatrists adhere. That ‘normal’ is defined first and foremost by whoever or whatever wields ultimate control.  

It is said ‘history is written by the winners’.  So psychiatry and mental wellness are defined, not solely, but most significantly by those who dominate and win.  

Presently society is ruled by the UN Security Couuncil. These represent the ‘winners’ of World War II, Russia, China, USA, Britain and France.  If an individual were radically opposed to these central regimes they would be deemed ‘out of touch with reality’.  Reality in a political and material sense is defined by these ‘winners’

Deviation from the ‘norml’ is considered ‘bad’ or ‘mad’.  Bad is addressed predominantly by the Judge and jail system historically seems as ‘masculine’ and superior.  Mad was addressed predominantly by the psychiatrist and asylum system which is consider feminine and inferior.  However, if a person is considered insane they can be kept indefinitely by the Governor General’s Warrant.

In the court madness is dealt with by being declared ‘guilty’ but insane or ‘not guilty by reason of insaniety.

Saniety is being ‘in control’. 

Sunday in August

I woke at 5 am to the rain. The weather report had storms forewarned but instead it was just showers.  I went back to bed and woke again in time for coffee and preparing for church

Madigan loved seeing Fritz, the priest’s dog. It was nice to see everyone. I’d been away awhile telling everyone I’m a winter Christian and summer pagan.  Camping takes precedent in summer. It was good to connect.  Madigan was relatively okay only needing to be taken out once when he began to growl , tail wagging, in prayers. He just wants attention.  I enjoyed the sermon,  Rev Emily discussed the ‘cannibalism’ aspects of St. John and showed the metaphoric neature of his speech by quoting the beginning of this mystical treatise, The Word became Flesh.  The word is variously understood as spirit, god, and ingesting the ‘information’ might be the explanation in the DNA of today’s understanding .  I liked the way she put it, not turning to the modern but just saying that it would have been understood in the day as such.  I found myself thinking a materialist aetheist would think Jesus meant eat him literally.  The killing of babies and eating of warriors hearts certainly was popular with the pagans.  It’s called the Godpel and it’s the Good news.  Jesus went vonluntartily to fulfill the Lord’s will.  

After I came home. Dave dropped by. I told him I’d had trouble with the tripod and he kindly put it together for me.  

I’ve booked Laura and I in for Bow Hunting in Princeton next long weekend.  

Yesterday was a great day with a walk to Burnaby Lake. On the way I took an excellent video of a Blue Heron lifting off and flying away.  It was an hour and a half walk. I’ve down loaded a walking app with the plan to lose weight in the next few months while getting in shape for hunting 

After that I rode the Harley with Madigan on the back to Davie Street. Laura joined us at the Italian restaurant. It was a great visit. Madigan was ecstatic seeing his mommy and sad when we had to part

Last night I watched Union with Mark Walberg and Halle Berry.  Loved the action.  I’ve been watching old NCIS and finding them comforting too. There’s law and order. The world gone ‘woke’ with PLO Hamas terrorist support disrupting the pride parade even, a million immigrants and massive mismanagement of the economy and rising costs. I’m managing and am hopeful but it’s work to stay positive.  

There’s drama in the clinic and drama in the university and I wonder what God wants of me. I just get up each day and pray and am grateful. I’m realizing I’m old and still wondering what to do when I grow up.

Thankful Laura is supportive and kind.

Madigan is such a source of entertainment, nuisance and distraction.  I really am blessed though today feel low with the rain again and the challenge of continuing to work.