Tag Archives: work

A Return to Tribalism ?

I’ve been “retired” now for almost 2 years.  Wow!  I can’t believe that much time has gone by, and it appears a window in time for me is getting ready to close.

Because my “retirement” didn’t go as planned, I found myself trying to figure out the next step.  No new jobs were coming my way because of age discrimination and other factors I won’t get into for the moment.  So, I set my sights on finding a new home and a new location, and I gave myself 2 years to do it.  Fresh start.  New life.

But there are only so many ways to stretch a state pension, especially when the state plans on imploding it.  Time bomb’s a ticking.

Shock wave number 2, the price tag on housing has skyrocketed since the time I built the dream home with my second wife.  And the crash of 2008 didn’t really help much because housing costs were so inflated by that time that they haven’t returned to any level close to being reasonable.

I searched all over the country.  Systematically zeroing in on specific localities where I thought I’d like to live while comparing the available services, the climate, if the areas were reasonably progressive, and what the tax burden would be.  Yes, believe it or not, you can really get screwed by double taxation if you’re receiving a state pension and you move out of the state providing that pension.  Both states will tax you on the same income unless you find a tax-friendly state, and from what I could see there are only about 5 of those, three of which I don’t intend to set foot in.

And with the politicians looking at slashing and burning Social Security and Medicare, those of us with employee-earned pensions can’t count on much of a boost in income when the time comes to collect from the funds we’ve paid into for some 45+ years.  The politicians have stolen most of our investment in the SS Trust Fund for other pork-barrel endeavors, and they keep shrinking Medicare payments leaving us to pick up the lion’s share of ballooning medical costs.  Oh well . . .

Yes, the most affordable housing is in places where people generally don’t want to live and where services don’t exist.  And if you find that undiscovered oasis, look out!  It won’t be long before rich people discover it, take over, drive the home prices up along with property taxes, and the original home owners will become refugees, forced to vacate their home towns.  Better move quickly.

So, what happened in the twenty-plus years that had snuck by since I built the dream home that ex number 2 took along with all the cash?  One major thing was that wages have totally stagnated while the cost of living has been relentlessly climbing.  (See my post Balance)  And since pensions only provide a fraction of what wages are, the numbers don’t crunch so well.

But this trend is not just affecting people in my age group or who are living with similar circumstances.  Nationwide, people are losing the ability to afford housing.  The solution, being forced by sheer economics, is a return to tribal living.

There has to be multiple wage earners under one roof now, or there has be a form of piggy-backed housing on a single property where the multiple workers can reside.  I see this happening more and more, and it’s taking on a variety of forms.

For starters, we are starting to see a return to multiple generations living under one roof.  Grown kids are taking in aging parents who can no longer maintain a home on their own or who are ill.  Additionally, according to a study by the Pew Research Center, 33% of young adults between the ages of 25 through 29 are living with their parents or grandparents.  This is a three-fold increase since 1970 and is the highest in 75 years.  These numbers span all education levels, race, gender and religion.  It’s all about the all-mighty dollar.  Who has it and who doesn’t.  And these youngsters can’t afford to move out.

Another form of tribal living I’ve seen is simply renting out the spare bedroom, and not just the Airbnb way for short vacation stays.  A dear friend of mine referred to this as taking in “strays.”  If you know someone you can trust who can’t afford to rent an apartment, or much more buy a house, rent them a room.  It all equals more incomes under the same roof.  A variety of communal living.  Sharing meal and entertainment space and time.

Increasing in popularity is the “ancillary dwelling unit.”  These come with a variety of names including “tiny houses” and “granny flats,” and they can be framed units or a trailer, or an RV, or a modified shipping container.  ADUs can be subject to various zoning regulations, and they may “stand alone” in the sense that the occupier could have separate utility hookups and waste removal.  The common denominator here is the ADU dweller couldn’t afford a larger home on her or his own property, and the property owner sharing space receives some benefit in return.  Expenses have to be spread out somehow.

ADUs can also be rented out as guest houses for temporary stays, and this can be an appealing situation for a home owner that’s not quite making the bill payments on time.  I’m renting a place now where the retired landowners maintain 2 guest houses to supplement their income.

I can also foresee the restructuring of the traditional concepts of marriage and child rearing.  Will we see a return of polygamy?  I don’t know, but I can easily see 2 or 3 wage-earners living under one roof while an auxiliary spouse, partner, or whomever, stays home to take care of the children.  Child care expenses won’t be outsourced anymore.  Who can afford those?  And, we may see more homeschooling accompanying this sort of lifestyle.

Regardless of the form it takes, I envision more forms of communal living as time and economic pressures continue.  This may not be a bad thing in terms of increased socialization, but that’s hard to gauge too.  Will it result in a bringing together of more people or the formations of small clicks walling themselves off from the rest of the community – compounds instead of homes?  Who knows, but until the economy improves for the average wage-earner, I think we’ll see more forms of alternative housing and the growth of interesting social arrangements.

As for me, I’m now trying to decide between setting down roots or becoming a nomad.  Or just maybe I’ll find a tribe to join.  Time will tell.

***

Photo:  This photo was shot by my one of my Great Uncles in 1928 when he was in the Army Air Corps.  He was stationed in the Philippines at the time and he flew out into the jungle in a pontoon-style airplane, and landed to visit the native homes of the Tagalog.  Over time, he rose to the rank of Major General and he played major roles in WWII and the Korean War.

Links:  For further reading see:

The Great Urban Housing Solution That Has No Good Name
A Record 64 Million Americans Live in Multigenerational Households

Update November 30, 2018: I came across an interesting post today on LinkedIn about how AirBnB is going to start designing homes.  It seems the business world has coined a new buzzword – “Coliving” – to describe the growing trend of multiple income earners having to share the cost of housing.  I really don’t see anything new in the concept except that single home ownership is becoming more out of reach for the average wage-earner and this is, perhaps, driving the trend, as I pondered about above, even faster.  If you would like to read further, check out these articles:

U.S. Homes Prices Least Affordable in Almost a Decade

Co-living 2030: Are you ready for the sharing economy?

Link Rot: As with all links to the Net, I can’t guarantee how long they will be active, so apologies if the articles have disappeared into the void of cyberspace 🙂

 

The Weight

** Below is a brief excerpt from a book of health care stories I’m working on.  Having spent around 24 years wrapped up in that first career of mine, I have some pretty gruesome stories to tell.  But this one is mild in some respects, from the early days, but it starts to set the mood.

***

The old stand-up scales squealed and rattled as I rolled it down the hall on the two wheels soldered on the bottom, below the weighing platform.  I wondered what the patients thought hearing this beast as we approached the rooms for daily weights.  The patient weights were all supposed to be taken roughly at the same time of day to duplicate the patients’ conditions.  So, we performed this routine in pairs, moving down the hallway from one room to the next.  Filling in the appropriate box on the flow sheet hanging at the foot of each bed.  More numbers to the list that defined who was in the bed.  Numbers not names.

I remember the way she looked when we entered the room.  I was helping one of the RNs weigh this thirty-three-year-old woman dying of cervical cancer.  Her eyes sunken.  Her hollow face, which became taunt with pain as we stood her up to the scales.  The nurse I was with impatiently yanked her to get her out of bed and inflicted a little more pain than was necessary.  RNs are in a hurry.  Other patients and duties were waiting.

Moving a patient is a chance to assess them.  If you’re observant.  Strength, flexibility, balance, body temperature, skin color for oxygenation, skin turgor for hydration, abrasions, bruising, breathing – relaxed or labored, diaphoresis, the color of the sclera of the eyes, and their facial expressions and what they reveal.  It’s all there, if you look.

I can see her arms and legs, only 3 centimeters (1.2 inches) in diameter.  I can feel her weakness, the muscle mass wasting away, the fragility of her bones.  If I squeezed too hard her arms would break.  She had poor balance and could barely stand.  She sweated profusely with the effort.  Her skin, cold and clammy, tinge of blue beneath the fingernails.  Poor oxygenation.  Breathing as though a boulder was on her chest.  Heart pounding.  I can feel my own gut tighten as I help her to use the emesis basin, barely having enough strength to bring her stomach contents up the length of her esophagus.  The acrid smell of her vomitus blending with the smell of antiseptics.

I still see, hear, smell, and feel this scene.  It’s burned into my brain.

I look around the four-bed room on the surgical floor.  Three other women, each with a different cancer, look away from us, and from each other.  They all lay on their sides, facing the bleached-out, green tile walls.  Their backs in alignment with each other.  Maybe, if they look away, their cancers will not get ideas about devouring them.  Denial is powerful medicine.

I stand confused, for I am only a nursing assistant.  I have no formal training, yet.  No one has taught me how to build barriers to human suffering and emotions, yet.  I don’t think that I will ever become a RN, but eventually I will.  I stand outside the door and cry.  No one notices.

The next evening, when it’s time for her weight, I insert myself between her and the RN.  I gently cradle her in my arms, placing her arms around my neck.  I lift her out of bed and her face remains relaxed — still hollow.  Her breathing is effortless.  Her skin dry.  Her stomach calm.  I stand on the scales and the RN weighs us together.  I gently lay her down in her bed and say, “I’m sorry.”  She barely whispers back, “Thank you.”  I weigh myself and subtract the two weights – 38.6 kilograms or 85 pounds.  Down again.  The cancer and the chemotherapy continue to consume her.

I promise myself that I will always feel the pain and never lose my compassion.

***

Hospital Scales

In the old days, before electronic scales, they looked like this.  They weighed a ton and their color even matched the walls and the floors – all uniformly designed.

Photos:  I found these pictures on the Internet in the public domain.  I could find no further attribution for them.

Ettore DeGrazia

Not too long ago, I visited the DeGrazia Gallery in the Sun, and it was well worth it.  This amazing and highly acclaimed artist not only did water color, oil painting, ink drawings, hot wax painting, ceramics, and sculpturing, he also built his home and gallery using traditional adobe bricks crafted on-site.  His work spanned the early 1900s through May of 1976.

On May 12, 1976, he took 100 of his paintings (valued at $250K) up into the Superstition Mountains and burned them in protest of the inheritance taxes on art work.  At the time, an artist could only deduct the supplies used in producing their art while alive, but if the finished product was inherited after the artist’s death, the heirs would have to pay tax on the full market value of the artwork.

After the protest burning, he would not produce anything more.  While he was highly criticized for his act of protest, he brought national and international attention to his cause.

I could write more about DeGrazia, but I’m no expert in fine art, and it would sound rather “brochurish.” (Yeah, I made that word up.)  I’m probably not an expert in anything for that matter.  But I was impressed by his work, and I pose the question, could you destroy such beautiful work, that labor of love guided from your heart through your hands, to take a stance on some form of societal injustice?

Could you be that strong?

***

To learn more about DeGrazia, you can visit the webpage for his gallery.

Here are some samples of his work. The photos were taken in the Gallery in the Sun.  The challenge in galleries and museums is avoiding reflections from the lighting, weird angles, other people – well you get the idea.  Some pics were cropped, not all will be perfectly straight . . .

The feature photo of DeGrazia, is a photo of a photo from a framed newspaper article that was in the gallery. The publication was “The Plain Dealer,” and the article was dated December 17, 1978.  The photo credit is to John Hemmer.

 

Paint Me a Masterpiece by Gordon MacKenzie

This is an excerpt (the last chapter) from the book called: “Orbiting the Giant Hairball: A Corporate Fool’s Guide to Surviving with Grace” that was written by Gordon MacKenzie.  While MacKenzie uses the word “God,” I believe you could substitute whatever entity or title you wished, your own belief in what constitutes the “Source,” and the message still rings true.  Enjoy.

Paint Me a Masterpiece

In your mind, conjure an image of the Mona Lisa.  Visualize that masterpiece’s subtleties of hue and tone as clearly as you can.

Next, shift to the image of a paint-by-numbers Mona Lisa.  Envision the flat, raw, colors meeting hard-edged, one against the other.

Now let me relate a fantasy about masterpieces, paint-by-numbers and you. It goes like this:

Before you were born, God came to you and said:

“Hi there!  I just dropped by to wish you luck. And to assure you that you and I will be meeting again.  Soon.  Before you know it.

You’re heading out on an adventure that will be filled with fascinating experiences.  You’ll start out as a tiny speck floating in an infinite dark ocean, quite saturated with nutrients.  So you won’t have to go looking for food or a job or anything like that. All you’ll have to do is float in the darkness.  And grow incredibly.

And change miraculously.

You’ll sprout arms and legs.  And hands and feet.  And fingers and toes.

As if from nothing, your head will take form.  Your nose.  Your mouth.  Your eyes and ears will emerge.

As you continue to grow bigger and bigger, You will become aware that this dark, oceanic environment of yours – which, when you were tiny, seemed so vast is now actually cramped and confining.  That will lead you to the unavoidable conclusion that you’re going to have to move to a bigger place.

After much groping about in the dark, you will find an exit.  The mouth of a tunnel.

“Too small,” you’ll decide.  “Couldn’t possibly squeeze through there.”

But there will be no other apparent way out.  So, with primal spunk, you will take on your first “impossible” challenge and enter the tunnel.

In doing so, you will be embarking on a brutal no-turning-back, physically exhausting, claustrophobic passage that will introduce you to pain and fear and hard physical labor.  It will seem to take forever.  But mysterious undulations of the tunnel itself will help squirm you through. A nd finally, after what will seem like interminable striving, you will break through to a blinding light.

Giant hands will pull you gently, but firmly, into an enormous room.  There will be several huge people, called adults, huddling around you, as if to greet you. If it is an old-fashioned place, one of these humongous people may hold you upside down by the legs and give you a swat on the backside to get you going.

All this will be what the big people on the other side call being born.  For you, it will be only the first of your new life’s many exploits.”

God continues:

“I was wondering.  While you’re over there on the other side, would you do me a favor?”

“Sure!” you chirp.

“Would you take this artist’s canvas with you and paint a masterpiece for me? I’d really appreciate that.”

Beaming, God hands you a pristine canvas.  You roll it up, tuck it under your arm and head off on your journey.

Your birth is just as God had predicted, and when you come out of the tunnel into the bright room, some doctor or nurse looks down at you in amazement and gasps:

“Look!  The little kid’s carrying a rolled-up artist’s canvas!”

Knowing that you do not yet have the skills to do anything meaningful with your canvas, the big people take it away from you and give it to society for safekeeping until you have acquired the prescribed skills requisite to the canvas’s return.  While society is holding this property of yours, it cannot resist the temptation to unroll the canvas and draw pale blue lines and little blue numbers all over its virgin surface.  Eventually, the canvas is returned to you, its rightful owner.  However, it now carries the implied message that if you will paint inside the blue lines and follow the instructions of the little blue numbers your life will be a masterpiece.

And that is a lie.

For more than fifty years I worked on my paint-by-numbers creation.  With uneven but persistent diligence, I dipped an emaciated paint-by-numbers brush into color No. 1 and painstakingly painted inside each little blue-bordered area marked 1.  Then on to 2 and 3 and 4 and so on.  Sometimes, during restive periods of my life, I would paint, say, the 12 spaces before the 10 spaces (a token rebellion against overdoses of linearity).  More than once, I painted beyond a line and, feeling embarrassed, would either try to wipe off the errant color or cover it over with another before anyone might notice my lack of perfection.  From time to time, although not often, someone would compliment me, unconvincingly, on the progress of my “masterpiece.”  I would gaze at the richness of others’ canvases.  Doubt about my own talent for painting gnawed at me.  Still, I continued to fill in the little numbered spaces, unaware of, or afraid to look at, any real alternative.

Then there came a time, after half a century of daubing more or less inside the lines, that my days were visited by traumatic events.  The dividends of my noxious past came home to roost, and the myth of my life began horrifically to come unglued.  I pulled back from my masterpiece-in-the-works and saw it with an emerging clarity.

It looked awful.

The stifled strokes of paint had nothing to do with me.  They did not illustrate who I am or speak of whom I could become. I felt duped, cheated, ashamed – anguished that I had wasted so much canvas, so much paint.  I was angry that I had been conned into doing so.

But that is the past.  Passed.

Today I wield a wider brush – pure ox-bristle.  And I’m swooping it through the sensuous goo of Cadmium Yellow, Alizarin Crimson or Ultramarine Blue (not Nos. 4, 13 or 8) to create the biggest, brightest, funniest, fiercest damn dragon that I can.  Because that has more to do with what’s inside of me than some prescribed plagirism of somebody else’s tour de force.

You have a masterpiece inside you, too, you know.  One unlike any that has ever been created, or ever will be.

And remember:

If you go to your grave without painting your masterpiece,

it will not get painted.

No one else can paint it.

Only you.

***

Photo: This masterpiece was painted by Claude Monet and is called “The Japanese Footbridge.”  Oil on canvass – 1899.  I took this pic when the portrait was on display in the National Gallery in Washington, D.C.

By the Numbers 2-2-5-11-3-2-2-2-2-1-3-5-4-4-4-8-27>12-2-6-13-1

Can you boil it all down to numbers?  A simple list to tell your fable.  Like a number on a military dog-tag that could identify your entire life.  In a way, maybe, but each item on the list involves multiple stories. And they will have to be told someday, if the fable is to survive . . .

2 Loving Parents

2 Siblings

5 College Scholarships

11 Years of College

3 College Degrees

2 Marriages

2 Ex-Wives

2 Successful Professional Careers

2 Stays in Jail

1 Beautiful Daughter

3 Colleges Taught In

5 Hospitals Worked In

4 State Government Positions

4 Wonderful Dogs

4 Tattoos

8 Foreign Countries

27 States

> 12 Jobs

2 Jobs Terminated

6 Near-Death Experiences

13 Soul Contracts

1 Twin Flame

 

And, I’ve probably left some things out . . .

 

***

 

The Photo: Love the way this pic came out. Firework with a one-minute exposure time. The exposure was set at a minute and the camera was aimed – the capture, I’m sure, was just a few seconds. But even a few seconds is long for a camera – just enough time to get the first part of the explosion 🙂

“Angel Dusting”

I remember when all employment practices, like hiring, firing, policy formation, etc., were handled in the “Personnel” office.  And then the wave of new management-speak began and the name was changed to “Human Resources.”  My colleagues and I were quite offended.  To us, we had gone from being “persons” to “resources.”  Just another log to throw on the corporate fire to be burned out, burned up, and our ashes discarded.

Then all of us employees became “Human Capital.”  Now management was using banking terms to describe people.  This was, perhaps, a little better in that the connotation was that employees were an “investment.”  This term evolved when employers realized half of their workforce was getting ready to retire, and they needed to invest in new logs to burn.  Some employers may have actually valued the loss of institutional knowledge that was going to be exiting when all those bodies walked out the door, never to return.  I can’t say for sure.  The places I’ve worked always seemed to value replacing long-term employees with unskilled cheaper ones.

I always love it when new terms like this are coined.  Sometimes they’re good and sometimes they are bad, but they are almost always entertaining because those creating the new terminology don’t always understand the messages they are conveying.  But I also love it because I can see other applications of the new phrase.  That’s where some of the real fun begins.

The one I heard yesterday was “Angel Dusting.”  And I absolutely love this one, seriously.  The context in which it was applied was in the way manufacturers of body-care products mask the toxins they are conning us into spraying on ourselves.  Or maybe “masking” is not the proper term, maybe “hyping” is better.  You see, these manufacturers put all forms of toxic compounds in things like lipstick, body wash, fragrances, sun screen, shaving cream; you name it.  Beauty products manufacturers don’t even have to disclose what all is in their concoctions and potions. They get to hide the bulk of their ingredients in the name of preserving “trade secrets.”  Tune in to the Heavy Metals Summit if you’d like to learn more about these toxins.

The “Dusting” occurs when the companies add a dash of vitamin A or E, or oatmeal, or vanilla, maybe an essential oil, and even yogurt.  But that’s all they add – a dusting.  These additives are in such small quantities that they have no beneficial value at all.  It’s a great marketing ploy, and it steers you away from all the bad stuff in there like parabens, synthetic colors, undefined fragrance, phthalates, triclosan, sodium lauryl sulfate, formaldehyde, and toluene.  Check out this article: “10 Toxic Beauty Ingredients to Avoid.”

The connotation of “Angel Dusting” is that they give just a minute amount of the good, to get you see past or accept the huge quantity of bad.  And, I can see this term being applied in all sorts of situations.

How many of us have put up with an extremely bad job, or bad boss because of the small perks that come around every once in a Blue Moon.  Or personal relationships.  They could even be abusive relationships, but we get a “dusting” of good, just enough to keep us holding on.  Believing that things are all right or that they will get better.  Flowers after a verbal or physical assault.  Promises of treating us better, of respecting our needs or desires.  The narcissist that dominates and controls while gaslighting you (another fun term) into believing they are the nice, sane partner in the relationship.  All the while, we are being poisoned.  Having the energy drained from our bodies, our spirits crushed.

Perhaps it’s a phony spiritual leader, dusting us with promises of acquiring wealth, happiness and spiritual union, all for a donation of $99.99.  The language sounds so sweet, so believable.  There are testimonials from saved souls – more dusting phonies on the payroll.

How about legislation that is named in the opposite of what it actually does.  My favorite is the Patriot Act.  It allows highly questionable government intrusion into personal privacy, basically violating constitutional rights in exchange for a mere dusting of the idea of increased security.  Maybe it has worked in small measure, but at what cost to liberty – but angelically, you are a “patriot.”

Unfortunately, it takes time for the toxicity to increase to the point where we finally realize we are poisoned.  Detoxing is extremely difficult and the long-lasting effects of the toxins can be catastrophic.

In terms of environmental pollutants this can lead to the devastation of entire landscapes, displacement of families, and the need for Superfund cleanups.

In terms of personal exposure to toxic chemicals, it can manifest as autoimmune diseases, severely impairing the quality of life and leading to early mortality.

In terms of spirituality, well just remember Jim Jones, Jonestown in Guyana, and the poison Kool-Aid.

In terms of lawmaking or executive action, it can be when we realize the action taken was all to benefit a special interest at the expense of everyone else – the public treasury already raided, billions of tax-payer monies gone, like the banking bailout.  Too big to fail, right?

In terms of relationships, it can destroy trust and self-esteem and set us up for a life of loneliness and alienation – and that’s if the poisoning was mental.  Physical abuse, perpetuated and repeated with doses of retaining Angle Dust, can be fatal.  The victim wasn’t able to escape in time.

“Angel Dusting.”  What a concept.  A way to profit off of poisoning the healthy by adding a minuscule speck of honey to entrap us . . .  I bet you can think of some more applications of this term.

***

Photo:  A beautiful lake in northern Montana.  It was one of the most amazing places I’ve visited.

Toxic

Toxic is a word I seem to be hearing a lot more lately.  It’s original meaning applied solely to substances or chemicals that were dangerous to people.  But it has now been widely applied, in the figurative sense, to include such things as relationships and workplaces.  When you think about it this way, there are many types of “toxins” when it comes to individual beliefs or behaviors including hatred, envy, bigotry, racism, and sexism, just to name a few.  I could be wrong, but I don’t image that a single dose of a particular person or a job could outright kill you, but maybe the stress of such encounters could, over time.  Of course, there are those jobs that can expose a person directly to toxic substances, and those could definitely kill you and kill you instantly.

The Occupational Safety and Health Administration has numerous definitions of what constitutes a toxic or highly toxic substance.  OSHA relies on the LD50 for it’s classifications.  This stands for the Lethal Dose or amount of a solid or liquid material that it takes to kill 50% of the test animals it’s used on.  This same measurement, frighteningly enough, is used when testing medications.  I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be a test subject, voluntarily or involuntarily, taking a 50-50, live or die gamble on handling or ingesting some chemical at work, or a medication my doctor prescribes, especially if the lethal doses they are talking about are only in milligrams or parts per million.

I wonder if there is an LD50 for doses of people or personalities 🙂

Now I usually don’t endorse programs or products and the like, but I have to say that I’ve enjoyed a couple of series this past week.  I watched the docuseries on Netflix called “Rotten,” which addresses multiple issues with modern agricultural industry practices including international market coercion, blind-eye regulation or unregulation, monocrop culture, use of toxic chemicals and crime.  I’ve also been watching the docuseries “Broken Brain” that is examining the effects of multiple environmental insults on the body, the diseases that manifest, and a functional approach to cure.

The common theme is these programs, and more and more literature I see as well, is that humans are starting to reap what they’ve sown.  We have violently exploited and poisoned the planet, and vast arrays of illnesses are starting to increase exponentially as a result.  The outdated algorithmic medical model of name it and pick a drug to treat symptoms is failing because it is simply not getting to the cause of these illnesses.  And because the causes can be multiple toxin exposures over time, it may not be easy to put your finger on the exact source and where to target treatment.  So, when I see people talking about eliminating the negative or toxic influences in their lives, and by that they usually mean toxic relationships, we might want to add to that list detoxing our planet and our bodies.

As you may have noticed, I have a number of categories of postings on my blog.  Soon, I’ll be adding a new one – “Environmental,” where I hope we can explore some of the issues where we can all truly make a healthy difference in the way live, breath, work and relate . . . it starts by shinning a light on them.

***

Postscript:  I kicked off this section by reblogging a piece from Nipslip titled: “Having an Eco-Conscience. Does it Matter and Is It Even Possible.

*  Photo Credit:  I found this photo on the Internet in the public domain and was unable to locate a source to give an attribution, but this one is not mine.

Another update:  There is a free web-presentation series coming up on Heavy Metals beginning January 29th through February 5th, 2018.  You can register to watch these presentations at the “Heavy Metal Summit: Detox Demystified.”

Update – January 30, 2018. I have to give Netflix credit again for launching another docuseries “Dirty Money,” which is exposing corporate fraud.  The first episode exposed Volkswagen’s deception on how their diesel cars, advertised and sold as “clean” were, in fact, some of the worse polluters adding to the toxins we breathe.

Update – February 3, 2018: You might want to reconsider what foods you are eating, especially cereals and snack foods that are composed largely of major mono-cropped grains.

“A FDA-registered food safety laboratory tested iconic American food for residues of the weed killer glyphosate (aka Monsanto’s Roundup) and found ALARMING amounts.”

Check out the article: “Monsanto is Scrambling to Bury This Breaking Story.”

Update – August 19, 2018:  I’m back to endorse another docuseries put together by Netflix.  It is called “Afflicted” and it follows the lives of seven people struggling with environmental or mysterious illnesses.  This includes Multiple Chemical Sensitivity, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, also called Myalgic Encephalomyelitis, Electro-Magnetic Sensitivity; Toxic Mold Syndrome; and Lyme Disease.  All of which can be tied to our ever increasing poisoning of the planet.

These disease processes can be devastating for the sufferers and their families.  And for most, the mainstream medical community has abandoned those afflicted.  When they figure out a way to make a profit, I’m sure they will rise to the occasion.

The hyperlink above will take you to the trailer if you’re interested.  Kudos to Netflix for taking on this subject matter.

 

The Mythical Arrowhead

This piece was published under the title of “Found Your Arrowhead? Seek This Counsel In The Natural World,” in The Urban Howl on November 8, 2017.   I highly recommend you check out this wonderful online publication at http://theurbanhowl.com/.  I have since completed a more expansive version of this article.  If you would like to read it, let me know in a comment.

“Found Your Arrowhead? Seek This Counsel In The Natural World”

by Harold Stearley

Knowing, or believing, something exists doesn’t mean that you will find It, or that you should search for It.

As with many people I know, the past couple of years have been a time of great change, of searching, a call to become whole again. We have searched and found before, but we’ve lost pieces of our soul going through the grinder of daily existence in a world that values the material over the spiritual, that places labels over substance, illusion over reality.

My current search began with the “dissolving” of a marriage and the loss of a career by forces seemingly outside the realm of personal control. Or did I somehow manifest this destruction to force myself to rediscover my true nature? The answer to that question is now irrelevant to the path I walk.

The marriage hit a melting point when my wife evolved into an end-stage alcoholic and nothing could persuade her to seek treatment.

The career flame was extinguished as the result of internal office politics – I would not succumb to playing their corrupt games – outsiders and misfits are usually left outside, perhaps with a note begging for adoption.

So now what, where do I go from here?

Where do all of us go from a starting point of what we perceive is darkness and despair – a contraction of space and time? Do you start believing the crowd of voices in your head entrenched there from years of social “domestication,” the “mitote” as the Toltecs call it, telling you that you are not good enough, not beautiful enough, not smart enough, don’t make enough – the ever-gnawing feelings of inadequacy – the ever-present need to acquire more? More what?

Will all of the “shoulds” injected into your mind from the moment of your first breath predominate every step you take – fill every “rational” conscious thought? Will the search for a definition and identity of your ego be satiated by finding a new label?

Will another hollow paycheck somehow provide “meaning” to the fabricated definition of who you are? Will the ever-turning wheels in your mind condemn you to the prison of living in the past and in future projections, instead of experiencing the here and now?

Perhaps it’s time to awaken to the fact that the true journey is inward. Answers, awareness, enlightenment, and true happiness do not come from external sources.

My search began externally with looking for a new job, a new living location, perhaps a new partner. After a year of re-learning to live alone, of constant rejection of job applications, and upon finding defects with every possible living location I explored, I woke from my slumbers. I awakened to realize that I was enjoying, in the present moment, the things that had come to fill my time.

The daily ventures into nature, the meditation of motion and stillness, the re-connection with “reality.” The “real world” that surrounds us is filled with infinite riches and beauty, which most overlook. Like the caterpillar, I was transforming. I was repossessing what I had lost.

Upon achieving some balance, real magick begins to happen. New connections materialize. Some of these connections are there to show you that you’re on the right path, others to show you what to avoid. Your intuition is developed. Just like the mole who has sacrificed vision in return for all its other senses becoming heightened, you sacrifice illusion, a life style, possessions, sometimes even rationality, in exchange to feel and experience truth, to know in your heart what nourishes your soul.

False messages still come and can gain intensity; beckoning you to return to the land of illusion.

The bait to step back into that world of darkness and confusion can take many forms. In my case, I am presented with a job opportunity, which has now acquired a sense of oddness since the beginning of this walk when I spent hours seeking some job that was seemingly always beyond grasp. And, as I mechanically prepare for an interview, I ask, why now?

To contemplate this change in direction, a possible new path that could really be a return to an old one that no longer serves, I seek out counsel with the natural world.

It has never misled me or given me false promises. I hike. I find myself standing in a creek bed, surrounded by the sound and essence of moving water and by hundreds of thousands of pieces of limestone and chert. Chert is a very hard silicate-based, sedimentary stone that when struck forcefully enough and at the right angle produces conchoidal fractures with extremely sharp edges.

Most people know the variety of chert called flint that can give rise to fire – a powerful nature indeed – that of transformation, illumination, or destruction. Because of its fracturing qualities, chert was also the perfect stone for the Natives to craft arrow and spearheads and other cutting tools – sharp as a razor and stronger than steel.

I know as I stand here, contemplating and seeking guidance, that there is an Arrowhead among these stones.

Missouri Creek - Rocks

It is a given that rivers, streams and creeks are the best places to find them, where the earth has been eroded by the waters – the feminine universal womb, the source of all potentialities. Many treasures are revealed by the waters’ power to purify. And a natural curiosity, plus a desire to acquire such a power object, sparks the urge to hunt for it, to search it out, to discover its mystery. Being more intuitive now, however, I ask, what is the real message I’m receiving? And why did this imagery suddenly pop into my mind from nowhere? Time to consult the symbolism and ancient wisdom of the Earth.

The Arrowhead is said to represent the hunter and adventurer in each of us, as well as alertness, for it takes a good eye and strong arm to use a bow and arrow. It is also believed to indicate protection and courage and to signify direction, force, movement, and power.

Arrows pointed in opposite directions meant war, while a broken arrow meant peace, and crossed arrows meant friendship. Arrows are piecing, representing the masculine. The flight of arrows can symbolize the accent to the celestial. And an arrow, once let loose from the bow, results in consequences that cannot be undone, whether the arrow hits or misses its intended target.

As I stood there in that creek bed reflecting, I couldn’t help but notice the obvious. I was not moving in any direction. I was static. To stare and search for this Mythical Arrowhead amongst a million other stones, is not advancement down any path. The Arrowhead is not mythical in the sense of being a falsehood, it does exist. And, it is not some traditional story involving supernatural beings that somehow speaks to the psychology, or customs, or ideals of a society either. Rather, it serves as an allegory – not a cold definition but full of warmth in its meaning.

I could spend many hours being static in a search that produces no results, that hits no target, that creates little more than frustration. This speaks a little to the past years’ events. Or one might find the Arrowhead, secure it to the shaft and let it fly, it’s effects being unchangeable.

It may miss the intended mark and not fall on the path of enlightenment and happiness. But even if it hits the target aimed for, if that target is based on illusion and false “shoulds” that bring no spiritual advancement, then you’ve hit no target at all. You have to have both, a proper path or target, and you must lodge that arrow squarely in that target with a clean shot. So, if you’ve found the target, then, perhaps, it is truly worth the search to find the arrow to strike it.

But, the real message I believe I’m receiving is not to seek out something mythical with a false believe of attaining Bodhi in a place external to your soul. And once one realizes that, and takes the inward journey instead, then perhaps there is no reason to seek out the Arrowhead and all its power at all, perhaps we’ve already found it.

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Arrowhead