The Times, They Are a-Changin’

While I understand people encounter writer’s block, I often laugh it off, like I’m knocking on wood. It doesn’t affect me, I won’t give it power.

Every time I have thought of picking up the laptop to write, post traumatic brain injury (TBI): my wife’s, not mine, I shudder. The last three posts were related to it, and I can’t seem to get beyond that. It was traumatic, not just to her, but also to me. I struggle to take/make time for myself and get out of constant caregiving [hibernation] mode. The injury made me hypersensitive to her needs, and getting out of that mode is more difficult an adjustment that I would have believed possible. Maybe it’s just age and an empty-nest syndrome without ever having had kids.

I’ve also resisted believing things are better. I feel if I acknowledge how much better she is, and she’s practically all better, something will slide and my expectations will be let down, instead of constantly amazed like they are now. The migraines are almost non-existent at this point; they were almost constant for 3 years. I can’t even imagine a world where my head hurt that much for that long. She’s starting to be able to handle places with people: coffee shops, restaurants; this is a gradual re-introduction. She can’t drive yet.

I Was … Delayed

Today is the second anniversary since Saumya’s traumatic brain injury (TBI). Two years ago she received an accidental bump to the head causing damage to the left side of her noggin. You may have noticed a lapse in regularity and frequency of my writing. I’m sorry, it’s not you; it’s me.

It has been a challenging two years. Not only has it had its share of health issues for us to deal with: constant migraines, nausea, seizures (thank God they’re over), various sensitivities, countless hospital visits, on and on; but it has changed the course of our lives. During that week two years ago in 2013 Saum was filling out her paperwork to Harvard Divinity School for a PhD program. We were to move to Boston this summer. Those plans are now scuttled. In the last two years we have: been out see to one movie, had two outings with our group of friends, been on one trip involving an airplane that didn’t go well and she’s been to restaurants maybe twice. My only regret: we were getting to know some new family in the Twin Cities which I haven’t seen much of since. But this has been more of a challenge for her as I have not had many of these restrictions.

What’s my name?

What’s my name? It sounds like a philosophical question; something existential. It has taken on new meaning for me.

Where are we? I’m not asking because I don’t know, or am trying to divine a meaning, but it’s a repeated question.

Saum has a concussion. Sometimes she’s getting better; sometimes there is a slide backwards. She will forget events, names of people and pets, what room she’s in. This is scary, mostly for her, but anytime the memory goes it’s also scary for me. Today, she couldn’t remember the name of our dog, Barnabas. We made a sign for her to remember.

Feel the Pain

The best quote I heard last week, “this Vodou stuff isn’t for pussies.” Thanks Mambo, I needed that. My solace, the song that’s gotten me through this period is Dinosaur Jr’s Feel The Pain. (Best video ever.)

Dinosaur Jr.–Feel the Pain

On New Year’s Eve I had dinner with friends, and then we went to Heart of the Beast for an amazing New Year’s celebration. Everyone was having a great time, but something in me was off – amiss. I just couldn’t get into the festive mood. A feeling was there, something was going to happen and it wasn’t going to be good. A few days later the trouble began.

Conversion or Initiation

What do you believe in? Why do you believe it? Were you born into it or did you change your beliefs as you came upon it? Is it mutually exclusive of other viewpoints and beliefs, or is it inclusive and expansive with them? The two words: conversion and initiation used in a religious or spiritual context have subtle differences in meaning. They both usually refer to coming to a new religious system or belief, but they depart from there.

When I was first introduced to Hinduism, I was told it was something people can’t convert to. At the time my 20-something brain said to me, don’t tell me what I can and cannot do; I was put off. Whenever I’m told there is something I can’t do, my first reaction is gut-wrench abhorrence to the idea: why not? Whether the statement itself is true or not, the answer underlying it is rooted more in philosophy and perspective than mere facts. My current understanding is: you can’t convert to Hinduism, but you can initiate into it. The difference seems subtle, but the meaning is very important. (I’ll leave caste aside.)

Most of the dominant Western religions [Judaism, Catholicism, Islam] have a conversation aspect to them. You shed your previous beliefs and proclaim you now have taken on the new dogma. You are converted. You now believe what the others believe. Of course there are variances. Not all people from a religion are generic and believe the same things wholeheartedly, but the conversion takes place and in doing so you proclaim your faith in the new dogma and doctrines. The door closes on your past belief system. These systems are usually exclusive in their beliefs with the religion you converted into.

Breaking Through The Ice

It’s been over a month since I wrote my last words. What’s happened?

I had a flurry of inspiration while in India. I wrote some of my worst stuff: A Homecoming Long Overdue, Return to India and some of my best stuff: The Buzz of Food, The Feel of the Beach, The Desire to Overcome. There was even some mediocre pieces: Friendship from Strangers. But since I’ve come back, nada.

What Happened

There are contributing factors to my dry spell. After taking six weeks off of work and coming home to a cheering office, work took me by storm. A project consumed me with long hours consuming my thoughts and took priority over everything. When I came home, my computer tried a new experience staying mostly in my bag. I couldn’t look at it, I gave at the office. All the inspiration, spiritual experiences, travel and swimming – all went into a box not to be opened until spring. To sum up: I felt wrung out.

There was also a bit of culture shock.

The Desire to Overcome

“That is why you fail.” The words of Yoda are running through my head.

In my pursuit to deal with past hurts: anger, guilt, shame, abuse (to me and by me) I struggled to overcome; beating these things, a finality of dealing with myself and mastering them (they are not me, they’re my past). In doing so I ignore who I’ve been and who I am.

My scars, pains and hurts change me. They make me who I am today, color my reactions, change the way I think. My behaviors, conscience and subconscious have new channels set into my being, my self-definition; it makes me a different person. I attempt to eradicate them by a mental surgery of the self: covering up or eliminating my scars instead of dealing with them as part of my self identity. A recognition needs to take place. I need to acknowledge I am changed, finding a way to live with my new self identity and accepting my scars as who I’ve become. Failure and hurt will continue until I can see them as part of me.

The Feel of the Beach

The waves crash upon the shore in a constant rhythm, sounding like the thunder of a storm close to home. In it I feel the thrust and recourse of the waves as they push me toward and away from the shore.

Afterward, that pulse continues living within my body. I feel the rolling of the waves pushing and pulling in the air around me. With the waves coming in, there is a stillness of the mind. The undertow brings forth a stream of ideas, quickly flowing out to sea, you try to grab onto them before they flow away under the waters lost forever making way for a new wave of stillness arriving in it’s wake. In this, many thoughts and images come from my own depths, only to be lost a moment later in the flow of energy.

The night here has a different quality. Back home, in the dark, I see black splotched with bits of red and blue. Here the nighttime has a mist of white everywhere like a shroud fogging the air. That same whiteness permeates the daylight making you feel like the veils are different colored dupattas, the red, blue and black at home and here one of white. The air teasing you with floating and tugging sensations.

The End of the Chase

Right now I am entering couche. I am partaking in the end of one journey and the start of a new one. When I emerge on Sunday, I will be an Oungan Asogwe. The asson will come home.

There are many posts in this blog marking the points along the way. I hope some of you learned a little more about me . I started this blog with the intention of people getting to know who I am. I rechristened it when I started the process of becoming a Vodou priest, an Oungan. Along this path, I marked Sur Pwenn, the first stage of priesthood where I was on point, the beginning of that road. This one marks the entering of initiation to Asogwe.

When I emerge on Sunday, I will be a different man. I will also be the same man. Initiation changes you, but it doesn’t invalidate you. You are still you, just more.

The Beginning of The End

This post comes with a soundtrack. (@Rogue_Priest I know you did this once, but I’ve been meaning to blog about this songs meaning since before I met you.)

Italicized lyrics below by: Greg Dulli

Have you ever come across a song that you can’t get out of your head, a song that you might hit the back button at the end, more than once? Or perhaps you hit that single song repeat? The Twilight Singers have been a band I’ve been in love with for years, ever since Twilight came out (not anything to do with the books or movie, long predating it.)

Saum and I were discussing the other night on how we relate to people by the music we listen to. I can’t figure out a person by their job or their politics even. I get a sense, but not a good one and sometime not even the right one. But music, that’s how people are revealed to me. Do they like happy upbeat, or something with a bit of an edge to it. Does it sound like a party or something sexy? It is smooth and even, or is it temperamental and hard to judge? I love music. It defines me.

An Unexpected Connection

I will be getting back to my regular blogging soon, but something unexpected came up and it’s been occupying my thoughts.

When I was born, I was adopted. I came into the hospital with one set of parents and left with another. I was told at a very young age, as soon as I could understand. I’ve been pretty open about it with friends because it’s never been a negative in my life, a lesson I learned from my parents. My family is rooted as mine as much as anyone who is not adopted. I’ve always felt it reciprocated by my parents and siblings alike. I was a wanted child.

During the funeral of my grandmother in May, my mother quite unexpectedly started volunteering information about my birth parents. It was quite unprompted on my part; I believe the death of her mother was the catalyst. After a few weeks I decided to email her for the information so I would have a record. I sat on it and considered what to do. Is it right to contact someone who carried you and gave you up 42 years ago? What if reaching out is painful or opens old wounds? What if it’s better not knowing? What if they’re bad people? What if …. Many questions rolled around in my head as I considered what to do.

One Thousand Nights and One Night

ॐ । अहं षिवीय ।।
I am Shiva.
I am Ogou.

Years ago at our house, we tried to start an activity. Our activities take many forms. Sometimes it’s something we do in the living room, on the porch or in times past in front of the wood-burning fireplace. Other times, it’s sleep foreplay, a.k.a. the bedtime story. This particular activity was the classic Arabic tale of romance, One Thousand Nights and One Night. We have a fragile old four volume set that’s forbidden to leave the house. Saum started reading this to me as a bedtime story. For those of you familiar with the slim slivers taken by movies, these are beautifully complex stories. There are stories within stories within stories.

Witnessing his wife’s betrayal, King Shahryār goes beyond reason with rage killing the cheating pair in a crime of passion. He loses all faith in women and takes a new virtuous young woman each night as wife, killing her after slacking his passions. He does so for three years until he has killed all in his kingdom, all except his chief advisors young daughters.

Change: This indecision’s bugging me

Tomorrow I interview for a new job. I’m really comfortable with whether I get it or not; I love my current job. It’s one of the most satisfying jobs I’ve had in my career. I’m kicking butt and having fun, so why am I applying for a new job? Reward, plain and simple. My current job just doesn’t reward me enough for my hard work. As much as I’m successful, the rewards just aren’t there. Also, I would be good at the new job.

I’m scared of failure. I know I’ll stretch myself in new ways into new areas. I’ll have to do more grunt work, and there will be more work overall. I’m also afraid of it intruding into my personal life. I hope I’ve learned how to successfully balance personal and work time. In the new job, I’ll be the person where the buck stops.

Trust

Tackling this one is hard for me: both in writing and my personal life. How do I repair trust in the wake of hurt? I’m still working on this.

When fighting, intimate knowledge comes out. I fight, I hurt. I try to hurt others in the same way I feel wounded. I inflict damage with my anger. Our trust in each other unravels as I breach what’s shared between us. Sometimes I’m faced with honesty I don’t want to acknowledge. I twist the truth.

Truth is a harsh master. It can feel good, or it can leave lash marks. Truth can be soothing and uplifting when it’s something I want to hear, hurtful when I don’t. I struggle with truth. I’m not very good at it. I struggle giving it to others, I struggle being truthful with myself.