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.

Two Songs for Saumya

Saumya

People keep asking me how I’m doing dealing with my concussed wife. Thank you very much. I’m doing fine myself, really. Gone is the anger of the past, anger at the disease of Endo, which is particularly hard to deal with. Pain is tough, and it wears a person down, the person going through it and those around them.

That’s not to say it’s all love and roses. It is extremely difficult to see the woman I love, going through one of the most difficult times of her life: when her brain checks out. With that, I have two songs that help me cope: The Afghan Whigs: The Slide Song and The National: About Today. Both are likely about break ups or more specifically drifting apart, neither of which we are going through, but the distance is real. When Saum checks out, when the headache gets bad and confusion and amnesia set in, we are distant. I reach for her, I hold her – I love her, but she’s just – gone!

A path that Really Isn’t

by Mauricio Quintana, 昆游龍, a.k.a. cintain

Today’s guest post is by Mauricio Quintana. Mauricio works as a practitioner of various alternative medicine techniques, but considers himself above all an explorer and student of life and the human condition. He goes by the name Cintain on various online and offline social networks, and likes to travel almost a bit too much. He can be found by following the trail of endless rant on twitter, baited with single-malt scotch or the smile of a pretty woman, and persuaded to sing with nary an enticement. His blog can be found at thewanderingdragon.net.

I. Amongst the Host of the Pretenders

Photo courtesy of Mauricio Quintana

The hardest part about doing the kind of work I do is keeping it real. There is literally a horde of people out there who claim to see energy, work with subtler aspects, and be in contact with a host of incorporeal entities. It is annoying. Moreover, it is pretentious. The thing that used to really drive me up the wall is the fact that, if you're into this sort of thing, there really isn't anything that you can say to refute them. After all, subtle perceptions are what they are, right? If you can't hear what the spirits are saying to me, surely you can't hear them at all, and then you're the poser, the liar, and the quack.

Effectiveness is another one of those "objective" measurements that become tenuous with these people. There are so many "levels", that maybe your healing has already happened and you're just too dumb to notice, too "out of touch" for it to work on you. I am continuously amazed at the followers of some of the more charismatic healers out there. It isn't so much that they're getting "better" as that they are becoming more capable of aligning themselves with the vision and speech of their leader.

Photo courtesy of Mauricio Quintana

The trappings of this work are so alluring, too. Sometimes it seems that the more feathers, bones, medallions, wristbands, and stridently-coloured dress on a person, the more powerful and effective their mojo. The styles vary with lineage, teacher, and tradition, but "badges" are more important with some of these clowns than with the military.

Full-contact Religion

We mill about the peristyle (our temple) waiting for the ceremony. Some of us catch up on the past week, or the past weeks, since we’ve last seen each other.

At no time in particular, the ceremony begins. Assons are rattled, the sound of bells fill the air. The drummers take up their sticks and pound out a rhythm. The singing begins. I struggle to find the song.

At this point the Lwa (the spirits) have not come. The songs are sung the best we can. The ceremony begins like so many have begun before. We reach out.

In me, I feel their absence. My song is not its best. It feels dry, but I carry on, responding to the call of the verses. People are slowly starting to move, but even my movements feel dry.

We move to the rhythms.

My Muse Has Left the Building

Meditation in the North Woods From the ebook Encounters In Nature © 2011 B.T. Newberg

Last week I sat down to write and was struck by a horrible feeling. I didn’t like where my writing was going. Nothing seemed to work. My wife and best friend Saumya suggested I go back and re-read some of my earlier pieces (for completely different reasons) – I did. I began to feel that was the cause of my funk. I like to blame things on her, but really the blockage was all me. After writing The River is In Me, I longed to write more like it reaching for my departed muse; all my attempts failed.

There are some old pieces that moved me. I revisited: Crisis of Faith, There Is No Hell and My Other Family. Nothing seemed to work. I listened to Encounters In Nature, mainly because my friend Mauricio shared his feelings on it. Did it hold some kind of mojo I could tap into?

Replay complete: I’ve decided it’s time to take stock of how my life has changed over the past year.

The River Is In Me

Standing on the banks of the Mississippi River on the New Orleans shoreline, I stick my hand into the water to greet her. She is the Mississippi, and I know her well. After all, she’s my lover.

The scent of her fills my nostrils. I take her into myself, filling my lungs. It’s not a fresh smell, but one of mildew, decay and memory. Her warm humid breath comforts me. She welcomes me to her, my oldest friend.

There is a picture my mother has of me, at the age of months, less than one year old. I’m reaching for the throttle of our family boat, the Mimi III, named after my aunt. It was third in a tradition of five spanning three generations of our family. Not even old enough to speak, she was a part of my life. I grew up on boats, on her water, on the shores of Dubuque, IA. My weekdays might hold school or summer play, but she consumed my weekends. I spent countless hours riding her, swimming in her, swallowing her and eventually skiing upon her. On countless weekend nights, she would gently rock me to sleep and gently crash upon the sides of my bed.

Missing The Point: White Privilege Part 1

I was deeply saddened and angry by the Sikh Gurdwara (temple) shooting. I wrote the post I Wear a Kara in its wake. In the discussion that followed I understood that I didn’t quite fully achieve what I was hoping to.

How did I go astray? I focused time and energy on how Sikh’s are different than Muslims, instead of focusing on the real problems: racism, hatred and misunderstanding. In my own case, I was stifled by my own blind spot: white privilege.

Twitter user @sikhknowledge sums it up for me

I spent time in my post on how Sikh’s are different. I never should have gone there. I’d like to say we’re all the same: people, families, trying to survive, trying to pray, celebrate life. I want everyone to be treated as equals to the point that I force myself to believe we are all equals – even though we’re not.

I wish the world where a place where all men were treated the same; all women were treated the same as men; all religions were seen as paths of love and a celebration of life with one another: but the world is not that place. Sometimes I want it so bad I try to believe that all men are equal (and all the rest above): but then I get my white privilege blind spot. The world is not an equal place. Further, I’m in the top dominant, privileged position.

Absence

I’ve been away from blogging and I have some posts that are backlogged. My personal life needed attention at the beginning of July. Most of these emergencies are behind me now. Work also demanded too much attention, I needed to really put the computer down and veg with the iPad.

I hope I haven’t lost too many of my readers. I know some people have reached out and asked why I haven’t written in a while.

There are a few posts that should be up in the next week or two. First, I readdress the temple shootings that I wrote about in I Wear a Kara, hoping to restate some things that, upon reflection, left me unhappy with the piece. Second, I hope to finally post on the difference between initiation and conversion. I feel in the west, we tend to think of things in absolutes: you are one thing or another. The rest of the world doesn’t always understand things this way.

Hopefully you’re still with me. I hope to see some exciting discussion raised.

Does Our Intellect Detract From Spiritual Ecstasy?

This isn’t a plea for ignorance. No definitive conclusions have come to me. What I’m hoping for is open dialogue.

I have heard people say their heads get in the way of themselves. This leads me to wonder if we intellectualize ourselves out of the moment; the moment of being in the present and experiencing spiritual ecstasy, a mystical experience that requires a detachment of the intellectual self to be fully realized.

People have all kinds of spiritual experiences. Some may be sitting in meditation, experiencing nature, really good sex, playing music, making art, listening to music, appreciating art, swimming, flying, reading, writing, in a temple, riding a horse. Many experiences can be deemed as causing some transcendence to a much deeper meaning that comes with or without revelation – but you succinctly understand you were moved. You may not be able to explain how or the way you were moved – unless you’re explaining it to someone that has been there.

When these bouts of spiritual ecstasy come upon us, is it a removal of our intellect, our thinking that allows it to flow more freely? Do we need to detach our minds to open doorways to let that which is more than ourselves enter into us and course through us?

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.

There Is No Hell

This is one of the many ideas that struck me during my couche (initiation). There is no Hell. I began rolling it around in my mind. It wouldn’t leave me. It seems to be the culmination of my philosophy that started back in college years ago.

Growing up Catholic, I was taught very early about sin and Hell: the place where I would go if I didn’t believe, if my sins were too bad, if they weren’t forgiven. It‘s a place of eternal torment: a place of fire, brimstone and suffering. It is a place that’s cold, a deep abyss. It has a ruler: the devil Lucifer, the bringer of light, the angel cast out of Heaven for challenging God. He goes by other names: Satan, the serpent. You may have heard of him.

There are the chosen people, the people of Israel. There are literal tribes of Judaism, and there are other religious people: the Christians, the people of Islam. They interpret themselves as chosen by God and with proper actions deemed worthy go to Heaven, others unworthy will go to Hell.

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.

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.

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.

Give It To Me Dirty

It may sound like I view myself as some quasi-enlightened person. I’m not. I have real faults, real issues, real-world problems. At times I take exception to those who try and pass themselves off that way, those leaders political or spiritual who try to come off perfect, faultless. It’s a trap. As for me, give it to me dirty.

I want to see people’s faults, their struggles. People are human; humans make mistakes. Mistakes shouldn’t take away one’s credibility, but add to it. How can you know and help someone with their marriage, with their kids or on their path unless you’ve been in the trenches yourself? Scars add respect in my book, having quite a few of them myself.

Placing our leaders up on pedestals sets them up for their eventual fall. We have the tendency to want to knock them off. We can relate to someone sharing our struggle – they’re one of us, not one of them.