The Lives of the Dead

Some of the most interesting people I meet are dead…

Archive for the category “deformity”

Eternal Infant

NEW!


Gai

For many years before I was born,  my parents prayed for a baby.   They went to church. They lit candles.  They visited shrines.  And then,  just as they had given up hope and were acquiesced to living their lives childless,  my  mother conceived.  They were overjoyed.

It was obvious at my birth that something was very wrong with me.  In another time or place, I would have been left to die.  I would not have been nurtured or fed and would not have lived more than a day, if at all.  Perhaps I might have been allowed to take only a few breaths before I was suffocated and buried without a ceremony, so no one except the mother and the midwife would have seen such an abomination.

But my parents did not live in those times.  They had waited too many years to be blessed with a child and they were too old to have another, so they cared for me with love.  They accepted me as God’s gift; as a test of their faith and devotion.

Their prayers were answered quite literally.   I was barely a person.  I remained an infant my entire life.   I was aware only of the pleasure of being held and fed by my parents; of being rocked and bathed and fed and caressed.   I could not walk, nor speak, nor feed myself.  Still, I was happy, cooing to the sound of my mother singing or laughing at my father’s tickling.  My parents did not expect me to live very long, and were dedicated to making whatever time I had on the earth as happy and comfortable as possible.

When other children my age were learning to walk, I remained gurgling in my crib.  When the others were starting school, I rolled around on some blankets my mother laid out in the middle of the floor.

For many years, I was small enough for them to carry,  but to both their joy and dismay, I did not die young but rather grew in size as a normal human, without ever maturing at all mentally.  This presented many logistical problems for them as it became more difficult for them to attend to me. As they got older, they had trouble lifting and carrying me.  It was a challenge and heartache to bathe and dress me, to change my soiled diapers.  I often hit them hard with my flailing arms and legs, leaving bruises on their face and bodies.   Even leaving the house was a daunting task. They did not have much of a life, not my mother especially since she was home with me most of the time.   They had created a prison for themselves, with me as their jailer.

I do not know if they had regrets about their decision to keep me with them.  I don’t think anyone would have judged them harshly had they put me in a place where others could care for me, or if they had been less attentive to my medical care and allowed infection or disease to take me.  But in their actions, they were committed to me.  It was the path they had chosen and in this life, I was merely an instrument of their learning.

When I was in my forty-first year, my father became sick and infirm.  He could no longer help in my care and in fact needed care of his own.  My mother was old and weak herself from years stress and physical strain and lack of sleep and inability to attend to her own needs.  She did not have the strength to care for both me and my father.   But the pain of giving me to the care of strangers was more than they could bear.

And so,  one night,  they fed me medicine that made me sleep and never awaken.  And when they were sure I was peacefully gone, they took the same.

 

______

If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  When you think of others who might enjoy it too,  it’s easy enough to help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bun

 

photo:  © James Whitlow Delano/Redux

Hope Springs Eternal, Damnit!

First published Aug 13, 2015

praying hands

Mo

Hope ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. I’ve seen people invest their entire lives hoping for something that will never be when they should be making something out of what’s right there in front of them.

I wasted most of my best days chasing something I wasn’t ever gonna catch. I neglected my family. I neglected my finances. I neglected my health   People in my church told me to “have faith…it will happen!” and they thought they were doing God’s work. I will tell you, they were doing the Devil’s work, because what did I get in the end? Nothing. Sure enough, not what I was running after all those years.   My wife was long gone, hitched up with some guy who treated her a lot better than I did. My kids? They barely knew my name. I never supported them, not in any way.   I had no money. I was living hand-to-mouth. I was chasing smoke.

When I was in my younger days, I would look at the guys who give up their youthful dreams (whatever they were), got married, found steady jobs, raised their kids in a decent place, in a decent way; I’d look at them and think, “Coward!”   I thought they were all pussy-whipped, in one way or another, at least the ones whose marriages lasted. But I eventually realized that for most of them their wives made them better men, and they knew it. Without that steady hand at the rudder to keep them on course, they would have drifted off in a cesspool of booze, cheap women and no commitments to anything.   They would have been like me.

Except I was taught it was a sin to stop hoping. I thought it was a sin to give up faith. I believed in myself. That was the most important thing. I had to keep plugging away, as a sign of my devotion.

I knew a woman with a very sick child. That little girl was sick for years, and the mother prayed every day. She hoped and she prayed. She counted on God to make her daughter well. But in the end, the girl died. And that mother was inconsolable.

Instead of eventually understanding that such things happen in life; that one must mourn and grieve and move on (which is not to say forget the person, but rather move them into our past) she was consumed with guilt.

She had, on occasion, sat in the hospital or fretted in bed at night, wondering what it would be like if the child died. Maybe it would be better for everyone. The girl would never be well; she would be a burden to someone all her life. Her care would be expensive. Was it terribly selfish to want a life without such a burden? She was only in her 20s herself, with her whole life ahead of her.

But everyone told her to “Never give up hope.” “Have faith!” “Believe in the lord!” They said it as if they were channeling Jesus himself.

When the girl died, the mother was consumed with guilt. She knew she had put aside her faith to think about herself for a moment or two, here and there. What a horrible mother she was! She didn’t deserve to have children! It was all her fault. God was punishing her because of her inherent selfishness.

You get the idea.

She ended up in a mental hospital.

That’s where faith got her.

She was never able to work through the untruth of all that.

Some things just have their time. We walk through the corridors of the maze of our life, only able to see what’s immediately around us We can’t know what or who is on the other side of that wall or what or who is around the next corner; certainly not what’s around the next three or ten corners.   Sometimes, we come to a split in the path and we have to choose a direction. Sometimes we find ourselves at a dead end. Sometimes we are on our path alone; sometimes with others. But no matter when we die, it’s always one short corner from the end of the maze of that particular life.

Faith, by itself, it not a virtue. It can even be a vice when it’s faith in the wrong thing.

Maybe the best kind of faith you can have, that only one that makes any sense, is a belief that you are listening to the universe correctly… the faith to be open enough to allow the spiritual realm to guide you – not where you want to go, but where it wants to take you.

 

____

If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  When you think of others who might enjoy it too,  it’s easy enough to help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey!

 

The Cripple

Originally posted June 17, 2014

suffering frieze on blg

Til

Til

The pain was so deep and wide, for so long, I could barely think about anything else. I could not spare any compassion or sympathy for others. I could not learn any lessons except whatever things I might do to ease my suffering even slightly. With drugs, I was in a fog, could not think rational thoughts. I could barely move, but at least I didn’t have to think about the pain.

I did try to avoid them in the beginning. I wanted to be in the world, even if it meant filtering everything through my wincing torment. But eventually, I just wanted the pain to stop, and if that meant perceiving the world through a narcotic haze, well, so be it.  I could not sit comfortably. Walking was torture, even the few steps to and from my bed to the bathroom.

Before I was born,  I chose this body. I know this. But when I put myself into this life, the suffering was abstract. In the reality, in the forgetting, it was a torment which made me curse my existence.

__

 Some thoughts:

Even after months of receiving/writing these narratives, I am still wondering: it is possible to receive such stories from the dead (even if, in my own case, it turns out not to be so) or am I irrational to think such a thing is even possible?  

 Although I continue to resist facile, mystical explanations, I find the notions of communicating with the dead, of life after death, reincarnation, and metaphysics to be fascinating.   There is so much evidence “proving” this point of view, that as a spiritual belief, life after death actually seems more logical and reasonable than the notion of bleak eternal nothingness. In fact, while there is plenty of evidence and documentation of reincarnation dating back millennia, (ancient religious traditions, stories of previous lives with corroborated details, studies, books, past life regression, etc.), there is not a shred of evidence to prove bleak eternal nothingness (BEN).

 Those in the BEN camp often mock spiritual believers, holding themselves intellectually above them. As logical, scientific human beings, they believe only what can be confirmed by evidence. To them, anyone who believes otherwise is a fool. And yet – and here’s the delicious irony — it’s actually the BENnys whose theological beliefs are based faith alone. There is no evidence (and never can be) of their doctrine, because the negative cannot be proven. Without proof, their own beliefs are simply a matter of what feels right to them. Thus, they have no “moral right” to point fingers at the “gullibility” of the other camp..

 The more I read about these subjects, the more fascinated I become. Evidence of the spiritual realm is so overwhelming, even if 99% of what has been written can be debunked by known science, the remaining 1% still forms a huge heap of corroborative evidence.

 I have fallen down the rabbit hole, and the deeper I go, the less I want to come out.

 I do not think I’m a crackpot or a nut job, but I suppose that’s a matter of opinion, depending on whether you agree with me or not. But if not, please reread the previous paragraphs!

 

____

If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  When you think of others who might enjoy it too,  it’s easy enough to help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey!

Hope Springs Eternal, Damnit!

praying hands

Mo

Hope ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. I’ve seen people invest their entire lives hoping for something that will never be when they should be making something out of what’s right there in front of them.

I wasted most of my best days chasing something I wasn’t ever gonna catch. I neglected my family. I neglected my finances. I neglected my health   People in my church told me to “have faith…it will happen!” and they thought they were doing God’s work. I will tell you, they were doing the Devil’s work, because what did I get in the end? Nothing. Sure enough, not what I was running after all those years.   My wife was long gone, hitched up with some guy who treated her a lot better than I did. My kids? They barely knew my name. I never supported them, not in any way.   I had no money. I was living hand-to-mouth. I was chasing smoke.

In my younger days, I would look at the guys who’d given up their youthful dreams (whatever they’d been), gotten married, found steady jobs, raised their kids in a decent place, in a decent way; I’d look at them and think, “Coward!”   I thought they were all pussy-whipped, in one way or another, at least the ones whose marriages lasted. But eventually I realized that for the happily married ones, their wives made them better men, and they knew it. Without that steady hand at the rudder to keep them on course, they would have drifted off in a cesspool of booze, cheap women and no commitments to anything.   They would have been like me.

Except I was taught it was a sin to stop hoping. I thought it was a sin to give up faith. I believed in myself. That was the most important thing. I had to keep plugging away, as a sign of my devotion.

I knew a woman with a very sick child. That little girl was sick for years, and the mother prayed every day. She hoped and she prayed. She counted on God to make her daughter well. But in the end, the girl died. And that mother was inconsolable.

She had, on occasion, sat in the hospital or fretted in bed at night, wondering what it would be like if the child died. Maybe it would be better for everyone. The girl would never be well; she would be a burden all her life. Her care would be expensive. Was it terribly selfish to want a life without such hardship, both for parent and child?  The mother was only in her 20s herself, with her whole life ahead of her.

But everyone told her to “Never give up hope.” “Have faith!” “Believe in the Lord!” They said it as if they were channeling Jesus himself and knew his will.

When the girl died, the mother was consumed with guilt. She knew she had put aside her faith to think about herself for a moment or two, here and there. What a horrible mother she was! She didn’t deserve to have children! It was all her fault. God was punishing her because of her inherent selfishness.

You get the idea.

She ended up in a mental hospital.

That’s where faith got her.

She was never able to work through the untruth of all that.

Some things just have their time. We walk through the corridors of the maze of our life, only able to see what’s immediately around us. We can’t know what or who is on the other side of that wall or what or who is around the next corner; certainly not what’s around the next three or ten corners.   Sometimes, we come to a split in the path and we have to choose a direction. Sometimes we find ourselves at a dead end. Sometimes we are on our path alone; sometimes with others. But no matter when we die, it’s always one short corner from the end of the maze of that particular life.

Faith, by itself, it not a virtue. It can even be a vice when it’s faith in the wrong thing.

Maybe the best kind of faith you can have, the only one that makes any sense, is a belief that you are listening to the universe correctly… the faith to be open enough to allow the spiritual realm to guide you – not where you want to go, but where it wants to take you.

 

**************

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The Cripple

first posted June 17, 2014

suffering frieze on blg

 Ti

The pain was so deep and wide, for so long, I could barely think about anything else. I could not spare any compassion or sympathy for others. I could not learn any lessons except whatever things I might do to ease my suffering even slightly. With drugs, I was in a haze, couldn’t think rational thoughts, could barely move, but at least I didn’t have to think about the pain. I did try to avoid them in the beginning. I wanted to be in the world, even if it meant filtering everything through my wincing torment. But eventually, I just wanted the pain to stop, and if that meant perceiving the world through a narcotic haze, well, so be it. I could not sit comfortably. Walking was torture, even the few steps to and from my bed to the bathroom.

My body was deformed by my own choosing. I know this. But when I chose, the suffering was abstract. In the reality, in the forgetting, it was a torment which made me curse my life.

_________

 My thoughts:

Even after months of receiving/writing these narratives, I am still wondering: it is possible to receive such stories from the dead (even if, in my own case, it turns out not to be so) or am I irrational to think such a thing is even possible?  

 Although I continue to resist facile, mystical explanations, I find the notions of communicating with the dead, of life after death, reincarnation, and metaphysics to be fascinating.   There is so much evidence “proving” this point of view, that as a spiritual belief, life after death actually seems more logical and reasonable than the notion of bleak eternal nothingness. In fact, while there is plenty of evidence and documentation of reincarnation dating back millennia, (ancient religious traditions, stories of previous lives with corroborated details, studies, books, past life regression, etc.), there is not a shred of evidence to prove bleak eternal nothingness (BEN).

 Those in the BEN camp often mock spiritual believers, holding themselves intellectually above them. As logical, scientific human beings, they believe only what can be confirmed by evidence. To them, anyone who believes otherwise is a fool. And yet – and here’s the delicious irony — it’s actually the BENnys whose theological beliefs are based faith alone. There is no evidence (and never can be) of their doctrine, because the negative cannot be proven. Without proof, their own beliefs are simply a matter of what feels right to them. Thus, they have no “moral right” to point fingers at the “gullibility” of the other camp..

 The more I read about these subjects, the more fascinated I become. Evidence of the spiritual realm is so overwhelming, even if 99% of what has been written can be debunked by known science, the remaining 1% still forms a huge heap of corroborative evidence.

 I have fallen down the rabbit hole, and the deeper I go, the less I want to come out.

 I do not think I’m a crackpot or a nut job, but I suppose that’s a matter of opinion, depending on whether you agree with me or not. But if not, please reread the previous paragraphs!

Hope Springs Eternal, Damnit!

praying hands

Mo

Hope ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. I’ve seen people invest their entire lives in hoping for something that will never be when they should be making something out of what’s right there in front of them.

I wasted most of my best days chasing something I wasn’t ever gonna catch. I neglected my family. I neglected my finances. I neglected my health   People in my church told me to “have faith…it will happen!” and they thought they were doing God’s work. I will tell you, they were doing the Devil’s work, because what did I get in the end? Nothing. Sure enough, not what I was running after all those years.   My wife was long gone, hitched up with some guy who treated her a lot better than I did. My kids? They barely knew my name. I never supported them, not in any way.   I had no money. I was living hand-to-mouth. I was chasing smoke.

When I was in my younger days, I would look at the guys who give up their youthful dreams (whatever they were), got married, found steady jobs, raised their kids in a decent place, in a decent way; I’d look at them and think, “Coward!”   I thought they were all pussy-whipped, in one way or another, at least the ones whose marriages lasted. But I eventually realized that for most of them their wives made them better men, and they knew it. Without that steady hand at the rudder to keep them on course, they would have drifted off in a cesspool of booze, cheap women and no commitments to anything.   They would have been like me.

Except I was taught it was a sin to stop hoping. I thought it was a sin to give up faith. I believed in myself. That was the most important thing. I had to keep plugging away, as a sign of my devotion.

I knew a woman with a very sick child. That little girl was sick for years, and the mother prayed every day. She hoped and she prayed. She counted on God to make her daughter well. But in the end, the girl died. And that mother was inconsolable.

Instead of eventually understanding that such things happen in life; that one must mourn and grieve and move on (which is not to say forget the person, but rather move them into our past) she was consumed with guilt.

She had, on occasion, sat in the hospital or fretted in bed at night, wondering what it would be like if the child died. Maybe it would be better for everyone. The girl would never be well; she would be a burden to someone all her life. Her care would be expensive. Was it terribly selfish to want a life without such a burden? She was only in her 20s herself, with her whole life ahead of her.

But everyone told her to “Never give up hope.” “Have faith!” “Believe in the lord!” They said it as if they were channeling Jesus himself.

When the girl died, the mother was consumed with guilt. She knew she had put aside her faith to think about herself for a moment or two, here and there. What a horrible mother she was! She didn’t deserve to have children! It was all her fault. God was punishing her because of her inherent selfishness.

You get the idea.

She ended up in a mental hospital.

That’s where faith got her.

She was never able to work through the untruth of all that.

Some things just have their time. We walk through the corridors of the maze of our life, only able to see what’s immediately around us We can’t know what or who is on the other side of that wall or what or who is around the next corner; certainly not what’s around the next three or ten corners.   Sometimes, we come to a split in the path and we have to choose a direction. Sometimes we find ourselves at a dead end. Sometimes we are on our path alone; sometimes with others. But no matter when we die, it’s always one short corner from the end of the maze of that particular life.

Faith, by itself, it not a virtue. It can even be a vice when it’s faith in the wrong thing.

Maybe the best kind of faith you can have, that only one that makes any sense, is a belief that you are listening to the universe correctly… the faith to be open enough to allow the spiritual realm to guide you – not where you want to go, but where it wants to take you.

 

**************

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The Cripple

suffering frieze on blg

 Ti

The pain was so deep and wide, for so long, I could barely think about anything else. I could not spare any compassion or sympathy for others. I could not learn any lessons except whatever things I might do to ease my suffering even slightly. With drugs, I was in a haze, couldn’t think rational thoughts, could barely move, but at least I didn’t have to think about the pain. I did try to avoid them in the beginning. I wanted to be in the world, even if it meant filtering everything through my wincing torment. But eventually, I just wanted the pain to stop, and if that meant perceiving the world through a narcotic haze, well, so be it. I could not sit comfortably. Walking was torture, even the few steps to and from my bed to the bathroom.

My body was deformed by my own choosing. I know this. But when I chose, the suffering was abstract. In the reality, in the forgetting, it was a torment which made me curse my life.

_________

 My thoughts:

Even after months of receiving/writing these narratives, I am still wondering: it is possible to receive such stories from the dead (even if, in my own case, it turns out not to be so) or am I irrational to think such a thing is even possible?  

 Although I continue to resist facile, mystical explanations, I find the notions of communicating with the dead, of life after death, reincarnation, and metaphysics to be fascinating.   There is so much evidence “proving” this point of view, that as a spiritual belief, life after death actually seems more logical and reasonable than the notion of bleak eternal nothingness. In fact, while there is plenty of evidence and documentation of reincarnation dating back millennia, (ancient religious traditions, stories of previous lives with corroborated details, studies, books, past life regression, etc.), there is not a shred of evidence to prove bleak eternal nothingness (BEN).

 Those in the BEN camp often mock spiritual believers, holding themselves intellectually above them. As logical, scientific human beings, they believe only what can be confirmed by evidence. To them, anyone who believes otherwise is a fool. And yet – and here’s the delicious irony — it’s actually the BENnys whose theological beliefs are based faith alone. There is no evidence (and never can be) of their doctrine, because the negative cannot be proven. Without proof, their own beliefs are simply a matter of what feels right to them. Thus, they have no “moral right” to point fingers at the “gullibility” of the other camp..

 The more I read about these subjects, the more fascinated I become. Evidence of the spiritual realm is so overwhelming, even if 99% of what has been written can be debunked by known science, the remaining 1% still forms a huge heap of corroborative evidence.

 I have fallen down the rabbit hole, and the deeper I go, the less I want to come out.

 I do not think I’m a crackpot or a nut job, but I suppose that’s a matter of opinion, depending on whether you agree with me or not. But if not, please reread the previous paragraphs!

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