I digest the news today as I sit with the information that Steve's brother whose doctors have until now kindly diagnosed with cognitive disorder rather than Alzheimer's will have to now be moved to a place that does not seem to yet exist. There are not enough openings right now in San Diego in places one would want to put their relative who has a diagnosis of Alzheimers. The search will widen.
Also, movement now requires a court decision that he is unable to care for himself though he has been in diapers for awhile. We have money for prisons, and yet, we don't seem to have enough for facilities for those on the winter side of life. I sit with transition and how painful sometimes the doors through which we walk or crawl.
I don't have a solution. I am just sitting with it, trying to think of us all as Buddhas and Gods, even as I read that "evil" may be inherent in some people due to a too small amygdala or lack of serotonin and that is why we have shootings and we need to honor the rights of all, and I believe in that, that, yes, we do, and yet.
John Clare wrote the following poem from a lunatic asylum. He did struggle a bit with reality, but he wasn't dangerous. He also had a wife and seven children and maybe sometimes a more isolated place was welcomed. Where he stayed was actually quite lovely and probably more comfortable than his home and yet he knew there was a problem, and lived with his own conflicts on that.
Today is a blood testing day so I am fasting and soon out for the day and I feel heavy in my heart for all the pain in the world. My personal world is so fine right now, but that is one pearl amidst many, and the strand seems to be strangely ruffled these days.
On another note, it is funny to read of the disruption in people's lives because of their Blackberry being down. No one panics more than I when my computer and email are down, and yet, it usually means I am sent out into the world for a lovely walk that wouldn't happen without the "catastrophe." May today function well for you, whatever "well" and "wellness" mean to you. May there be time for wings of prayer in the ways that lift the feathers in you.
by John Clare (1793-1864)
I am—yet what I am, none cares or knows;
My friends forsake me like a memory lost: —
I am the self-consumer of my woes; —
They rise and vanish in oblivion's host,
Like shadows in love's frenzied stifled throes: —
And yet I am, and live—like vapours tost
Into the nothingness of scorn and noise, —
Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life nor joys,
But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems;
Even the dearest, that I love the best,
Are strange — nay, rather stranger than the rest.
I long for scenes where man has never trod
A place where woman never smiled or wept
There to abide with my Creator, God;
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,
Untroubling, and untroubled where I lie,
The grass below — above the vaulted sky.