Author: Jana Greene

I'm Jana and I write about the things that give me joy, help me cope, set me straight, and light my path. Recovery, relationships, spirituality, plant medicine, and assorted struggles and passions.

Becoming a Boxcar Child – a fun romp through the childhood books that shaped us

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Things are pretty heavy in the world right now, so I thought I’d write some fluff.

Thanks for your readership!

By: JANA GREENE

Most of the favorite books I read in childhood featured children fleeing into the woods, being rejected by parents, taming wild beasts, and falling in love with poetry (not necessarily in that order.)

In third grade, I wanted to be one of the Boxcar Children (written by Gertrude Chandler Warner.) The plot is thus: Four children orphaned by both parents go to live with their grandparents, who resent the absolute shite out of them for having the nerve to be parentless. So, the kids run away and end up living out of an abandoned train boxcar. Sometimes the adventure was begging for food, sounded kind of fun to my naive, privileged brain. They bathed in rivers, dodged rabid animals, stayed up as late as they wanted, and stole honey from beehives (wait…that’s Winnie the Pooh.) You get the picture. So obsessed with the Boxcar Children was I, I would go into the woods behind my elementary school and pretend to be orphaned and outdoorsey. I would build a “boxcar” out of sticks and boards and the random tarp in the woods that – now as an adult – makes me wonder if that tarp had been used in a crime of some sort. Oh well….it made a great roof for my boxcar.

For the best fleeing-into-the-woods pick, we have “My Side of the Mountain,” by Jean George. It is the story of 12-year-old boy who intensely dislikes living in his parents’ cramped New York CIty apartment with his eight brothers and sisters, and can you even blame him? He decides to run away to his great-grandfather’s abandoned farm in the Catskill Mountains to live in the wilderness. Five out of five stars, so good I may read it again at 55. This boy had the life. He acquired a freaking falcon just by gaining the bird’s trust, and catches a weasel and names him “The Baron” because of the “regal way he moves about.” I wanted a weasel named “The Baron.” Just a boy (who was my hero) who lives in the trees, catches fish and smokes the meat, and attains Snow White-level rapport with the animal kingdom. Bliss.

Next up, we have anything by Dr. Seuss. Just pick one. His books were silly for silliness’ sake and I loved it. Utter nonsense, just the way I like it. I went hard and heavy on the Dr. Sues with my children when they were little. I can still recite “One Fish Two Fish” verbatim, whether I want to or not.We were hoppin’ on Pop, hearing a Who, and hanging with the Sneetches. Classic. On one occasion one of them asked, “If Snitches get stitches, do Sneeches get leeches?” (I still don’t know, he never said.)

Then there was Shel Silverstein. Oh Shel. I wanted to grow up to marry the poet behind “Where the Sidewalk Ends.” I wanted to BE a poet and write about pertinent kid topics like he did. Classics such as “The Sharp-Toothed Snail” that bites your finger if you pick your nose, being eaten by a “Boa Constrictor” which takes you on ablow-by-blow account of being eaten by a snake, and “It’s Dark in Here,” about being inside of a lion. Quality prose.

And for those coming-of-age stories, Judy Blume was my go-to. To be a scandalous ten-year old, you must have read Judy. Boobs, periods, or practicing kissing boys were always mentioned, thus giving us the thrill of our training-bra lives. She captured universal growing-up angst better than anyone. Who can forget “We MUST, we MUST, we MUST INCREASE OUR BUST!” This is before any of us had started developing and realized that getting actual boobs and periods were really a tremendous bummer and horrible inconvenience, and none of us enjoyed having when we got them. Judy made it sound much more fun than it actually was. Still a little salty at her about this.

In 1977, “Bridge to Terabithia” by Katherine Patterson came out. There was an immediately a waiting list at the Quail Valley Elementary library, and it did not disappoint when it was finally in my hands. Picture it: Two best friends create an imaginary world called Terabithia, which they escape to in order to manage trauma. When tragedy strikes, they must rely on their friendship to work through grief. This was my introduction to fantasy worlds, and the realization that you can make your own (and you may as well, this place is bonkers.) Another fine example of children “fleeing to the woods.” It was also the book that introduced me to crying while reading. I really felt I kew these kids – who made their own world when this one hurt them. I filed that away in my little survivalist head and it grew into a more vivid imagination.

Which brings me to the series I read as a tween in 5th grade that I plucked right off of the elementary school library shelves, I sh*t you not. HOW? No banned books for us! I’m talking about “Flowers in the Attic” by V.C. Andrews. Now y’all aint gonna BELIEVE this, but here’s the plot: A grandmother locks a 12 year old girl and her 14-year-old brother in an attic. Dripping in wealth but low on compassion, the villainous grandmother decides it’s a good time to break it to the children that one of them is a product of incest. And that’s not even the worst thing. She calls the children the “Devil’s spawn” and is obsessed with the idea of incest, forbidding all contact between opposite sexes. The children are not allowed to make any noise, only in the attic are they free to play because their grandfather will kill them if he knows they are being hidden there. Yikes. (There was a waiting list for that series too. And yes, it’s a series.)

Who was monitoring our reading material? No one, that’s who. It was the 70’s.

I don’t have the attention span to read like I did when I was younger. Too much thinky-ness about “real” issues, but I sure would like to lose myself in a book again! In the meantime, I think I’m going to find some woods to flee to today, for old time’s sake.

0

An Open Letter to the Church Today

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By: JANA GREENE

Dear Church,

You’re the one who got me in this pickle. You started it.

You said to love your neighbor. But it turns out there seems to be disclaimers to this most important of all commandments, and it’s very confusing to keep the rules straight.

Then you told me to witness to the world, make disciples of men, when what they really need is a template for what love looks like; not just what it sounds like.

So, I did that too.

You told me to pray God would break my heart for what breaks his heart, and that is the prayer that did me in. I hope you’re happy.

This was the knottiest kink in the whole chain. Because listen...

HE DID IT. I had a supernatural experience. The veil didn’t tear open but it did have a loose thread. And I did what people do, which is to pick at it until it unraveled.

And it was VERY upending and not entirely pleasant.

People were hungry. People were lonely. People had had scripture lobbed at them at every turn but were empty. I did a lot of that lobbing in the day. They were all hurting, because we are all hurting. Presence does what words can never do.

The whole, wide hurting world is looking at Christ-followers to see if they are made of the same stuff they preach. And woefully, too much of it perpetuates the separation between us and God (in reality, there is none.)

And you never told me to love myself, as one who could also benefit from that top-tier commandment. And I didn’t know how, as you taught me the human heart is deceitful above all things and not to trust it. Not to trust the voice of the God particle we all carry, that divine spark.

Church, God is within you, you told me. But he’s not the icky parts. No, he cannot be in the presence if ick. It’s too icky and you’re too human. As if Christ didn’t pick his nose or wipe his butt. As if he didn’t wail and cry, and ask the cup to be taken from him.

It’s my desire to see the Church repent for making love about doctrine and law.

Please don’t discount revival because it looks nothing like you thought it would. God is crafty that way. He isn’t bound to do it your way (or mine.)

As it turns out, I don’t mind being in this pickle anymore. Because it’s fundamentally changed me to consider the suffering of others. It should change all of us.

I fell in love with you a long time ago, Church. There is so much to love. Good news! Community! You reared our whole generation, and I’m so grateful for all the wonderful experiences I’ve had in your space. It felt like a safe space for a long time.

But perhaps it’s time for a shift?

I will always love you, but sanctuaries should not be proving grounds.

And as we all experience this great winding-up to sharing the mind of God in total, let’s remember people over policies. Politics have no place in religion, and frankly, we cannot afford the hatred that comes part and parcel with politics. Please keep it out of the pulpit. You alienate more people than you help.

So, actually, thank you for starting this, I think.

Warm Regards,

6

Celebrations, Pity Parties, and a God who Attends Both

How often do I feel like I’m spiritually “getting things right”? About as often as we see an eclipse. So let’s not lean on on our “understanding” of God and lean instead into Love (which is really just another name God goes by.) And yes, this is my lame attempt at photographing the eclipse.

By: JANA GREENE

If it’s God’s will, it will come easily. That’s how you know you’re operating in the Spirit. Things will click. Things will flow. His yoke is light, etc and so on.

But also, if you are in God’s will, it will be hard.

You’ll know you have holy favor when you’re downtrodden and at the end of your rope. That’s the ol’ devil, don’t you know. And he wouldn’t mess with you if you weren’t doing God’s work.

Well, which is it? Do you see the conundrum?

This is life, and it’s both and neither. It is, so far as I can tell, it’s ALLTHETHINGS, dammit.

I can’t trust a God whose mind I have to pick apart to get it “right.”

I don’t tell my adult children, “Okay, I’m feeling some type of way about you…but WHICH way? Let’s see if you can correctly guess based on interpretation of an ancient text and my jealous, vengeful nature. May the odds be ever in your favor!”

I learn alongside my children, you see. For everything I learn about them, they learn about me. And in the process, and I feel like we are all learning alongside God, with curiosity and wonder and grieving and suffering.

It will be easy, there will be times of flow.

It will be brutally difficult.

It’s all holy favor, you see, and that’s the confounding part.

God only feels ONE type of way about you.

We need not wring our hands in an attempt to earn love, because that’s the way we have been taught to please a world of broken people and an unpleasable diety.

In actuality, the odds are always, always in your favor, Beloved. Even (especially?) when you’re most hurt, downtrodden, and at the end of your rope.

Whether you invite God to a celebration of the soul or an old-fashioned pity party, just invite him. The Spirit shows up for both.

How to be in the will of God? Just be.

Blessings, friends.

7

That Chris Robinson Spirituality

By: JANA GREENE

God, I love music.

And not just “love” it like I love chocolate, or cats, or 70-degree days.

No. I mean it “ministers” to my soul, man. And not in the holy-roller way; but in a way that satisfies me to the core. Maybe you feel the same?

A few months ago, my husband took me to see a concert by the Black Crowes. Watching the lead singer, Chris Robinson, create and enjoy his music on stage was mesmerizing. He didn’t exactly dance like no one was watching; his dance was more like an inviation to join him.

He flailed his arms; he stomped his feet. Shades of Woodstock, I tell you. He danced about because his body had to follow the direction of his heart. Can you imagine the Black Crowes performing while sitting in stillness? Of course not.

His fancy footwork was unchoreographed, but in the freest, most uninhibited way. That man couldn’t care less if thousands of people were watching, he just let go and let the music take over 100%. And you cannot convince me that God himself was present, chillin’, and appreciating the fine artform his kid Chris was sharing. (We are all his kids, you know.)

“I want to get to that level of unbotherdness,” I told my husband. “That’s true spirituality right there.”

And it was. 

What seems like both yesterday and an eternity ago, I read Eric Clapton’s autobiography (aptly named “Clapton”) on a sunny beach in Aruba. I was on my honeymoon. It was 2007.

“I have always been resistant to doctrine, and any spirituality I had experienced thus far in my life had been much more abstract and not aligned with any recognized religion. For me, the most trustworthy vehicle for spirituality had always proven to be music.” Eric Clapton said.

Ah yes….MUSIC.

I’ve always felt this way about music, but it scared me. Getting heavy into a vibe felt like giving in to secularism, unless the song was churchy. “Churchy” music was fine to dance too. Heck, you could sprawl yourself out on the floor whilst fellow congregants got their groove on. Because it was FOR GOD. “The bigger the spectacle, the closer to God” was kind of the thinking. 

I’ve fought it my whole life, good music trying to settle into the marrow of my bones. In my teen years, our youth pastor hosted a “Devil’s Music” night, and I wish I were kidding. We listened to Led Zepplin – whose music I was already having a torrid affair with – and then we listened to it BACKWARDS. 

OH MY GOD HAVE I BEEN WORSHIPPING DARK FORCES, just by listening? This scared me into an exclusively Amy Grant and Petra phase, which I really tried to adhere to, but have you HEARD Al Green? Have you felt the pulse and lull of David Bowie’s voice? 

The bottom line of the theology I lived by for years was: If it’s not worshiping God, it’s worshiping the devil. Which – in my current de/reconstructed faith, sounds absolutely ridiculous, but it’s what millions of people think is true.

Maybe all music is of God, because it was his big idea. Feel that bass in your heart? Chris Robinson does, and he isn’t afraid to BE the music.

But what if the music has a dark message? I promise you it’s not too dark for God to hear. We are ALL in a dark place many times throughout life. We record it and remember it because it too is part of the human experience. I personally have a Spotify list of “Crying Songs,” because sometimes my antidepressants make it difficult to cry and these songs really get me going.

Emotion is not the enemy. Things that evoke emotion are not innately bad.

For the majority of my life, I’ve tried to temper what I assumed was “worldly,” lest I offend God with my listening choices. “You are what you listen to,” I was taught. 

And what I’ve been taught has run my whole life up until this point. Obsessed with what the church sanctioned, all while doubting the church’s reasoning but being afraid to give it voice.

But the subjectivity of music is like appreciation for any other art. Only God could take doh, re, mi, fa, so, la, ti, doh, and give us the liberty to arrange those simple sounds into millions of possibilities. And I have to believe that’s a holy process. Lots of things are part of a holy process. MOST things, I’d venture.

For God so loved the world, that he gave it music. And to make sure it properly,was executed properly, he gave us Chris Robinson, Van Morrison, Creed, Snoop Dogg, and Al Green. 

And I’m grateful. I want to give myself over to music…become a spectacle not to impress others, but because the music is reaching a place in my soul that is so full, I have to get my body involved in what my heart is already enjoying.

God bless us, everyone. Crank up your tunes, and enjoy all the good gifts God has given!

2

The Wrath of Crepe(y Skin)

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By: JANA GREENE

I am trying to figure out if I want to adopt a skin care routine at the ripe old age of 55, or to just roll with the reality that I’ve abused my body most of my life and it’s a vindictive mofo. Sometime between exclusively “washing” my face with Sea Breeze astringent and realizing Father Time is stomping across my face in soccer cleats, I decided I needed a system. Never mind I hate anything regimented. I am starting to look like Tweety Bird’s Granny, and desperate problems require drastic solutions.

Actual conversation between me and myself, after the thousandth dewy skinned 30-year-old tries to sell me a “skincare regimen” on my socials, because even Big Brother knows I am just another post-menopausal consumer:

Me: Buy the eight-step skincare package.

Myself: But we already have two bottles of Eight Saints. $30 per bottle. Use that up first.

Me: But what if today is the last day we can start The System before it actually doesn’t work anymore. Like, ‘well, we could have saved ourself from looking like a Shar Pei, but we missed the boat.’ Our Eight Saints will have all been for naught!

WE won’t make it to the second step.

OKAY, WOW. *insert righteous anger*

We are incapable of doing anything in a systematic manner, how many bosses have told us this over the years?

They said we don’t work in the most efficient manner, thank you. Efficiency is boring. I’m getting The System. Maybe if we spend enough money on skin care, we WILL care!

Look under the bathroom sink. It is littered with previous, half-empty bottles of caring. Caring with peptides. Caring with collagen. Caring with retinol. Caring with Eight Saints….

Just listen to this: Nobody would go to all this trouble if it didn’t work! “Step 1: Exfoliate. Step 2: Use pre-facial treatment. Step 3: Dot on the eye cream. Step 4: Boost serum. Step 5: Use ambiguous facial treatment. Step 6: Use smoothing serum. Step 6: Pretreat neck for crepey skin. Step 7: Slather anywhere your skin looks like an accordion...

And Step 8: Look exactly the same as if we’ve used nothing but Dove soap and Sea Breeze astringent. We are lousy at being a “2020’s” woman. Where are our lip fillers? And we were TOLD to expect smoker’s lines if we were going to smoke two packs a day in the 90’s. And our EYEBROWS! Why are they natural? Ditto the lashes, wait….do we even have lashes?”

Listen. we are straddling the line between SALVAGE WHAT YOU CAN, LADY and HOW ABOUT I JUST GIVE LESS F*CKS? And honestly, I think we should just let Father Time drag his cleats across our face, be happy with our turkey neck, and putter around saying things like, “Bad ‘ol Puddy Tat”and “Shhhh, I’m watchin’ my STORIES.”

(Okay, I DID buy The System, after writing all of this. Stay tuned! So far, I have used the exfoliator twice, the eye cream three times, and the neck lotion two times. How many times have I done the WHOLE “system?” Once, when it was freshly out of the box. I am really bad at this.)

2

Breathe (a little poetry jam)

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I’ve been learning some breathwork lately and considering the connectedness with nature that our breath allows. The trees are breathing too – everything in a constant flux of inhalation and exhalation. We literally inhale the fine air the trees exhale; and how nifty is that? Let’s take a page from nature and stir some leaves today.

By: JANA GREENE

My breath stirs the leaf,

so the tree lets it go.

The wind carries it gently

to the ground below,

to soften my footfalls

on the forest floor,

creating a soft place

to breath once more.

We are connected symbiotically –

the flora, the fauna,

the wind,

and me.

And you my friend

are a part of it too,

the flora and fauna,

me and you.

5

Room Enough for Love

Ahhhh, you have to admit this is HEAVENLY!

By: JANA GREENE

When I thought I understood the hereafter in my evangelical days, I used to talk about the mansions we will all have in heaven, and looked forward to laying down this mortal burden and enjoying my “just reward” after fighting the good fight.

“Mansions!” all us Christians would insist. “We are all gonna have MANSIONS!”

In seems a strange form of idolatry now in hindsight. Entitlement, even. After all, it’s our birthright! In the end, it’s ego wanting what ego feels justified in wanting.

The way we all carried on about the specs for our abode in Heaven, missing the point and slipping into a prosperity gospel mindset.

So, God? You can give my heavenly “mansion” to someone else who struggled with homelessness while Earthside. Transfer the deed, and let it be so. Basking in the undiluted consciousness of the Universe is enough for me.

Perhaps God, you can see fit to let my address be YOU. Peace, not riches, in communion with the holiness we only get to see glimpses of here.

Although I surely won’t mind if you place me near water – perhaps a sea or a stream. I want to be cozy forever and ever, amen – safe finally and well. Whole and free in my little heavenly abode.

And I will invite all of my friends to my little UN-mansion; and that will be enough. A true just reward, eternally.

In my Father’s house, there are said to be many rooms, but I just need room enough for love.

2

A President More Fruitless

It gives me the ick to feature his picture but dammit, we have to wake up already

By: JANA GREENE

I’m trying not to stoke the fires of political controversy, but what in the heckin’ mark of the beast even IS this madness? HOW is he still in the running? For that matter, how do we have a current president with significant dementia? These are our best and brightest?
Trump is hawking his own version of the BIBLE (yours for just $59.99!) Pshaw, the fact that this man has ZERO fruits is the actual Spirit to distract him from his mission? Let’s just pretend that’s not an issue.
The fervent nationalism in the name of Trump is a cult. I know because I’ve participated in cults, and his following? It’s a cult, and Trump is the leader. He has so much audacity. The MOST audacity! The greatest audacity the world has ever seen! Why, just the other day, God called Trump and said “You’re the greatest! All the other presidents were garbage! Run again, oh Messianic One, it’s the only way!”
I hear tell that we are supposed to know Jesus followers by their “fruit.” For those keeping score, that proof is shown in love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Show me a single one that he embodies. I’ll wait.
Oof. The Emporer’s new clothes are a crappy fit, and I’m not playing along by pretending I don’t see what I see anymore.

3

Taking Custody of the Inner Child

I know life isn’t like a Haribo commercial gummy bear commercial, where we all sit around the board table and infantilize ourselves in a quest to satisfy an inner child. But dang. Maybe we should. We should at least talk kindly to ourselves! Namaste, friend. The child in me recognizes the child in you. ❤

By: JANA GREENE

I spend time with a little girl every day.

Even the days I am very busy.

Even on the days she is a bit of a pest.

She is enthusiastic, sometimes whiny,

always craving affection and being a little clingy.

She is healing from trauma, you see.

Sometimes I don’t even know what to do with her.

I acknowledged her from time to time, sure.

But I ignored her whenever possible.

But she was mostly a nuisance,

and I used to not know what to say to her.

You see,

for the longest time,

I didn’t have custody of her at all,

which is crazy because she’s ME.

Of course I had physical custody,

but the goal was just to make sure she didn’t hurt herself,

didn’t starve,

wasn’t cold or hungry.

But mental, emotional, and spiritual custody?

She was on her own.

Now we are pals I’m happy to say.

I’m not saying she doesn’t get on my last nerve,

but she’s learning that she doesn’t have to be small,

and take up the least amount of space,

all of the time.

She is seen, and she is heard, and she is loved.

I used to bristle at the term “inner child.”

because I thought mine was gone.

I thought I was too late.

That’s the lie we believe –

that we are damaged right out of the gate,

never to be whole again.

To that I say BALDERDASH!

Please know that you can reparent yourself.

You can make your inner child feel safe.

You can make sure she feels seen and heard.

You can rediscover all the things she loved

but never got to share with you.

I love my inner little squirt now.

Get to know yours; I know she’s ready

for her turn.

2

Having Church at Target

Photo by Nashua Volquez-Young on Pexels.com

By: JANA GREENE

I had church at Target today.

Waiting in an awfully long line with my grown-up daughter, I was making chitchat with the elderly woman in front of us. She was buying some sandwich bags, a package of pencils, and some medicine, which she was carrying in her hands.

This sweet older woman just buying the basics, she had the sweetest energy. At one point, she turned and said, “Honey, will you keep my place? I need a piece of candy.”

Okay, FIRST of all…if you call me “honey,” I will oblige to almost anything. It’s my kryptonite – terms of endearment. I think it’s because my grandmother called everyone honey and I miss that. I said I would, and she walked over to the next register – where there was candy – and returned to her spot empty-handed.

“Can you believe a candy bar is $2?” she said. I told her, no I couldn’t believe it. That it was highway robbery – because it is. The line moved, but in inches. Target was a madhouse.

I can try to describe this woman for you, but words won’t do her justice. She was so tiny and dressed in her Sunday best on a Friday afternoon just because she’s classy like that. Her hands were gnarled with arthritis, but you could imagine all the babies she has held in them, all the friends she has comforted with them, all the times they’ve been folded in prayer. I was drawn to her warmth – this stranger in Target.

My spirit got elbowed in the ribs. Buy her the candy bar, it said.

I told her I would be honored to get her the candy bar, that she deserves that candy bar. I could tell by the way she clutched her items that she was there only for the necessities. I know because I’ve been there. The last thing I wanted to do was insult her in any way.

“Oh no,” she said. “That’s okay! It’s too expensive.”

“Friend, I think you need some chocolate” I said. “Actually, I’d like to buy your items. Please let me bless you. Would you like the Hershey bar with almonds?”

This petite little lady set down her things on the conveyer, as we finally moved up, and pulled me into the sweetest hug. I put the candy with her things and quietly paid for her few things.

I told her she has the most beautiful countenance I’ve ever seen, because it’s true. She told me God loves me, because that’s also true. I wanted to invite her to coffee, but the world is so weird right now, and I was already being weird as it was. (I low key still wish I’d asked, though. Perhaps our paths will cross again?)

“You’re gonna make an old lady dance in the Spirit right here in Target!” And ya’ll, as God is my witness, she cut a little rug right there in the store. So I did a little dance too, because nobody likes to dance alone. (I’m not sure my daughter knew what to do at that point, and the clerk checking us out was befuddled.)

“I love the Lord!” said my new friend.

“Me too!” said I, as we hugged again.

The sweet women’s purchase was around $25. There are many, many times in my life that $25 has been too much. There are many times a Hershey bar was a hardship, and chocolate would have blessed me. There were a handful of people who helped me in ways big and small, and I never forgot it. Because why the heck else are we plodding through on this planet, if not to lean into each other? Much like Target, it’s a madhouse.

Have you ever met a stranger who wasn’t really a stranger? A friend masquerading as someone you’ve never met? It happens to me all the time, and the serendipity is a balm to the soul.

Let’s please love one another, in ways big and small. Because things are weird and “off” in the world right now, and everyone is on edge. The necessities are highway robbery.

Our interactions with each other are church.

We might as well dance, friends. And eat the chocolate.

7

That Grounding Gospel – Taking God to the Mat

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By: JANA GREENE

I do my best spiritual work from on the ground, apparently.

I can remember laying on my mat Kindergarten at naptimes at school, a skinny little girl laying curled in a ball, watching all my classmates fall asleep like falling asleep is just a normal thing people do or something.

From birth, my brain never shut up, and my home life was dysfunctional to the point of chaos. So, I would lay with my budding anxious neurosis on the vinal mat, unable to sleep; afraid to close my eyes (and afraid not to.) No sleep, only unease.

My teacher, Mrs. Carter would stand over me and holler in front of the whole class, “CLOSE YOUR EYES, JANA!” I can remember squeezing them together and doing a rudimentary version of praying. It was a crude and simple exchange with the God of my Vacation Bible School stories. Even as a child, I seemed to know instinctively that there is more help available from the Divine than we ask for or expect.

“I can’t calm my mind,” I would have said to the adults in my life, had I the language to ask for what I needed. But I didn’t. Little girls with big, grown-up worries don’t know how to self-soothe, because OF COURSE they don’t; and they surely don’t know how to articulate anxiety or ask for help calming their minds.

That’s where I remember doing my first earnest prayers – on the kindergarten mat – asking of Jesus who already lives in my heart to be seen and soothed, comforted and feel less alone.

Twenty-seven years later, I found myself on the bathroom floor of my house, battling an alcohol addiction, wishing to die. On January 3, 2001, I came to the end of myself on that floor. Wretching, sick, alone, and desperate. From flat on the tiled floor, my fist in the air, eyes tinged in red, and skin yellowing, yelling at God and no one in particular, I came to the end of myself.

It reminded me of the biblical story of Jacob “going to the mat” with God in an all-night WrestleMania event. “I’m not going to take this laying down!” Jacob was thinking. But he ended up exhausted and limping, which is how most of us end up in that mindset, if we are not careful.

I had prayed many, many times before for sobriety, but there was a different outcome on that day. A peace descended on me like a dove. In my sickness and desperation, I was met on the floor by a God undeterred from my anxiety. One minute at a time, and then one hour, then one day, week, month, year… that was 23 years ago. A lifetime ago.

“I CAN’T CALM MY MIND” I simply told him. And here’s the thing: I know the same Spirit who curled up with me on my kindergarten nap mat is the same Spirit who met me in the bathroom, me clinging to the toilet, him not at all afraid to get the hem of his garment dirty on my behalf.

I am now learning to meditate now, and it’s a challenge. My husband, who never seems to tire of my endless new “hobbies” took me to get a nice, double-padded yoga mat. I’ve been on quite the little awakening for several years now and am learning so much. I absolutely love incorporating the tools I’m learning into my faith life, which is not a conflict with the holiness of God at all, no matter what Debbie at the Pentecostal church says. (I plan to write at length about what I’m learning, if you’d like to journey with me.)

The first group meditation session I went to, I dutifully spread out my mat amongst the hippies and lovers and seekers at the group event, excited to learn this new coping mechanism. The atmosphere was thick with love and cleansing. Yet can you guess what the prevailing thought was upon getting situated?

I CAN’T CALM MY MIND.

“Okay,” I felt Spirit say, over the Native American flute music and swirling clouds of burning sage (that former evangelical ‘me’ would be scandalized by.) “I am in you and with you and around you.”

If you feel you are on the “floor” in some regard to your life, I just want to remind you that it’s a nice, stable surface from which to start. You are simply grounding, darlings. The floor is a very vulnerable place to be, but be vulnerable we must, if we are to grow. We glorify striving, when simply being is enough.

So just ‘be’ today, friends.

Just be, Groundlings. And don’t forget to breathe. And ask the Universe to make you ever more aware of his presence. If we increase our awareness of this supernatural experience, we begin to see God everywhere – in every ONE.

In you, too! Ready to see, soothe, and comfort you – meeting you on hallowed ground.

5

The Driving Force

It’s okay to love all the parts of yourself.
(Mural Carolina Beach.).

By: JANA GREENE

I love the parts of me

that are most like the Source.

The parts that align

with all the Divine,

with love as the driving force.

The parts made of stardust

and deep mystery,

the parts not sullied by

my own history,.

The Kingdom of God

that’s within me?

It abides within you too.

We seekers and finders

oft need reminders

Of our identities

in the Truth.

The parts that align

with all the Divine,

make it all well with my soul.

So I’ll embrace

all the parts of me…

Not in part, but the whole.

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Cringey Vulnerability (a tale of betrayal)

Today’s writing prompt from The Writing Room Collective:

By: JANA GREENE

If you are going to trust with any degree of your tender, fleshy heart, you will get hurt. It isn’t a possibility. It isn’t a “might happen.” We all experience betrayal. Death has lost it’s eternal sting, but betrayal still really smarts.

Many years ago, a woman who was freshly out of rehab was being released into her natural habitat of Life on Life’s Terms. We had a mutual friend at the time, who asked me to reach out to her so I can hook her up with some meeting resources, and just generally be her friend. As a result of her past choices, she relied on others to get her around town – she lost her licence – and I was all too happy to be her recovery buddy and take her to meetings with me.

And become her friend, I did.

Not only did she confide in me, but I in her; and regularly. Looking back now, I cringe at the uber-vulnerability I felt comfortable engaging in with her. I wasn’t her sponsor, but I was her friend, and I have a propensity for letting it all hang out anyway.

She had close ties with people who used to be an intimate part of my life (ESTRANGED family, gee, that should have been a clue!) but I did a crazy thing, which is to trust her.

What I should have caught on to, but missed by a mile, was that her wildly elaborate and passionate stories about recovery were pockmarked with holes, hugs, and bullshit. My gut often doesn’t get consulted on these things, when it should be the FIRST consultation I make.

On our rides to meetings, she was super animated and would often even quote from my own blog to me. I would sometimes think, ‘okay…THAT was weird,’ but most of my friends – and certainly me – are weird. Some of the personal stories she told suspended belief!

Eventually, this friend needed witnesses who ‘knew’ her pretty well, and after taking her to meetings for damn near a year I felt confident about testifying on her behalf.  “You’ve worked so hard on your recovery,” I said. “I would be honored to help!”

The Oscar for Best Actress goes to ….

My “friend.”

After I was a character witness for her, I never saw or heard from her again. She fell off the face of the Earth. It’s hard for me to imagine that degree of deception.

Turns out, this woman had been drinking all along – Vodka apparently, so I didn’t smell it. ALL ALONG.

I kind of pride myself on this mission statement: I don’t have relationships with people I don’t trust. That assumes I know untrustworthy people and can tell when they are lying. I thought I had decent discernment. Maybe that pride needs to go the way of ALL pridefulness. In the sh*tter, where it belongs.

The question I keep posing to myself is thus – HOW could I be so stupid and gullible? I honest to God just didn’t see it. I really hurt my own feelings about it. Then I realize, there is no betrayal that can’t teach us a thing or two.

There’s no way to wrap up this post up all clean and tidy-like, because life is just so messy. I don’t think I’ll hear from her again; she got what she had befriended me for.

What I experienced ain’t terribly original.

Active addicts lie. It’s kind of what they do. They deceive, minimize, maximize, lie, cheat, steal, and all to protect their best friend – the drug of choice. I myself used to strategically hide BOXES of wine all over the house (although I’m not sure why, as those in my life at the time didn’t seem to mind if I drank myself to death.)

But once I got into a program, I learned to call myself out on these behaviors and stop lying to myself.  Because calling yourself out keeps you sober, frankly. “Rigorous honesty.”

Yeah, that old chestnut.

As with most things about recovery, I’ve learned tons about myself during this time. Had I to do it again, what would I change? Even if I knew she was using me and lying about her addiction?

I would still offer to take her to meetings with me. I would still give her a safe place to vent. I probably wouldn’t have shared as much of my personal life with her, and I surely wouldn’t have vouched for her. Like I said, it sometimes seems that no good deed goes unpunished.

Although the deception happened TO me, it is not ABOUT me. It’s not about me in the least. But it stings all the same –  I’m just being honest about how this whole debacle made me feel.

Still, God calls me to be grace-full, and I’m trying. He never called me to be a sucker, though.  I have forgiven this lady (although she never asked for it) after wasting precious hours and hours on trying to figure out what clues I missed.

But forgiving someone doesn’t mean you want to break bread with them. You can forgive, walk away, and be wiser for the trouble.

1

Ode to the Socials

Photo by Federico Orlandi on Pexels.com

By: JANA GREENE

I crave connection.

Standing in the gas station,

getting me a tank-full.

I never met a stranger,

and for that I am so thankful.

At the grocery check out,

waiting in a line,

please tell me your life story

and I will tell you mine!

I’m grateful for the “socials,”

because they tend to shrink

this planet that we live on,

and oftentimes I think

what an absolute marvel

technology has become!

Together we grow,

together we rise,

together we come undone.

I crave human connection

because there’s One Love,

you see.

Divinity is our DNA,

it’s for freedom we are set free.

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A Chronic Illness Wish List

By: JANA GREENE

I need to throw a little tantrum right now. Not a full-on nervy-b, but a proper little hissy fit.

I’m so grateful for the health days lately that have allowed me to do some normalsauce stuffs recently, but Ehlers Danlos is a chronic pain and illness condition. It doesn’t take vacations.

My whole body is made up of faulty collagen. The last two nights (and eapecially today,) the pain flares had been almost unbearable.

So here Is my stupid little list of wishes, compiled to get my frustration under control, and maybe remind you that you’re not alone if you’re hurting too.

I wish I could pop my shoulders out of the sockets like Ms. Potato Head, and replace them with sturdier, less excruciating shoulder joints. They pained me so severely last night, I writhed around trying to get comfortable for several hours instead of sleeping.

I wish it didn’t feel like oyster shuckers have been wedged under my kneecaps, feeling like someone is trying to jimmy them off every day.
I wish my hips didn’t roll around and sublux levery dadgum day. I can pop the joint in and out, and it’s not a fun party trick. It’s agony.

I wish I had one of those cool new “exoskeleton” robot suits. Have you seen them?? They hold you together from the OUTSIDE. Like a Transformer. I would t even care that I looked like a weirdo.

I wish people disnt give me the stink-eye when I need to park In handicapped. Look at her, walking Into the store! What people dont realize Is that every step can be a real challenge. You never know what a disabled person is really feeling In their bodies. Sometimes the fatigue makes every step seem Impossible.

I wish people’s understood that different days require different mobility aids. Sometimes you will see me using a cane. I need it for stability on Sundays and or because the pain is making it hard to walk other days. I don’t use it at all and I know that seems really confusing, but it’s quite simple – there are good days and bad days.

I live every day fully aware that I will most likely lose mobility from here on out, so the days I don’t need my cane I revel not needing It.

I wish people understood the fragility of an EDSers body, and the strength It takes to keep going. We are fragile, but unbreakable.

There is little to no stability in my joints because most of my lax connective tissue. Pain and injury are the result. I once broke my ankle in two places from stepping out of bed to go pee in the middle of the night; it just rolled. And lest you think I’m just a big wimp about pain, I walked on that ankle for eleven days before I had it looked at by a doctor. My threshold is very high.

I wish I had a decent immune system. I don’t.

I wish the migraines would cease and desist, but they are tied into some of my other genetic mutation conditions. They are a whole other Issue altogether.

And I wish I were way more zen about pain. It teaches me things, true. But I simply get tired of this shit. I am trying to live transcendently – find joy beyond suffering and camp out In the assurance that God’s got me (and I get by with a LOT of help from my friends.)

I currently have a post-it scrawled with medical appointments I need to make on my kitchen counter. Like I NEED to make these appointments – for specialists, physical therapy, another cortisone shot in my knee, major dental work, a trip to Duke next month for gastroperesis treatment, and labs galore. It had been on the counter for weeks and every day I pass it and get a mini-panic attack, on account of I’m simply overwhelmed.

Because this IS overwhelming. My job is to stay healthy enough to have a quality of life, but I sure could use some PTO days to just NOT feel like this.

Life is challenging, but we are never alone. That’s important to wish for – for God to use my crappy conditions to make others feel less alone. That’s the best reason I can come up with for any kind of suffering.

In our suffering, let’s lean into one another.

Bless us, everyone.

1

Housekeeping

Photo by JACK REDGATE on Pexels.com

By: JANA GREENE

Maam, that burden looks heavy to me.

I know because I’ve carried it.

And sometimes I still pick it up,

when I forget I’ve already buried it.

When I remember it’s not mine to carry

I can “clean house” again.

If I leave my “muddy sneakers” outside,

I control what I track in.

Housekeep your sweet spirit,

leave your burden at the door.

Be tender with your heart,

it’s been wounded to the core.

We can lift the heavy things,

Sometimes we all must do it.

I’ll carry yours

if you help carry mine,

and together we’ll get through it.

Yes, together we’ll get through it.

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Psst…Your Energy is Showing (and it’s Beautiful!)

I think I’ve leveled-up on my woo-woo-ness. And I’m okay with that!

By: JANA GREENE

The best compliment I have ever been paid upon meeting someone that I have only known on social media previously is: “Wow! You have beautiful energy.”

I actually cried the first time someone said this. How wonderful to notice first the essence of a person; not the packaging.
I can think of nothing better than receiving that “good word” (as I would say in my evangelical days.) It’s a big ‘ol NAMASTE – my soul recognizes yours. What could possibly be better?

And I am sure to comment on the energy of others too. Some people positively glow with it, so much so that their presence changes the entire trajectory of your day.

Energy isn’t the perfect lipstick or a flattering haircut. It doesn’t give a nod to trends, or consider an outward aesthetic.

It’s our very frequency, which the whole universe vibes with. People can actually “tune in” to yours and mine – it’s created to be shared. We are all just only energy anyway, might as well be good energy!

Wrinkles and fat come and go (mostly just come these days.) “Beauty” by conventional definition “fades.” Our mental health gets janky. Cellulite dimples our bodies. Hair grays. Boobs fall. Fupas happen. My physical health is falling apart due to chronic illness. But this little light of mine? It transcends this Earth Suit. Thank God for that.

Your frequency is like no other. We don’t need to be perfect; we just need to lean into the Oneness that we all belong to.
Blessed be, Dear Reader.

And namaste, you beautiful energy vessel, you. Thanks for sharing your frequency with the world.

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Every Day Precious, Every Moment Counts

By: JANA GREENE

My GOD, life is precious.

I was going to write about the subject of today’s writing prompt, which is “Describe your favorite childhood book.” How very light, fluffy, and FUN! Maybe I’ll write about that tomorrow. I’m not really feeling it today.

Yesterday, my husband and I went for a Sunday convertible drive, the weather was so lovely. We drove all the way down to Fort Fisher like we usually do because (I realize this is kind of nauseating) that’s where we had our very first kiss. We stop and kiss in that exact spot, and notice three guys with motorcycles watching the kiteboarders in the inlet.

“What a beautiful day for a bike ride!” we said aloud at one point. We admired the view for a bit. It really was a beautiful day.

We started back up Fort Fisher, stopping to take a few pictures (to use on my blog) and we heard sirens. An ambulance raced past, heading to the end of the long road. Then a firetruck. I am nosy, so I wondered aloud, should we go see what’s happening? Something told me “no.” Something told me (correctly) that I couldn’t handle whatever “this” was. We decided to head home as a state police car barreled past us. He was flying. The emergency presence was alarming…

CB and Kure police. State police. A fire truck. And, an ambulance. We both had a sick feeling about it for some weird reason, and it was a feeling we couldn’t shake.

Later in the afternoon, when we got home, we found out it was a motorcycle accident that happened minutes after we left Fort Fisher. Minutes.

Today I read the news that the motorcyclist did not survive the accident. I can not stop thinking about him today.

There had only been three guys on motorcycles and a tourist couple taking pictures, (and Bob and I) down that long stretch of road. That’s all. I could remember the faces, which seems odd – that my mind – which is not so swell at remembering anything else – could conjure their faces.

Which one, I wondered. Which gentleman was it? The one riding a trike or one of the two men who were riding together. Was it you, Guy in the royal blue shirt? Was it the dude on the trike? Or was it the short one with long hair?

I may never know. But here’s what I DO know… Life is effing short.

None of those men thought a ride to Fort Fisher would be the last thing he did on this earth. How absurd that someone in their prime of life would go for a bike ride and never come home? I’m crying thinking about it.

So I pray for the family, because what else are we supposed to do with these jarring realizations that this life is but one leg of an eternal journey. I’m so sorry for them. Their worlds make absolutely no sense today.

We have the time we have allotted and not a minute more, so what are we doing with the it? Learn to be present in the moment. Let the small stuff go. Enjoy the living daylights out of every minute. Which is difficult because in addition to being the most amazing ever, life is also the hardest, most bewildering thing ever.

In honor of the gentleman who lost his life minutes after we saw his face, I’m going to love on my family harder than necessary today. I’m going to be more aware in the moments with friends, which are so precious. Please take good care of yourself and each other today. God really does love you, and so do I.

1

Paperweight (“It Seemed Like a Good Plan on Paper” writing prompt)

Art by: Jana Greene

On this second day of taking a cue from my favorite Author’s writing prompt suggestions, I bring you a little poetry jam. Anne Lamott’s prompt today? Write about: “It seemed like a good plan on paper.” This piece wholly turned into something completely different than I had in mind, as so often happens. I hope you enjoy, Dear Reader. From my paper heart to yours.

By: JANA GREENE

It seemed like a good plan on paper,

but Rock and Scissors intervened,

(even though I don’t remember

asking them to help me scheme.)

In “Rock! Paper! Scissors!”

it’s to the paper I relate,

because I don’t want trouble

(and have no need to double

down on all of that hate.)

Rock has tried to keep me down,

because that’s his only schtick.

Invite me to cry on his shoulder,

then pin me under a boulder?

That’s the oldest trick.

He tried to pull off his caper,

But my name is Paper,

so spare me your hullabaloo.

And Scissors, before you

start up with me, I’ve

a message for you, too.

Before you get lippy,

you best be damn skippy,

you know I will make it alive.

Hit me with your best shot,

shear me with all you got,

Go ahead and…strive.

Cut me into ribbons,

and as streamers, I will fly.

Fill me with words,

I’ll be a book by and by.

Drench me in deep colors,

I become a work of art.

Keep me as a journal,

and you’ll have a place to start.

Cut me in a million pieces,

and confetti I will be,

And then I will be everywhere,

a living thing, you see.

I will rain down celebration,

as was written at my birth.

I will peddle deep elation,

I’ll be a paperweight of worth.

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