Hate is Trending (Love Anyway)

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By: JANA GREENE

We worked so hard to come by this love. Most of us, anyway. Maybe you – like me – have gone through a season of spiritual confusion, unable to justify a cruel creator to a loving spiritual force. And perhaps you have reached the same conclusion; that everything we’d been taught was dogma. That nobody knows better than we average people do, and that’s terrifying. Maybe you landed on love, like me. Scrap everything else, and act lovingly, like it’s the only thing that matters. Because it is.

This world is rumbling and laboring, every contraction pulsing to either bring us closer together or farther apart. We can all feel it, but we don’t all feel it the same. I rarely quote scripture anymore, but 1 Corinthians 13:1 comes to mind. It says that if you have “all the answers” but don’t have love, you are like a clanging gong – making a bunch of noise, but without any expression of love.

There is so much noise in this world. The gong is deafening, the drumbeats ever closer. The way we are treating one another is shameful. We correct our children when they are hateful to another person. We reward our leaders for it We say, “Here, have more power!” And how do we explain to our grandchildren that we should love our neighbors as ourselves, if grown-ass adults acting a fool on the world stage?

I simply cannot believe the vitriol this political season has wrought us. We people in high places, but also, we average folk. I came here to write about ways we can perhaps rally together, but it’s too late for that. Cult mentality has made certain no common sense is required. Every time we butt up against absolutes, we reap the worst in us. Time and time again, history has shown what happens when a small-minded, evil man collects cult members for his gain. Time and time again, the name of God rolls off the tongues of serpents. Always, there are followers who would die for the cause of a serpent’s dream. And so they do, perpetuating false righteousness.

I lost it all to side with love. Everything I thought I knew had to go in my spiritual fire sale. In churchy talk, they call it being “refined.” It cost me a lot, to come to the conclusion that love always wins. And it’s super easy to set that concept ablaze too, since there is so little evidence around us right now. But we can’t, you see. Some of us are banded together to lasso the hands of the doomsday clock and keep it from ticking further. But others of us have roped the hand from the other side, pulling toward the point of kablooey. There is so much at stake.

You’ll be told we all want the same thing, but that’s just another lie. We most certainly do not. I would like no part of throwing away the rights of others. I do not believe in withholding school lunches from children. And as a cancer / chronic illness patient, I know with certainty that a country that can afford to send billions of dollars to obscure causes half a world away can afford healthcare for all of its citizens. I don’t believe in demonizing whole demographics of human beings.

We are a real cocky bunch, singing about how God shed his grace on thee. I don’t believe God shed any more grace on us than anyone else. In our haughtiness, we have become puffed up with pride about ourselves. “MURICA. Greatest country on earth! This is God’s country! God favors us! (Wherever did we get the idea that God, in his infinite wisdom and love, sanctioned the thievery of an entire continent, the slaughter or decimation of its native people, and determined that our ill-begotten land is a gift from the Almighty.

Maybe that cockiness is part of the reason we are in this pickle.

And see, the funny thing is – I care about these things because I prayed that God would break my heart for what breaks his heart. And damn if he didn’t. He’s a little poky with a lot of requests, in my humble opinion, but not this one. And it’s ruined the person I was. And I’m glad of it. Because that refining took place without being anesthetized by church and political intervention. It was a wilderness experience, becoming who I am. Me and God. Mano a mano, on the mat.

And right now, less than a week until the election, I am feeling a wind blow in from the wilderness again. It certainly is a strange wind, like the breath of a laboring mother. Elections and contractions. Raging and rumbles. Ugliness of weaponized-biblical proportions. Hate.

I don’t know who you’ll vote for, Dear Reader. It is frankly none of my business, and I have no desire to make it my business. But as I sit here at 4 a.m. tapping onto the page what is haunting my mind, I do ask you to search your heart. I know the gong is loud, and I know that drumbeats are getting closer. And it would be easy – justifiable even! – to join in the war cries.

I know people are giving you ample reason to hate, and I know that hate is absolutely trending right now. Like hating is the baseline sentiment., and it’s awful. It seems to be running circles around love, and love – swelling and hopeful – is sitting dormant. But listen. Maybe love is waiting for hate to exhaust itself, and maybe that’s part of the process too. The haters don’t have all the answers; and they are hoping you won’t notice.

It may be too late to rally together, but it’s never too late to get into a quiet space, invite Divinity to show up, ask her to reveal her spark in you, and go forth into the dark places of a hurting world with it. It’s all we can do.

God,

Let us be heart-searchers and let us find love for others we didn’t know we had.

Let us be peacemakers, in that we prefer light to darkness.

Let us love people who think differently than we, with no political addendum attached.

May we be refined into our purest selves.

Amen.

October 30, 2024 0

The Warrioress (a little poetry jam)

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This one is for my fellow chronic illness girlies. I see you. I hear you. Keep going.

By: JANA GREENE

The thing about being a warrior,

is that it looks nothing like the hype.

It is not shiny, or even deemed heroic.

And to be a warrioress is a study

in contradictions.

Be strong but keep it feminine.

Be fearless, but not aggressive.

Cry, but don’t let your tears

rust your armor.

Scream, but without making a scene.

Get bloody, but tidy yourself,

so that nobody knows

how f*cking hard you’re fighting.

The knighthood for the feminine

is illustrated by giving birth –

As we bring forth life,

There is screaming, blood,

and fearlessness.

But there is also great love,

a purging of self,

an opening of the soul, and

new life.

And isn’t that what we are fighting for?

To bring forth a life of our own?

Not to choose the same battle

forever, ad infinitum.

Not to fight for the sake of fighting,

but for the sake of living,

with armor full of chinks,

voices hoarse from war cries,

hands unsteady,

consciousness stumbling, but still rising,

the warrioress.

The thing about being a warrior,

fighting for this one and precious life,

Getting up each day to face hardship,

returning from battle each and every day,

is that it looks like you, my friend

It looks like you.

October 16, 2024 1

The Fear of Missing Out – FOMO, Chronic Illness, and the Grit of Gratitude

By: JANA GRENE

Not long ago, I was having a conversation with my husband, and he used ‘FOMO’ in a sentence about a concert we were hoping to attend. He said something to the effect of, “I know having chronic illnesses gives you FOMO at times.”

“I’m sorry, gives me what now?” I said, completely unfamiliar with the term.

“Fear of missing out,” he replied. And shitfire I was not aware there was a formal acrostic for the phenomenon, but I’ve been having FOMO for years now. Because when you struggle with debilitating health issues, the only way to not live in FOMO-mode is to not make any plans at all. Nary a one. And it’s not that bleak yet. Yet.

We are going to see The Black Crowes tonight in concert, a surprise from said husband, because they are one of my favorites. But we have missed three out of five shows we’ve bought tickets so far this year, because while it’s not that bleak yet, it’s also not that great. I get sick frequently, and the pain and fatigue are out to get me, I tell you. Of all the conspiracies floating around right now, this one has the most solid evidence. My medical team can attest to it. I fight my own body harder than anything else, at present. (What I fight – like what you fight – is subject to change, right?)

Still, my husband bought the tickets because he is hopelessly bad at giving up on me, or the things we would like to do. He is also never disappointed in me when things don’t pan out. And that’s key, because disappointing people is definitely a huge issue of FOLPILD for me – Fear of Letting People I Love Down. Also, FOBAB – Fear of Being a Burden. FOMAC – Fear of Missing a Concert. The list is endless, really.

What do all of these things have in common? Fear.

Fear is the opposite of a lot of things, not just the opposite of faith. That’s too simplistic. It stands in the way of hope, makes letting go impossible. It blocks positive energy, causes despair, and chips away at our dreams. Fear itself is a very useful tool to keep us safe – as an impetus to head for higher ground when a hurricane, for instance. But as Western North Carolina grieves and toils in the aftermath of Helene, we are in collective awareness that even the highest ground can be devastated.

Fear is a warning device, but a shitty insurance policy. It doesn’t keep anything bad from actually happening. It just trains our systems to react to opening a dreaded email like we are being chased by a bear.

So, what the do we do? Live in the confines of fear? After all, it’s there for a reason. Whether we fear or not, we are going to miss out at times. Especially as a Chronic illness patient, for whom FOMO is a constant bedfellow.

And all fear is not the same. Missing out is a first-world problem, in a world full of devastation and disaster. I know that, and have experienced the hollow, dark fear of a terminal diagnosis. The constellation of deep worries that we have for our children. I get that fear, too, and that’s a whole different animal, but just as destructive.

If we are chronically ill, we are going to let people down when we make plans we cannot keep. We will try not to be a burden, but we must cultivate a circle of safe people who understand when we have to reschedule things. I am so fortunate in this regard. My friends understand that most of the plans I make are tentative. I am not flaky, but my health is.

Of course, I cannot tweak the entire tour schedule of The Black Crowes, so today, I rest. Resting is how train for events, like in the Olympics. Okay, its nothing like the Olympics. But it might as well be. People assume resting is fun. Because most people don’t get enough of it – they are forever buzzing around and getting things done (what is that like?) so resting is their side-gig. They do it as a luxury, whereas my body completely stops functioning if I don’t spend half of my damn life in bed. It’s not fun at all. It’s not always relaxing, because the fear of missing out is legit.

And the truth is that we do miss out. On a lot. But let me tell you about a side-effect of this phenomenon. I am abundantly thankful for the occasions I make a concert or party or get to run to the grocery store and run errands like a normalsauce person. Because I GET TO, you see. Oh the glee!

The sweet victory of making it to a concert. The appreciation for running boring errands. I brag to my husband about getting errands done like some women probably brag about their career milestones. Doing physical therapy at the pool, picking up a few things from Trader Joes, AND going to the bank?? Taking a walk AND getting a haircut? *Cue theme song from “Rocky.”*

Tonight, I will fight the urge to stand on my chair and scream “HEY. EVERYBODY! I. AM. NOT. MISSING. OUT RIGHT NOW!” (I will not do that, because I cannot even stand on solid ground without injuring myself, but inwardly, I will be yelling it.)

And that’s a part of me that punches FOMO in the throat. I would not be as filled with gratitude, if I didn’t have this particular set of challenges. I am not just happy when I don’t have to miss out, I am ECSTATIC.

How ecstatic, you ask? Tent Revival ecstatic. Golden-Retriever-with-her-head-out-the-window-of-a-moving-car ecstatic. And grateful? When I can experience activity in life, I am as grateful as a Norman Rockwellian family around a Thanksgiving table. As grateful as a mid-life white woman who missed her calling as a groupie, who gets to rock out to her favorite bands and yell “WOOOOOOO!” – even if she has to sit while doing it.

Blessed be, my friends/readers. (I’m grateful for each of you, too.)

October 9, 2024 0

Ditching the (presidential) Pep Rally

By: JANA GREENE

I am trying to be in my ‘soft’ era, ya’ll. Soft blankets. Soft words. Soft environment.

Instead, I feel like I am perpetually living out reality as a high school pep rally. Because that’s what this political season feels like. In my schools, you got extra credit for attending the pep rallies.

But I cannot believe these are the people who made it through all the tryouts.

Like a pep rally for a high school football team getting ready to play its biggest game of the season against the rival school. If that high school were run by preschoolers who haven’t learned civility yet – they don’t yet know how not to interrupt each other, they brag about what’s in their lunchbox (my lunchbox is the best lunchbox, it has Lunchables in it. Lunchables with the M & Ms, the BEST Lunchables in the best lunchbox, everybody says it. Nobody else can compare. NANNY NANNY BOO BOO. )

Also, the tantrums are *chef’s kiss* immaculate. I’ve never seen a toddler have a better tantrum, and I raised two very spirited daughters who overachieved in tantruming.

So, we have all the elements:

“FIGHTIN’ WORDS!

LOUD RALLIES!

YARD SIGNS!

DRUMBEATS OF WAR!

POM POMS IN YOUR FACE (whether you want them or not, patooey.)

GOOOOOOooooooo TEAM!!

On second thought, perhaps a middle school pep rally is a more fitting comparison, on account of everyone throws shade 24/7, makes up rumors, and no one has done their homework.

It gives me SUCH the ick. One team being ickier than the other, but American politics are really just candidates hoping to be offered an “athletic scholarship” so they can skate by at our expense, do no real work, and hook up with the head cheerleader. (Or the porn star.)

Now, for most of my adult life, I have been extremely patriotic and political. I swung the way of my ancestors as if there were no other way available to me. The past several years I have switched sides, but not with glee and positive expectation, because the whole system is broken. There is no pep in this rally.

Having several chronic illnesses – one that might eventually end my life – I have had the ridiculously extravagant luxury of having health insurance. But millions of sick people like me are going without care and treatment. And that, too, bothers me enough to pick a team.

KAMALA HARRIS IS HER NAME, UNIVERSAL HEALTHCARE IS HER GAME?

*pom poms still flailing, even as the cheerleading squad’s pyramid collapses*

So, while I am trying to have a NICE SOFT ERA over here, we have a Presidential election on less than a month. There is no softness about that. It’s a hard, cold, rabid process from nomination to election. I’ve chosen my team, because she supports a few key issues that are important to me, and also because she is not Trump. I think that’s a determining factor for many of us, whether we admit it or not.

I like Harris just fine, but not passionately. If she gets elected, we shall see is passion ensues. I’m skipping the pep rally, even though my classmates will accuse me of having no “school spirit.”

As we draw near to the actual game, what a quandary – the world’s biggest pep rally, and nobody is winning the game.

Especially not us.

October 7, 2024 0

Identity Heft – The Weight of Learning Who we are

By: JANA GREENE

When we are young, we grasp at labels in the striving to know who the heck we are. Our identity is in finding out identity. And we glom on to our role in each life stage until it describes us to a T; until it becomes a self-fulfilling prophesy. And when the wind changes, we are lost.

When I was a victim, I thought of myself as a victim. And the more trauma I experienced only convinced me that victimhood was my identity. Shitty things had happened to me, stacked-up evidence that I have every reason to be depressed and anxious. Who wouldn’t feel justified, coming out from under that abuse? I’m a victim here. That’s who I am.

Then, I became an alcoholic, and in recovery rooms they tell you “Once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic,” which is no lie. So, I said, “Oh! That’s who I am. An alcoholic.” And while there was certainly no joy about that revelation, it was better than just being a victim, at least. I did the programs, worked the steps. Really dug into recovery, because I am an alcoholic, you see. That’s who I am.

Then I became a mother, and then EUREKA! I found my identity for real! I even had a new name – “Mom.” I was obsessed with being good at it, and so my whole identity became hinged on being their Mama. Then Mommy. Then Mom. Each one of their life stages determined who I was, by virtue of who they were growing up to be. Until they were teenagers, carving out their identities, I was starting to lose my own. Children grow up, and you are left wondering, Gee…who exactly am I, apart from a mother? I’m a mother. that’s who I am.

Eventually I became a fundamentalist Christian. I would tell people that their identities are found only in God. I told people who were full of self-hatred to strive to be “less of you, and more of God.” It’s another confirmation to a hurting person that they themselves are of such little importance, God demands they become even smaller. And if they are like me, they have been trying to be empty of themselves all their lives, not realizing that the God is within them. So, for most of my adult life, being a Christian was my identity. I was on the Greeting Team, for crying out loud – me, an introvert. Being a Christian is who I am.

My husband jokes that I only like to watch TV shows with “complex” characters. Characters who don’t respond how you expected, and perhaps have a dark side. When the bottom fell out of my faith and I went through a deconstruction, I realize you don’t have to die to yourself and your human desires and interests to please God. He doesn’t turn away from our humanity.

Today, I am still those things, but the influence they have over my primary identity is nullified. The way we see ourselves is not static but flowing. I’m a survivor, rather than a victim. I’m still an alcoholic, but the stigma behind it has morphed into acceptance. I’m still a mom but relate to my children as adults now. I am still a follower of Christ but have a different relationship to him than I ever had. A better one. We never stay the same and thank God for that.

And we will never fully understand our identities in this dimension, I suspect. But maybe it’s because we are BOTH / AND a conglomeration of selves. Maybe our identity doesn’t require a label, and neither does the Universe require one. We put that pressure on ourselves. What complex, beautiful creatures we are!

We are complex characters, y’all. However we identify ourselves, we don’t always respond how you’d expect. We have a dark side. We are attributes and character defects, all rolled into one.

And we can all identify as that.

October 5, 2024 0

Shooting the Breeze with my Spirit Guide

By: JANA GREENE

SPIRIT GUIDE: “Welcome to Earth! You’ve been waiting a long time for your turn at being human! God has said LO! Tis time to exist earthside, for thouest have a lot to learn!“

ME: “You speak in King James English?”

SPIRIT GUIDE: “No. I’m just showing off. Now, there’s a lot of things you need to know to make your crazy little existence a little smoother. Let’s go over some of them. Says here that you have chosen Extreme Dysfunction under the ‘Family of Origin’ tab.”

ME: “I most certainly did not.”

SG: “Oh, but you did. We all choose each other – it’s the impetus of the Free Will Starter Pack, which has a “Memory” feature to remind you of every bad decision you made in your alcoholism.”

ME: “I’M AN ALCOHOLIC?!”

SG: …

ME: “So, you’re saying I am bad at Free Will?”

SG: * clears throat. * “No. I’m saying you are a little too good at it. Let’s continue. Now, you have all of the factory settings for all five senses, pretty standard. They are adding new senses all the time, so be sure to download your updates….OPE! I’m just seeing the Sense of Gratitude on the punch list. NICE!”

ME: “K.”

SG: “Oh! Here’s super cool feature. It’s the Response to Unmet Needs option, which has been streamlined for convenience. It’s called SCREAMING. Really, you wouldn’t think a nice girl like you could scream like that…”

ME: “Can I put Response to Unmet Needs on mute?”

SG: “You can, but I wouldn’t’ recommend it. It will just set you up for a lifetime of dismissing your unmet needs, even as an adult.”

ME: “And that’s bad?”

SG: “Usually, because you will deny you have any needs at all, while insisting on overzealously meeting the needs of everyone else – human, animal, vegetable, mineral – until you are a shred of who you used to be.”

ME: “Damn”.

SG: “And when you grow up, there’s an add-on called ‘Free Therapy,’ that allows you to sit in your car alone and cry whilst shoveling fast food down your gullet and listening to your “Crying Playlist” on Spotify. Trust me, it’s a lot more fun than it sounds. Always remember though, legit therapy is always best.”

ME: “Wait. I have a crying song list. What the hell?”

SG: “Yes. It’s superb, a real tear-jerker. You’re a little obsessed with music. And have many niche interests, which means you will know every possible thing about the Donner Party, the six wives of King Henry the eighth, the world of cheeses, beatboxing, and Venus flytraps, etc. And all of that makes you good at Jeopardy but gives you no marketable skills.”

ME: “That doesn’t sound very useful.”

SG: “Oh, it’s not. Now, this here (points to article B7 in user manual) says here you requested the Deluxe Feels Package.“

ME: “Why would I do such a thing?”

SG: “Matter of fact *SG checks inventory* Looks like you ordered a surplus of Feels. Like this is an Army surplus store amount. You were supposed to curate a well-balanced box of assorted Feels, but instead, it looks like you dumped the whole drawer upside down. Geez.”

ME: “Is Moderation installed?”

SG: “Says here it’s missing entirely.”

ME: “Why do I do the things I do. Dear GOD.”

SG” “Yeah, he’s the one who signed off on that.”

ME: “Magnificent.”

SG: “Don’t worry. I see here that you also come equipped with a great – if not janky – faith, and a twisted sense of humor. And your Gratitude add-on is a real dandy. You might even be thankful that you chose this particular all-inclusive Earthside Package. Oh, and you’re going to be really sick most of the time on your earth mission. So, make peace with that.”

ME: “Say I approved that feature, and I’ll punch you square in the face.”

SG: *Pushes glasses up on nose, thoughtfully* “You’re thinking too small. You see, your illness won’t even be about you. It’s about what a disability enables you to do to help others. Isn’t that something?!”

ME: “That’s something, alright.”

SG: “I promise, you’re going to be okay. And your brand of weird will attract other weirdos, and your Band of Weirdos will help you use every crappy thing that happens on your journey to make others feel less alone.”

ME: “How will I find my weirdos? Are there T-shirts?”

SG: “Oh, you’ll know.”

ME: “While you’re here, can you grant me three wishes?”

SG: “Ma’am, that’s a Genie…”

ME: “Oh. Doesn’t hurt to ask!”

SG: “Like I said, I’m here to guide you through a crazy little existence. I’ll be here watching over you. Me and God. It’s an adventure! Now go out and exercise that free will. Do beautiful things with it. Scream when necessary. Laugh every chance you get. Feel every single feeling without judging yourself. Go get ’em, Kiddo!”

ME: “Rah rah sis boom bah.”

SG: “That’s the Spirit!“

October 4, 2024 0

Signs, Wonders, Chaos, Doom – and Hope (Still)

My goofy cat soaking up some vinyl prism rainbows through the window. Both of these things make me deliriously happy. I woke up hella depressed, in pain, and with a heavy heart. As so often happens, by the time I finish writing any given piece, I end up with some measure of comfort. It’s a weird phenomenon, but hey – what’s NOT weird these days? I wish you peace today, Dear Reader. Peace that passes understanding. And I pray you find evidence of God today in someone’s kindness.

By: JANA GREENE

I asked myself, “Where the Hell is God right now?” Because seriously WTF is happening? War and loss and disaster, oh my! I was feeling this way when I woke up this morning and sat down to write. Maybe that’ll help? God likes to slap me around with my own words at times…in a non-violent manner, of course, and with lots of love.

When you are having a depressive episode, the realization that a whole new day stretches before you is met with dread. Another one? Another whole day, chock full of pain in my body and pain in the world? Gee. Thanks.

Today we might have a new war. A new leukemia symptom. A new dislocation or migraine. A new issue with one of our kids. A new thing to grieve for, or about.

We occupy a doom-inducing, batshit crazy habitat full of awful unfolding of events in our world. Another day that we are supposed to be glad in rejoice! I do my best to please the Lord, but when he seems to be on sabbatical, it’s rough. Like having an emergency only your boss can fix, but he’s on vacation, left the office in complete disarray, and yelled, “SCREW THIS, I’M OUT!” on the way out. *SLAMS DOOR* Because that’s what I would do for sure.

For thousands of families that, this new day will bring heartache. They are looking for missing loved ones in a thick Carolina mudslide. It is a day that will either bring unresolved searching or crushing confirmation of loss. Again.

For so many around the world, a new day means missile sirens and the obliteration of their homes and possibly families. There is no holiness in war machines. Nothing sacred about violence. And so, for them, the new day brings devastation.

What the Hell is God doing right now? Where are you, God? It’s a mess down here!

But then I heard from one of my dearest friends, who live a couple of hours from the Blueridge portion of the Appalachians. This soft-souled woman and her kind and beautiful adult daughter had made a trip to pick up and foster a motley crew of terrified, traumatized cats and dogs. They brought them home, timid and scared, and are giving them a soft place to land and an environment that will envelop them in love (and probably spoil them, to be honest.) And I said, Oh. There you are, God. In the hands of people who care for the animals.

But that’s people, you say. And I say, how else would he make himself known but by people, made in his image to help and show love.

And then my husband held me for five whole minutes before leaving for work this morning (it would have been whole hours, if I’d have asked him.) He asked me what I needed, because he is so kind to bring me coffee or water when my body is creaky and sore. “Just hold me,” I said. In his embrace, I felt the presence of a loving deity within him. I know he is worried about me and my health and is frustrated that he cannot fix my pain. But in a way, he did, he does, in long, healing hugs. No words, just love so undiluted, I could not deny that God was loving me through my husband.

And as I was asking this very valid question, “Where are you, God?” I had a visit from Ollie, my 26-pound, longhaired black cat. I couldn’t get out of bed. Just couldn’t, too pained. Too sad. Ollie is so affectionate, and as the first tears of the day rolled down my cheeks, he pressed into me, nudging his head on my wet face. I told him good morning, and that I was sad, and he seemed to say, “I know, Mom. That’s what the extra smooshies are for.” Then his tabby brother Neo had his turn, coming to cuddle and say good morning. Purring and content, he let me bury my face in his fur. Yes, I decided. God is in the unconditional love of a pet. Absolutely. And you can never convince me otherwise.

Where are you, God? I was still asking. But as I was doom-scrolling through TikTok, the internet powers-that-be decided to add rescue videos to my algorithm, and dozens of clips of heroes took over my screen. It was like the Universe said, “Well she’s not going to get off of social media, so I’ll send her some digital hope.” And it was a little injection of hope. People being helpmates.

As if the heavenlies broke open, and I saw men and women standing amongst the worst devastation you can imagine, shell-shocked but intent on helping. They are administering first aid. They are in helicopters, eagle-eyed for any sign of life amongst the destruction, ready to drop a rope and climb into the muck themselves. Thousands of people in Appalachia have lost everything they have, but there are scores of volunteers gathering supplies, stepping up to do the administrative work to get them to the people in need. Good people, who carry that particle of God broken off into all of us, are fundraising and praying all hours of the day and night. Ah, God. There you are.

I am reminded of a story told by Mr. Fred Rogers – who carried and exercised his God particle more than most of us – from childhood. He was especially afraid of certain things -a very sensitive and thoughtful boy. When he would see scary things on the television news, his mother would say to him, “Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.” His whole life -especially in times of great disaster – he remembered his mother’s words. ” I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers – so many caring people in this world,” he continued.

Look for the helpers.

I still say WTF IS HAPPENING. Because hey, what the f*ck IS happening? But if you ask me – and you didn’t – I have a theory about why traumatic events are amping up all over the world. While my monkey-mind and lizard-brain are having a pow-wow about how we are DOOOOOMED, my Highest Self is aware that God is actually pressing into us right now. But not in religiosity. And not in a booming voice breaking open the heavens, or in The Big Zapping Up to heaven called “the rapture.”

He is pressing into us when we press into each other. He is comforting us with smooshies from big, fat, affectionate kitties, and rooms full of rainbows that get a little help from plastic vinyl stickers. He is reminding us that he’s still here by holding us for minutes (or hours) in the arms of a loved one. He rescues and fosters terrified doggies and gave them food, warmth, and love. He searches in the landslides for his creation, recovers the lost and returns them to their families. He grieves with the grieving. People forget the shortest sentence in the Bible – Jesus wept. His DNA is in our tears. He looks at the devastation and decides that he can become the hands and feet of volunteers. Made in his image, we carry the literal God.

And we carry him into our hurting world, whether we do it in his name or not. It is the good we carry. When I am hurting, worried, despondent – his voice isn’t booming. No hand comes through the clouds with the announcement BE HEALED MY CHILD, FOR I DECREE IT THUS! I HAVE COME TO COLLECT MY CHOSEN FEW! That’s movie stuff. That’s fundamentalist stuff. Evangelical teaching. There is no chosen few. ALL are made in his image. And anyway, that’s not how any of this works.

This is the “rapture;” his spirit is already present. We are in the thick of it, as we get ever closer to sharing God-consciousness in whole. Until then, chaos – that we ourselves create. It seems to run unchecked, until he comes for us with a compassionate whisper:

Please don’t lose hope. Look for the signs and wonders; they are as plentiful as the harbingers of doom; you just have to look in the right places. Rest in me when the pain comes. Don’t hold back tears, I am collecting them and will exchange them for joy. Keep loving my children, even though they can be brats. Keep loving my children, even though they are picking up arms. Love those who curse you. Throw grace around like confetti. Don’t bemoan your fate – it might be the one thing that gives another hope. Look for that hope in EACH new day. And do what you can for helpless people in hopeless situations, whether it be a personal hell or great disaster.

Look for the helpers. BE the helper.

I am still here. And I love you.

(Here….have some more rainbows…)

October 3, 2024 2

Groanings of Spirit, Muffled by Flood (Grieving Alongside Western North Carolina)

Blue Ridge, Smokies, Appalachians. Whatever you call them, there is wisdom and holiness in those hills. But they are haunted and hurting.

By: JANA GREENE

I didn’t mean to stay up until 3 am sobbing, but that’s what happened. Last night, I allowed myself to peek down the rabbit hole, lost my footing, and fell in. And I kept falling, no roots to grab to right myself; no way to slow my decent. And I landed in the middle of a great chasm of destruction – all the people’s evidence of life – their cars and homes and bodies, in a great mire of thick mud, devoid of hope. The Great State of North Carolina, mortally wounded, the mountains scarred by flood, human beings scarred for life. The Blue Ridge is truly blue, we are all blue right now. There is weeping and gnashing of teeth, an event as apocalyptic as a Frances Ford Coppola film, but so much worse.

So, I was up most of the night, watching coverage of the destruction in the Western part of the state. The places we have vacationed wiped off the map. But that’s just where we vacation – because it is indescribably beautiful there. Vacationers are participating in a luxury, though. Vacations are a luxury item. The families who call the mountains home and are leveled by this, they are suffering beyond what we can even imagine.

If you are reading this somewhere outside the “war zone,” you (and I) share a privilege right now.

I did what I do (I’m not sure why I do it, I’ll have to ask my therapist?) I didn’t even try to redirect my sadness. No, I dug in. I consumed news stories and footage of rescues. I listened to the stories of shell-shocked residents whose entire lives had been washed away. I read articles. Wondered why there weren’t military boots on the ground. Wondering what the F*CK is going on right now?

My hand over my mouth the whole time, trying to stifle any audible sobs, as my husband was sleeping next to me. I wanted to wake him up to grieve with me, but he has a job to do in the morning, and besides…. what could he do? My tears didn’t consult me before welling up in my eyes. It was too primal for that, too organic. Kind of sacred in a way. I needed to cry alone.

So, I did what I do this morning – sit down at a keyboard and try to unravel the tangled chain that is my mind. To tell you I’m sad, because maybe you are sad too. I’m not sure why I have to write about everything that needs processing, but here I am. My eyes are swollen, but I am safe and warm, writing this high and dry at the coast. Oh, how I wish I could share some of that highness and dryness with our mountain neighbors! How I wish this hadn’t happened at all. But while we are entertaining the absurdity of wishes…

I wish they had been warned. I wish they were alerted about the dams that would break and the levees that would give. Someone somewhere, probably with a high-paying job at the Corps of Engineers or something had to know. But this is the mountains, as far West as you can get in the state. Nobody was expecting a hurricane there. That’s kind of our thing, here at the coast. They should never have to worry about storms that materialize over oceans. But this time, they did.

I wish our government truly gave a shit. I wish vital funds – gathered from struggling taxpayers being squeezed for a chunk of every paycheck – would go directly to aid for our own citizens. I wish that instead of throwing several thousand tarps and a few million dollars to aid our friends in the path of Helene, they would funnel it directly to those suffering most. Here. In AMERICA. And while I’m wishing, I wish that the money we literally pour into other countries would go to feed hungry schoolchildren. And help struggling families here. We, the American People, can scarcely afford groceries these days. Our backs are against the wall. And we are making it rain money in a grand, global gestures to win us points on the world stage. All the while, “Rome” burns.

I am just one middle-aged housewife in North Carolina, writing with puffy eyes and a lurching heart to try and make sense of this. But there is no sense to be made. What good does it do to go down the “rabbit hole?” Why not just go about our business, maybe write a check to a relief agency, and shrug, “Oh well, what can I do?”

You see, rabbit holes get a bad rep. The term alludes to Alice in Wonderland, and the crazy-ass chain of events she set off my falling into one. She didn’t jump into it. She fell. I think that’s an important distinction.

And I think maybe everyone in America should allow themselves to dip a toe in the Hurricane Helene rabbit hole. Because people are not understanding the magnitude of the destruction they see in 15 second YouTube videos, or worse – the “news.”

Entire families were lost. Bodies – those family members now tangled in the debris – are everywhere. As of this writing, over a thousand people are still missing. Why is this important to know? Because of our humanity, and the way it is slipping downriver, like so much floodwater. I turned on the national news. A few snippets of milder images, some anchor droning on, confirming that yep, it’s awful. The global news? It barely broke the surface. The storm was last week, several news cycles have lapsed since. It’s old news.

Except that it isn’t. And like Alice in Wonderland learned, we are all mad here. How else to explain the government’s reaction to this tragedy? Madness.

I do not regret my deep dive that kept me up all night. It felt like my tears were somehow paying homage to the lost and the despondent. A prayer behind every single one. Not in words, but in groanings of the spirit. Great, heaving groans that sound like a house being sucked from its foundation. Groanings that only God can translate.

Because I had no words, aside from what I am writing this morning. The people don’t need armchair philosophers. I don’t know why things like this happen. But I do know that there are spiritual laws. And I am responsible to share my experience with you, Readers. We are ALL responsible to share our experiences, and to spread awareness of the dire, Armageddon-esque happenings right here in “The Greatest Country in the World” (Pshawww! Alas, that’s a blog post for another day.)

Father, Father God. Loving Mother Universe. Sweet Holy Spirit. The collective soul of all humanity. Please help us. Grab us by the hand as we are falling, falling into the hole. Give us discernment to know how we can best help. As our hearts grieve, we cannot imagine the grievings of our western brothers and sisters. Let us never turn a blind eye to suffering. Let us never come to the conclusion, “Oh well. What can we do?” Increase our awareness of fellow humans who are hurting. Comfort for whom great loss has become their new reality. Help us to be your hands, feet, and mouthpiece.

October 2, 2024 0

Who, Me?

By: JANA GREENE

We all just want to be a big deal to someone,

right?

Ego says:

Hell Yeah! The BIGGEST deal!

But it also says,

who, me?

And that’s why doing shadow work is hard,

you see.

September 26, 2024 0

I Speak Up Now

By: JANA GREENE

I speak up for myself now.

Well, sometimes.

As long as it doesn’t rock the boat TOO much.

As long as the person I have conflict with

won’t stop loving me because I’m mad.

Only when I’ve rolled the issue OVER and OVER

in my brain ad nauseam and have decided

I’m with a safe person, after all.

After I’ve mentally slayed the worst-case scenario in my head,

and mini-grieved all possible outcomes.

I still fret and worry that I’ve upset someone.

But now I fret when the someone I’ve upset is me.

So, I speak.

Sometimes in a whisper, and sometimes with a roar,

but I speak.

I’m starting in fits and stops to say when I’m hurt

or offended or bothered,

even though I have an Olympic gold in people-pleasing.

Myself – she had no say for the longest,

but I’m re-parenting her, you see.

I’m protecting her. I care what she has to say.

Her feelings, views, and passions have value.

I’m teaching her things that I (somehow managed) to teach my own daughters.

That they deserve to be listened to.

And to this day, they speak up for themselves,

without fear of abandonment, because they know they’re safe.

And Little Me is safe now too, finding her voice and using it.

Progress, not perfection.

God bless us, every one.

September 26, 2024 5

Quicksand, Lava, Dodgeball, and Modern Politics

By: JANA GREENE

I hate all the ugliness; we are seeing regarding politics right now. Is it just me, or does it seem like a whole preschool is running the world? Presidential candidates that can’t wait their turn to talk? Grown men calling names. It reminds me of the childhood games we used to play.

For instance, we Gen-ex’ers were warned about quicksand an inordinate amount, considering not one of us have ever seen quicksand in the wild.

What to do if you get stuck in quicksand was peer-reviewed, 3rd grade cannon. Because somebody’s uncle’s cousin got stuck in it for real for real and knew just what to do. All you need is a mule and a rope, and the ability to NOT panic (which disqualifies me immediately,) and who doesn’t have those lying around? Living in this political climate is fighting quicksand. We are all trying to stay still, so as not to upset the sucky mud. But got damn, it sure feels like we are going under. After getting the equivalent of a Batchelor’s Degree on the subject, one could rest easy, knowing as long as your mule was surefooted, you would be okay, except for the fact that…

THE FLOOR IS LAVA. I had one particular friend in second grade who claimed to have seen a real volcano in Baltimore (Land of Volcanos) and wanted to teach us how to escape certain vaporization using her mother’s white sofa. My friend (who said don’t worry, her mom wouldn’t mind) gave a quick and formal lecture before throwing every single cushion on the floor so that it would resemble the rock face of the volcano. To escape the liquid fire, we must all be so careful not to fall on the floor, er, lava. We were training in earnest before my friend’s mother came in, notices five barefoot little girls jumping across her good furniture, and did her best impression of Pele, Hawaiian Goddess of Fire. We sacrificed ourselves to the goddess by wading into the lava to fix her sacred volcano. But that brings us to the most dangerous, politic-resembling childhood game of all:

Dodgeball, baby. The premise of dodgeball, for you who were born after the 70’s, early 80’s, was to bodily injure your opponent by throwing a hard, red rubber ball at your thigh until it makes a BOINK! noise that reverberates thorough a tri-county area and knocks you clean off your feet. This is actually the closest I’ve ever come to being an athlete. Nobody in my whole school knew who I was, UNTIL dodgeball, and then I was a favorite literal target. Politicians are pretty much playing Dystopian Earth Dodgeball, which is when you don’t even need a physical ball to win. BOINK! from sea to shining sea, until nobody is standing, and everyone hates each other.

So, in conclusion, my opinion is that we are all in quicksand, and it’s sucking us down – lowest common denominator-style. Bit by bit, second by second, until we are at the end of the rope, up to our eyeballs in utter bullshit, unable to have a voice. And if ever the floor has ever been lava, it’s now. As far as the eye can see, Pele is still spewing. We teeter and totter on our little rocks, afraid falling in would amount to our demise, all while The Man makes it impossible to stand. To my spirit, the last several years has felt like I’m in a State Championship Dodgeball Tournament. Chaos. Lines being formed – not to include us, but to destroy us, one BOINK at a time. My “dodging” game is a mess, but the balls keep coming. THEY JUST KEEP COMING.

God bless us all, what a mess. People with the mental and emotional maturation of children are begging for our votes. Children teaching children, again, just like 3rd Grade.

We can do better. And we must.

September 24, 2024 0

It Rains Diamonds on Jupiter

Photo by Aleksandar Pasaric on Pexels.com

By: JANA GREENE

I heard the other day that it rains diamonds on Jupiter. It is believed that in the upper atmosphere, lightning strikes methane, turning it into carbon. As the pressure increases, it turns into graphite, and after falling another 4,000 miles or so, the pressure is so great, the graphite turns into diamonds. So, falls from their sky something so valuable, and stinky methane gas started the whole shebang.

But I doubt the Jupitarians appreciate it much – if Jupiter has sentient life. At least, if they are like us.

Well, shit,” I imagine them saying. “Eighty percent chance of showers. Better bring an umbrella. Rains going to leave dents on the spaceship! Might flood the streets. Damn diamonds.“

It makes me wonder how earthly beings find value in things. What if water is as much as a miracle as diamonds, and we just don’t see it? What if – over a cup of alien coffee – they say, “I heard it rains WATER on EARTH! Can you imagine?”

What if dandelions aren’t merely weeds? What if there is value in the Spanish moss that drips off of our trees here in the South? What if even the grass under our bare feet is adding to our human experience? Wiggle your bare toes in the grass fresh with morning dew and tell me there is no God.

I’m convinced this life is, as author Marianne Williamson says, a course in miracles. This season of life as a 55-year-old Earthling has me leaning into nature. And as a result, finding a more tangible God.

Spit a plain rock in half and find a geode. Forage for life in the woods and study mushrooms. Stargaze for the sake of stargazing.

Or stand in a forest and realize that every green thing you see is busy making air for you to breathe. Air! Thank God for the work they do. Maybe even thank the trees, as a nod of appreciation. Whie you’re embracing your mid-life crazy, hug a tree, like a proper hippie. Hold it and remember every cell in its brawny trunk and its wiry branches are alive.

Sit by the sea and consider the life within it. The tiny minnows and the monsters of the deep, animals we cannot yet imagine. The balance is delicate for a place so vast, full of yummy fishes and stunning coral. Like everything else, crafted by a creative force, no mistakes made.

And the heavens? Oh, the HEAVENS! More impressive than Jupiter – with its teasing rains of diamonds. The images from the James Webb Telescope confirm to my doubting heart that there is intelligence in its design. Butterfly Nebulas, supermassive Black Holes, endless galaxies made plain to us. I imagine surfing the universe, and some day, I know I will. I’ll be one with the Great Spirit, made stardust again.

Even the crunch of dead leaves underfoot is a reminder that we all have one precious life to live. And just like the leaves, we will become earth again.

So, it may rain diamonds on Jupiter, but we have miracles here too. I wonder if God ever turns to an angel and says, “I don’t know how much more proof they need?“

As we are all taking this Course in Miracles, held down by gravity and the aggravations of being human, let’s not forget to consider the part nature plays in our wellbeing. Every monumental mountain and every winding river hold proof of your own divinity. It is not separate from us.

All of it as precious as the diamonds that fall on Jupiter.

Jupitarians got nothin’ on us.

Hug a tree. And blessed be.

September 20, 2024 2

Writing the Quirky-Worky (Prolific) Way

By: JANA GREENE

You guys could be reading any of a million things right now. Instead, you are here – voluntarily reading a blog. But blogs fell out of fashion at least ten years ago. Nobody reads blogs anymore, I’m told. So go on, GIT! (I’m just kidding, I love my readers and am extremely grateful for each of you.)

I am not commercially successful as a writer, by any stretch. But I love to play in a wide sky of words, reaching up and plucking the right ones out of the ethers, matching them with other words just waiting to be paired.

I’ll never forget that years ago, an acquaintance called me a “prolific writer.” Lawd, I was so flattering. Prolific! That sounds even better than “she writes real good.” Only it doesn’t mean “she writes real good.” It means I write a lot – some might say too much. It means my OCD manifests on pages and keystrokes. The dictionary says it means “an artist or author who produces many works.” And I produce many. Since the age of sixteen, I have used the written word to try to pound out my destiny, not realizing that I was really just pounding out my feelings. Any time I feel a certain way, I’ve written. And the truth is that I sometimes don’t know how I feel until I process my feelings through writing.

And the #1 reason writers write is to give the mindf*ckery a ticket out of our brains. Sometimes it takes the ticket and we feel resolution. Other times, it takes a seat and laughs at our efforts to rid ourselves of….well, ourselves. And it carries in another heavy box of anxieties, and dumps it at our feet, all while keeping eye contact. Bastard.

I had no idea how people could process their emotions without writing about them, because they tell you how to process them, if you listen. Recently, I stumbled across the journals I kept in high school and in my early 20’s. It made me say BLESS HER HEART (her being the me of my youth.) Pages upon pages of hand-wringing over the state of my dysfunctional family, and how I somehow felt responsible. Which in hindsight was silly. I was a kid, a child. And there are reams and reams of crying out to God (I can now imagine him now whispering, enough already!) to forgive me of my sins. To counteract my wretchedness. To save my sinning heart.

Now, I was a responsible teenager. I had to be. What in tarnation did I beg forgiveness for? I was chaste and virginal, read my Bible daily, felt guilty about how much time I thought about boys, and maybe if I prayed hard enough, I could be more like Jesus, and my world would right itself. The onus was on me to become holy, and I thought I’d never attain holiness, though I tried through weeping and gnashing of teeth.

Only here’s the truth, which would have made me scream “HERETIC!” The onus is not on us. I was already holy. I didn’t have to audition for a part in God’s family. I didn’t have to freak out because I noticed the guy in front of me in algebra had a cute butt and I would ask God (as a bonus) to make him have to sharpen his pencil at the front of the class so I could see it in motion. Now I imagine God chuckling about that. At the time, I imagined him shaking his great head, face in hands, then stroking his beard, agonizing “This kid. This heathen kid. She’s in for a long journey.” (And he would be right about that.)

In the coming days, perhaps I will share some excerpts from one of the literal volumes I wrote in my youth. As an exercise in healing. In an act of offering up to God my words from a different vantage point. God and I can read it and weep, together. Because holy cow. I showed myself exactly ZERO grace in all those years. And that’s too bad. I want to remedy that.

I have a friend who burned her old journals, and I have thought about it. They do have nice fabric covers, as was befitting a journal set in 1984-1990. Fabric covered books were it-on-a-stick in the 80’s. I’m sure they would burn clean. I’m just not ready to obliterate the words of my younger self. Because just as I am teaching her things today, she has a lot to teach me too. I need to read what she had to say so that I can comfort her trauma and validate her fear. She was so afraid.

So, I’ll keep on writing prolifically, if not well. Maybe share some tidbits from those journals – the beggings, the uncertainty, the desperation. In sharing my unpretty feelings, maybe someone else in the throes of uncertainty and desperation see that they too can come out the other side.

The written page (or screen) is a processing plant, and I – in my hard hat – labor at a keyboard, to try to determine how I feel about any given joy or trauma. So oftentimes when I am weary, the words tuck me in for the night. After I’ve written, I can almost hear a prompt to rest now, you’ve done all that you can do. You’ve written about it, and so now it’s been acknowledged.

Because everyone likes to be acknowledged, and if need be, written about prolifically.

Blessed be.

September 18, 2024 0

Just Step In (Floaties are Perfectly Fine)

By: JANA GREENE

Why is starting something again so much harder than starting it at all?

Four years ago, I tore a muscle in my hip doing water aerobics in a class of 80 year old women. I thought I would really do some high kicks in the water that day, because I was feeling particularly able-bodied. The final kick was a doozy – you should have seen that range! Almost as high as the bills from the orthopedic doctor.

I have not been back in the water since. Nor have I been that able-bodied. First because of physical therapy, then because of other Ehlers Danlos related pain.

Then because of the pandemic, then because it was too hot, then I decided the pool membership was to expensive, then – as is befitting a women in a class of 80 year olds – it’s too peopley there.

So basically I made an excuse sundae topped with complaints. And while I was placing a pity-party cherry on top, four years and some major muscle atrophy happened.

It’s very humbling to be a 55 year old who cannot hang in the shallow end of swimming pool with a class of elderly ladies. They handed my ass to me before I had the hip injury. I know I don’t stand a chance with them now.

So I started again again..

For four years I have stayed out of the water – all water. I have sighed longingly at the ocean, knowing I was not strong enough to stay upright in even the smallest waves. I’ve passed swimming pools with an ache in my heart. For a person who would almost rather be in the water as dry land, it’s been hard.

So today I swam. For twenty minutes, I walked back and forth across the length of the shallow end. Back and forth, over and over, just to get the hang of walking in mild resistance.

Then I strapped on some grown-up floaties and braved the deep end. I doggy paddled until my legs felt like overcooked spaghetti, and much to my surprise exiting the pool, they worked like overcooked spaghetti too.

It was hard to start, mainly because the mental gymnastics that led up it were more exhausting than swimming. I made it so difficult in my mind, when I could have just pulled on a suit, drove to the pool, and just stepped in.

So I guess that’s my sage advice today: Just step in. Because yes, it’s hard, and your legs will feel like noodles. But you’ll feel really proud of yourself starting the thing you dread.

Floaties are fine, both the literal and figurative. Just start the thing, and then you will have the starting – the habit – done, and look forward to swimmin’ to the oldies with those badass aerobics ladies again. (No karate kicks this time.)

Stay tuned for more exciting adventures of living with chronic illness!

September 17, 2024 0

The Storms We Don’t See Coming

Photo by Daffa Rayhan Zein on Pexels.com

By: JANA GREENE

We live at the coast, and because we do, we keep an eye on the weather forecast for hurricanes. This time of year, the powers-that-be always call for a “record hurricane season.” Every year. Which has led to trust issues, because LIARS. “This is the big one,” they might as well say. “DOOM. Doom and apox on ye household, because this year will be one storm after the *&^%$ other. PREPARE.” So, I live in a place that is forecast to be in peril every June through November.

Panic, I do well. Preparation, not so much. But the storm that hit us yesterday was not supposed to require either. I heard a weatherman refer to the storm hovering just off the coast as a “blob.” The blob sat there a while, and I forgot it existed at all. It didn’t have an eyewall. It didn’t have a name, for crying out loud. The educated meteorologist said it’s a blob. So, carry on, people.

Only this time, it may as well have had an eyewall, because it came onshore like its name was Brutus or something. Yesterday morning, my husband left for work as usual, a little rain and wind whipping about. But all day long, it built, sounding like Armageddon outside. The house shook in the howling wind, and rain poured in buckets – great watery walls falling sideways.

At one point, I would have sworn a tree narrowly missed out house, so loud were the cracks. I looked into our back yard, and it was flooded in half a foot of water. I saw pictures of the beach – only 10 minutes away – and much of it was underwater. Fish swimming about in the streets. People’s cars awash in water up to the rear-view mirrors. People stranded. And nobody was prepared.

It’s a little reminiscent of growing up in a faith that taught me that we are all in danger of a celestial event that will vaporize us instantly, leaving only our shoes and clothes behind for our heathen friends to find. “You’ll be caught up in the sky, in one moment!” was the refrain. And that was supposed to make us feel better, more stable. Nobody knew when the heck that was coming either.

“It’s just a blob,” we all thought about yesterday’s storm, before it made landfall. Just a messy little stormfront that’s going to roll in and out. Ba da bing, ba da boom!

But that’s not how any of this works.

“It’s just a blob,” they say, as if denying it a name diffuses its strength.

“It’s just a high white cell count,” they say, before they find out its leukemia.

“It’s just a downturn in the economy,” they say, before families lose everything.

“It’s just a season,” they say, about any of a million different scenarios. And they’re right, of course. Everything is a season.

Now, I like to look for the Aesop-style lesson in all trials, because I believe every single one is allowed to vex us so that we can learn. I’m always looking for the lesson in things, even in completely random bullshittery.

So, when the Big Bad Wolf starts a’blowin’, I can theoretically be one step ahead of him. I can ask to say, “Excuse me Sir, but I know you’re not randomly trying to blow my house down. What might you be trying to teach me?” But he can’t hear me, over his blowing, while he is, in fact, trying to blow my house down.

The destructive things in our lives aren’t trying to hear us. They don’t give a rat’s fat ass if we learn an existential lesson or get hit by a falling tree. It’s up to us to us to say, from under the fallen tree, in a crushed and muffled voice, “AHA! I get it! EUREKA!”

We try to batten down our hatches, but hatches are janky things banging about in the wind. “Blobs” are approaching from every direction. I wish Jesus would appear in the sky and beam me up, but only sheets of wild rain appear, coming down sideways with force. They tell us to prepare for things that will never happen, and not to worry about the things that take us out. At the end of the day, meteorologists are just making their best guess, and preachers are too.

There is no preparing. There is watching storms gather strength. There is ultimately no “doom,” because doom suggests finality. And it doesn’t get the last word over our divinity, not ever.

I guess that maybe that’s my lesson from the Blob that rolled onshore. Don’t trust the sources who are supposed to know things. Trust yourself to have the strength to get through their worst-case scenarios. Strength to roll with it, whatever “it” is.

EUREKA.

September 17, 2024 2

They’re Eating the Dogs! – a little (Dr. Seuss-style poetry jam)

A friend challenged me to write a Dr. Seuss rhyme about the immigrant / pet eating Trump kerfluffle, and I think I understood the assignment.
(Also, Ollie knows he is a whole snack, but would like to remind you that he is mostly fat and fur.)

By: JANA GREENE

They’re eating the dogs,
They’re eating the cats,
And like Ozzy Osborne,
Prolly the bats.
Would they, could they
Make a frappe
From a house cat
(Or is that Trump’s toupee?)
We Americans,
The tall and the small,
‘Spose to lock up our pets,
Cats and dogs and all?
“Pass the horseradish sauce,”
The immigrants say.
“I feel like a beagle sandwich today!”
Green eggs and ham?
Nah, dog on toast.
Or Cat brûlée,
Or a hedgehog roast?
Don’t leave out the exotics,
What about meats
Made out of lizards
And pet parakeets?
Could Trump, would Trump,
Make America great,
By spewing venom,
And dishing out hate?
Making it up as he goes along,
where in the heck did it all go wrong?
He would not, could not
Serve up on a plate
basic decency in the debate.
And what happens, then?
Well in ‘Murica we say,
Trump’s small heart shrunk
three sizes that day.
Perhaps the real meaning
Of a patriot’s truth,
is that Harris showed the class
Of a leader, times two.

September 13, 2024 3

Rage-Cleaning and Altar Calls (My CLL Journey)

By: JANA GREENE

Well, it’s been two months since The Diagnosis darkened my door.

The Diagnosis is capitalized, in case you’re wondering, because it’s a proper noun. A name. An entity. An alternative to the “C” word, cancer. Just now, I am still grieving the loss of one of my dearest friends to cancer. People I love very much are fighting it right this minute.

In the last ten months, it has come to call in ways far too intimate for my liking. And I guess I’m mad about it. Because yesterday, I went to therapy. I needed it. I always need it.

The session went well, and I even boasted that I have accepted it now, as if accepting something like that is a one-time deal. Like a harvest moon in eclipse. Or getting “saved” at church.

I should have known better, given my spiritual history. Because once was not enough saving for me at church, and I’d go up to the altar every time there was a call. Week after week, I would try to resolve that tiny piece of doubting, stuck in my soul like a piece of spinach you can’t get out of your teeth after lunch. I was a junkie for getting saved, even though they kept telling me it was a one-time event, no necessary to repeat at every tent revival.

And I suppose there is one tiny piece of me still that vacillates between Ascended Zen Master (as if!), Grandmother Willow-level wisdom (again, ha!), weeping Victorian mourner (I am faint with the swooning!), and crazed badger.

Because I rage-cleaned my shower yesterday, after an already full day of getting things done, after a day that my body implored me to wrap it up already. I decided that I could scrub the entire shower, even though I nearly dislocated my shoulder by putting on my seat belt earlier. Wise Grandmother Willow I am not. And this after telling my therapist (and believing it,) that I’m handling The Diagnosis well now, it’s old hat. Just another chronic condition to manage. That old chestnut! It’s fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. Anger is in the rear-view mirror, I guess! Bye, Felicia! Fast forward a couple of hours; I am home alone with my feelings.

Could a cancer patient do THIS?? *scrub* *scrub* *scrub* for a solid hour. The answer is yes, she can. But she really shouldn’t. At some point, I started crying without realizing it. I was literally awash in water, soap, tears, and snot. Out, damn spot!

The question is: Could a cancer patient do rest? With multiple chronic conditions and zero Zen Master skills? Can she listen to her body without shutting it down for being too high maintenance?

Can she, without constantly cracking a joke about it, let anger have its say about this? Anger, my least favorite of all emotions; the one I suck at expressing the most? Can I accept that it’s a little like getting saved – you think you are, but what about this sin or that that I may have committed? I’d better make sure. And I reckon The Diagnosis deserves the same courtesy of expression that I believed would keep me from burning for all eternity. Oh, you thought you were saved? Better make sure.

Oh, you thought you were done being angry? BETTER MAKE SURE. Better scream into a pillow again. Better listen to some gangsta rap to calm down. Better pray, step up to the altar – that place in myself where God has taken up residence. I don’t have to go far to encounter him.

Better not deny those feelings, because they have every right to be here. The Diagnosis invited them. Maybe I have to entertain them in order to usher them out? I don’t know. I’ve never done any of this before, and like most things my neurosis tries to sell me, I feel like I’m doing it wrong.

But at least my shower is squeaky clean.

Blessed be, friends. Thanks for following my journey.

September 13, 2024 0

The Seedling – a little poetry jam

I wrote this little poem in my head while I was quite literally sick. The universe delivered unto me the message that life is hard for all, animal, flora, and fauna. Even the flower has to break out of its confines to experience it. The visual gave me hope. And hope is everything.

By: JANA GREENE

The thing about hope that springs eternal

is that it requires a breaking-through,

a quantum jump from seedling

into something that’s brand new.

The seedling wouldn’t bother to grow

if it didn’t trust the sun.

It wouldn’t take on life itself

if it thought all hope was done.

A tree will push through concrete,

if the willingness is strong,

its roots will move heaven and earth

to keep life moving along.

I wonder if a flower cries

when it bonks its head in toil,

I wonder if it aches a bit

as it’s breaking through the soil.

If the DNA in a tiny seed

can spring forth hope and life,

if it can trust the sun to shine,

through darkness, toil and strife,

I guess then so can I

survive this breaking-through,

a quantum jump from seedling-me

into something that’s brand new.

September 12, 2024 2

Skewer the Stigma – an Alcoholic Speaks

I wrote this piece originally in 2014, shaken by the death of Philip Seymour Hoffman. I am reposting to this blog in the hopes it may speak to another generation of alcoholics and addicts. I will celebrate 24 years alcohol-free in January, but I am not cocky about it. Because I understand completely that it is only accrued One Day at a Time. I feel like maybe the world needs reminding: Recovery is WORTH IT.

By: JANA GREENE

He had enjoyed 23 years of clean time, previous to his relapse. Phillip Seymour Hoffman.

In the announcement of his recent death from a drug overdose several years ago, CNN refered to Hoffman as “everyman,” and indeed, he was extraordinarily talented while still remaining personable. I know in my head that people with two decades of sobriety “fall off the wagon,” but it is always jarring to my heart when I hear about those occasions. Addictions will not be taken for granted.

There seems to be a slight shock that Hoffman, who suffered the same disease as Amy Winehouse, died from the same disease. His spin was not that of a train wreck, but of an accomplished and revered performer.

The article goes on to describe Hoffman as an actor so versatile that he “could be anybody.” I’m not sure the author of the piece really appreciates how true his statement is.

We are everyman …. everywoman. We alcoholics and addicts. We are legion.

Hoffman is Winehouse,

Who is the twenty-year old kid who died in the bathroom of a fast-food joint with a needle in his arm,

Who is the elderly gentleman in the nursing home, stealing pills from a roommate,

Who is the wealthy businessman drinking in the wee hours of the morning to get going,

Who is a soccer mom who cannot stop at three glasses of chardonnay,

Who is me.

If the silence of those ripped from the landscape of the entertainment world is deafening; the gaping voids left by loved ones lost to addictions are life-swallowing sinkholes.

We alcoholics and addicts….

We are not weak. The strongest people I’ve ever met have been recovering alcoholics.

We are born with super dopamine-seeking brains, susceptible to a hijacking of our brain chemistry. We know that our choices can keep our disease at bay, but we usually have to learn that the hard way.

We don’t want to make excuses for the train wrecks we pilot; we just want you to know they are not by design.

We are sensitive and are often creative forces to be reckoned with.

We contribute to the landscape of the world. We make music and poetry and art. We make business deals, and partnerships. And we value relationships more than you can imagine.

We love deeply, intrinsically…..sometimes so deeply that our souls cannot seem to bear it sober.

We punch time clocks and live ordinary lives. And truth be told, it isn’t always the pain that makes us want to drink and use, but fear of the ordinary.

We love our children fiercely. Yes, we would change “For the sake of the children” if only we could.

We have heart. We grieve so for hurting people. We often lack the instincts to handle that grief without self-destructing.

We really don’t want to self-destruct at all, but we don’t always know how to keep it from happening until the process has begun.

We crave the ability to handle life on life’s terms “normally,” like you do.

We don’t mean to embarrass you.

We don’t want to inflict the pain on others that our brain chemistry urges us to. Addiction is as a plaque in the arteries of the spirit, a disorder of the brain. Like any mental illness, nobody wants to have it.

A good portion of any recovery program worth its salt is accountability. We want to make amends with you (and if we don’t want to, don’t despair…. we are working on it.)

We are brought to our knees in a desperation that normally wired brains cannot fathom. And we can get better – if we stay on our knees.

We need each other for survival. We sit in meetings in drab church basements drinking lukewarm coffee with others like us who are cut from the same colorful brilliant, thread-bare, sturdy cloth – because we want to go on living and contributing to the world, just like you.

We need God most of all. He is the Power Greater than Ourselves that can restore us to sanity.

We are “everyman” and “everywoman.”

And we get sober. We even stay sober, with work. With the understanding that our disease will not be taken for granted.

But we need you to understand some things:

You can support people who are trying to win – and daily WINNING – the footrace with tragedy.

You can try not to shame them. They feel guilty enough.

You can start here to educate yourself on the realities of alcoholism and drug addiction.

You can know that you are NOT ALONE – if you are everyman or everywoman, too.

You can ask someone who struggles with addiction – past or present – to church. Our spirits, above all else, need to be nourished.

You can ask a recovering friend to go to the movies with you, or out to dinner, or for a walk on the beach. Our minds and bodies need to be nourished, too.

You can ask questions.

You can pray for us.

You can just not give up on us.

You can know this, mothers and fathers. Your child’s addiction is NOT YOUR FAULT. You did not cause it.

You can be tender to us in recovery, just as you would anyone in treatment for a disease.

By simply talking about it, you help strip away the stigma. Because the only thing worse than battling a disease is battling a disease that many people don’t believe exists. A disease that – if treatment is not embraced as a way of life – can be fatal.

For everyman.

September 4, 2024 0

Mystery Fevers and Resting Days (My CLL Journey)

By: JANA GREENE

I had plans to go to the pool at the YWCA today, but about half an hour ago, spiked a sudden fever. So my plans went from swimming to resting. Resting, in case you don’t know, is a very recurrent activity if you are fighting Ehlers Danlos Syndrome OR cancer. With those two conditions onboard, I have to rest so much.

For a couple of years now, I will spike these fevers with no infection, no apparent cause. They’re awful, rising within minutes. We called them my “mystery fevers.”

So finding out six weeks ago that it’s caused by leukemia, it all made sense. Fevers and night sweats mean my body is fighting ever harder. It’s good to know what was causing these, as well as the frequent infections and extreme fatigue. If I pop one fever, I usually pop a few more during the course of the day. BLARGH.

And it’s disheartening that there is no cure for my type of cancer, not even chemo will cure it for good (it can however slow it down some, when it comes time for treatment – and it will.) Might be in 2 years, could be in 15-20. “Twenty years!” you might be thinking, “That’s great!”

Is it, though? If I have to battle fevers, and night sweats, and crippling fatigue for the next 20 years? I am struggling right now. Becaus actually, they both suck. I am admittedly not Miss Merry Sunshine about my chronic illnesses on hard days. It’s the most frustrating thing in the world when you just want to feel decent and enjoy a long, happy life, but a host of chronic conditions put the kibbutz on so many things.

Maybe this explains why on “good days,” when I can do things with my friends and family, or participate in any activities, I am ECSTATIC.

I appreciate good days so much, I take as many pictures as I can on good days, even of little things. Because on days like today, I go back and enjoy those pics, and the memories attached to them, and look forward to having more.

It reminds me that more good days WILL happen. Because there must always be hope.
Hope I desperately need.

Have a blessed day. 🧡

September 3, 2024 4