Resiliency and Faith

Foreword:

Yes it has been an astonishing 3 months since I have written anything outside of a graduate paper for school. Here is where I would normally apologize for my absence, but it does not seem fitting this time around. Although, I have had stints where I am not writing, this has been the longest stretch since I began this blog back in 2013.

Though I will not apologize for being gone*, I will explain. School, coupled with the emotional toll my work seems to have on my ability to write was recently compounded by my decision to switch platforms (from Blogger to Wix) earlier this year and sort of "rebrand". The inability to successfully convert readership from one site to another, initially frustrated me, but then caused me to shy away from writing altogether. I felt “icky” when I thought about posting, became defeated by it, and ultimately did not do it. At present I have been posting to both sites until such a time I can figure out what the end game will be.

Anyway, I feel compelled to write this as I know it will benefit someone other than myself. Today’s post is dedicated to those that beat themselves up because life got in the way of doing something that was important to you. Know that it is not the end of the line, taking a break isn’t the same as quitting and in this life there are few things that are forever. Enjoy the opportunity to do them, whenever and wherever they come regardless of the frequency.

- D

Resiliency and Faith

The impact of spirituality on healing, resilience, outlook and capacity for change is not to be underestimated. Researchers have shown us that the impact of faith in dealing with trauma, whether it is in the form of the atrocities of war, the loss of a spouse or even cumulative microaggressions.

“We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed” (2 Corinthians 4:8-9, NIV). Plainly stated, spirituality helps build resistance against depression and anxiety symptoms (Dewey, 2019). Moreover, per Dewey (2019) after a great bulk of research dating back to World War II, it has been proven that those with faith function better in terms of recovery from trauma.

In another area where faith is a helpful tool in overcoming barriers, those with terminal illnesses can lean on faith for improved outcomes as well (Johnson, 2003). The ability to cope with and understand death is eased by faith. According to Johnson (2003) spirituality assists with reducing personal worry, feelings of being a burden to others and ideas of things left undone. It is during the “living-dying interval” (the space between receiving a terminal diagnosis and the time of one’s passing) that a person’s spirituality may actually evolve.

Sadly, unlike the remaining seven dimensions of wellness (Emotional, Environmental, Financial, Intellectual, Occupational, Physical, Social) spirituality is set apart by the need for some level of faith, regardless of a client’s personal beliefs. Because of the fact that the seven other dimensions can be more defined by statistical, concrete research they have been more readily accepted by the medical and wellness community. Due to spirituality being largely unquantifiable in terms of the material world, its use within counseling in particular remains underutilized by practitioners (Dewey, 2019).

A potential solution for this would be the realization that spirituality is not what a patient believes necessarily, but that they believe something and have something to lean on in difficult times. In secular settings that provide treatment these ideas need explored, but the counselor does not have to be an expert in every faith. Rather, they need to be aware of its power and have at least a superficial ability to understand how individual patients use spirituality to cope.

References

Dewey,  J. (2019). Posttraumatic growth. Salem Press Encyclopedia. Retrieved from https://search-ebscohost-com.lopes.idm.oclc.org/login.aspx?direct=true&db=ers&AN=90558430&site=eds-live&scope=site

Johnson, L. S. (2003). Facilitating spiritual meaning-making for the individual with a diagnosis of a terminal illness. (Issues and Insights). Counseling and Values, (3), 230. Retrieved from https://search-ebscohost-com.lopes.idm.oclc.org/login.aspx?direct=true&db=edsgao&AN=edsgcl.100485214&site=eds-live&scope=site

*That being said, I cannot stress enough how much I take solace in the fact that people actually still pay any attention to my ramblings whatsoever. Know that I am very thankful for any eyes that come across these words and any online support you show. 

Window Shopping: Kingdom Without a King- Part 1

As the purple light grew stronger, I could make out only a few footprints that remained in the dissipating snow. I had no way of knowing who they belonged to. As Old Rufus and I approached the gate, it reminded me how this was already our second journey.

The first started nearly the same, and not long ago. This creature had been there, nearly from the start. As it would happen, I was lucky to have him by my side.

I looked to him, but Rufus still had his head hunkered low, he was sniffing the ground intently. We were now within a few hundred yards of a weathered door, giant wooden planks sealed by a large metal brace and rivets that looked almost modernistic. Together they formed an ingress as big as the entrance to an airplane hangar.

The door was surrounded on both sides by the perimeter that the gate formed. The gate itself seemed to stretch into infinity in opposite directions. Directly surrounding the entrance, the snow had either been disposed of, or had melted away, as it was nearly non-existent. Tundra grass and dirt were exposed in countless patches and tufts.  Flanking the door small bushes, devoid of leaves, begged to be put out of their misery. To look at them was to know they had been burned. Except for one curious thing, a speckle of green couldn’t hide even behind the scorched bushes. It was a pine bough, fresh enough to still have it’s scent. Preasus?

As soon as I had noticed the pine bough Old Rufus seemed to as well. He darted forward. When he did this, I heard a shout from above. My eyes followed the noise, up and up for seemingly forever. Until I saw a dot of a man perched in a tall turret.

“Restrain the beast. And tell me, what business do you have here?” the voice was steady, and I noticed the man speaking had drawn an arrow from a quiver upon his back. It was primed and rested taught in his bowstring.

“Rufus, come back here.” Old Rufus unconcerned about the archer, lazily returned to my side. “Don’t shoot! Err, don’t fire. My name is...well my name isn’t important. I followed a man here, a umm, a villain!”

The man in the tower hollered, “Keep your sights on him. I’m going to meet him.” Then he disappeared out of sight.

It took me a moment to realize he wasn’t talking to me. My eyes followed his gaze. There was a second turret, again with a platform at its apex, on it was another archer, this one a woman.

“Call reinforcements. Don’t move stranger.” the woman shouted down. Her lip curled in a smile. She seemed to be thrilled to have something to aim at.

“Do you want me to hold up my hands?” I shouted up to the woman.

She shrugged, “If I shoot you, I’m not going to shoot you in the hands.” I pondered this for a moment until I heard a horn sound from within the walls. It was a single long note. The machinery behind the walls groaned and squealed. Moments passed until I heard the mechanisms of the great door being swung open.

When it finally was moved aside four men and another woman greeted me. By greeted, I mean they all gazed at me with dour expressions. I waved, and Old Rufus wagged his tail with minimal effort.

The lot of them had swords, except for the first archer who pushed past the crowd and spoke, “You stated you followed a villain here?”

“That’s right.”

“What did this villain look like?” said a bulldozer of a man with a broadsword at the ready.

“Umm, blonde hair, long, in braids.”

The archer spoke again, “This man is your enemy?”

I don’t know why but I laughed, “You could say that.”

The group narrowed their eyes at me. The female archer, still atop her post yelled, “You want me to shoot him?”

My entire body flinched at the question.

“Not yet.”

“Yet?” I asked.

The archer spoke, “The man with the braids was caught in front of our walls a short time before daybreak. He was covering his footprints with a branch. Sort of the behavior that inhabitants behind the wall might find suspicious. Don’t you agree?”

I nodded.

“Much like the fact that another stranger shows up just after we’ve locked him up. Again, odd don’t you agree?”

“Wait a second,” I raised my hands, begging off.

“Shoot him.” the archer commanded.

Before I could argue any further a white light lit up my right temple, and my vision went black. The last thing I heard before I fell to the ground was, “Get the dog.”


TO BE CONTINUED!

Window Shopping : Kingdom Without a King- Prologue

The wind was cruel, it attacked me from all sides. Likewise, the snow crept higher along the sides of my borrowed boots, the same time as it crunched beneath them. The snow was no longer falling, but from the looks of things, it had came quickly and heavily, not much earlier. The temperature was crisp, cold, and well below freezing. Although, unthinkable, I ignored the elements.

Although, I had been doing the unthinkable for at least the past twenty four hours. I had befriended an otherworldly dog/wolf hybrid. I met some very interesting people who I learned nothing about despite being interrogated by them for hours. I was kidnapped. I stole a dead man’s boots. Oh, and that reminds me, I am at least partially involved in a murder perpetrated by the aforementioned dog/wolf thing. And in most unbelievable fashion, I had transversed dimensions, or worlds, or something.

To be fair, I didn’t really know what I had been doing. It was entirely possible that I may very well be passed out in my basement after drinking too much. But it all felt so real. I guess that’s what all the nutcases say.

Anyway, despite all of that I still felt compelled to leap through yet another window. This was to go after a guy that is nearly twice my size, and seems to be well versed in the art of getting what he wants from people, by any means necessary. Oh, and he has way better hair than me, it’s kinda long, wavy blonde, with these cool braids…

...But I digress. And that’s not why I followed him. If I’m being honest, and I think I am, its because I’m bored. And leaping through interdimensional windows (or whatever these things are) beats real life. I mean at least until wake up from this dream world it will at least provide a distraction.

Next to me, trudging through the same snow was Old Rufus. He was hard to see due to the absence of light. Yet the faint lupine shape seemed to be blacker than the darkness that surrounded. We both scanned a horizon that was barely discernable. The difference with Rufus was that occasionally he would glance at me, his eyes piercing the night. They seemed confident, like he knew where he was going, which was more than I could say for myself. I imagined his line of sight radiating out before us, as though his field of vision were casting high beams. It made me feel better about the journey, and was a way to distract from the cold. Inside another part of my head, the fanciful gave way to the analytical.

Is this pup following Praesus’s scent? We should be seeing footprints right? Wherever this guy Praesus was headed he should be only a minute or three ahead of us, and leaving behind a trail through the snow. Right? Was he supernatural? This thought made my stomach twist in a quick, but lurching knot.

I left these thoughts and returned to the real world. To our right was a faint light in the distance. It peeked in a hazy dark purple that broke against the blackness. But the shape was not reminiscent of a moon, or sun. It was a slash, one that cut a jagged swath across the flesh of the sky. As my eyes adjusted to the new, yet weak light, my brain also adjusted to take in what I was seeing.

Ahead of us was an outline, barely visible thanks to the strange new light in the sky. I had read enough fairytales as a child to know that the silhouette before me was that of a castle. Old Rufus turned to me and grinned in that panting smile that canines have. He then faced forward, lowering his head, hardening himself for the rest of the journey. His body language seemed to hint that once we arrived at said castle our work would just be beginning.  

Bully Part 2 of 2

           

            If you missed part one CLICK HERE

            “No can do man, early dismissal.” Phil held up a small paper. The time 2 P.M. scrawled on it, followed by his mother’s signature. “Early dismissal, dentist appointment.”

            “Oh ya,” I mumbled as I walked away, “Good luck, hoping for no cavities buddy.”

            Phillip’s words of comfort didn’t last long. By 5^th period I had fallen victim to that nervous (and particularly rank) sweat you only give off under severe stress. It slathered my armpits, back and brow.

            As 6^th period arrived, my heart raced, seemingly around my stomach, which was doing loop de loops as if I were on a roller coaster. I didn’t know what was worse, that I still had nearly two hours until my demise or that I would have to tolerate this torture until that time finally came.

            The final fifteen minutes of 7^th period was: Hell. On. Earth. At one point I was certain the hands on the clock were lurching forward, then backwards, then laughing at me as though the mechanisms were snickering instead of ticking.

            As the bell rang, I sighed heavily. Hearing the funeral dirge in my head, I gathered up my books, throwing them into my bag and went to meet my maker. 

            Slowly, I made my way outside to the back lot of the school. All around me excited children that would get to see tomorrow’s sun rise were elated to be done with another day. Inside I was pleading with myself: Find the biggest kid you can, pay him, do his homework, something!

            Despite halfheartedly searching for a savior, I had watched enough episodes of The Wonder Years to know that this was one of those things I was supposed to do on my own.

            By 3:18 I was in the prearranged spot.

            Seconds ticked by like hours. I was astounded to notice that the fear had left me, I had even stopped sweating. I looked at my camo-colored digital watch; 3:20 gave way to 3:25. Before I knew it 3:30 had arrived.

            Maybe Phil was right, Brad had balked after all!

            “Alright dickless you ready for yer ass whoopin’?”

            I turned to see Brad approaching. The bus kids were still shuffling past me in droves. Apparently, I was so unpopular no one even wanted to see me get my ass kicked. 

            Then he was there, right there in front of me. Somehow, he seemed even bigger than he had that morning. I planted my feet and stared at him, “Ya, let’s get this over with.” My voice lacked any tone that would indicate I thought I might win but I raised my fists anyhow.

            “Okay bitch,” That was the only warning I’d get. Brad reeled back and tried to muster his first punch.

            I always say; It’s better to be lucky than good (© 2017 DAVID IWRITESTUFF All Rights Reserved).

            I feigned with my right shoulder, Brad instinctually dodged, moving to his right. Then I heaved my left arm forward as hard as I could. Fist and teeth clenched, I threw that punch with everything I had, and things I didn’t even know I had. Every bit of my weight, every tear I had cried, every name I had been called was behind that left hand. And you can bet, every bully that had ever picked on me, hell every bully that had ever picked on anybody, was in front of it.

            All of it hit Brad squarely in the right temple.

            He stood there for a moment, unmoving, his eyes not registering what had happened, as though the very thoughts had been knocked from his head. 

            Then slowly the lights came back on in his eyes. Somebody was home again. Brad looked at me and saw a little fat kid standing there ready to throw another punch. I looked at him and saw something akin to a deflated balloon.

            Without speaking, Brad nodded, began to whimper, and slunk backwards, inserting himself into the crowd of kids that flowed nearby. The last glimpse I got was him cradling his head in his right arm.

            I looked around and waited for the cheers and adulation from my peers. There was none. No one cared about me vanquishing my foe. No one cared that some unknown nerd had beaten back the typical schoolyard bully.

            It didn’t matter because I didn’t do it for recognition. I didn’t even do it for them. I did it for myself and it felt remarkable. 

Sweet Revenge (Chapter 1 - excerpt)

CHAPTER 1 – IMAGINATION RUNS WILD

I don’t know exactly how it happened, but knowing what I know now (Have no worries, I’ll get to that too), I have rebuilt and recreated what my wife and son went through that day. I have refined the scene a thousand times. I do it out of guilt I suppose. Guilt at my failure to protect them. Guilt in wishing I could’ve switched places. Guilt that I failed to somehow prepare them for the worst. Guilt for not installing an alarm. You must understand that “living” it again won’t hurt me. It will only help me feel better by raking myself along the coals.

7:40 a.m. I believe. I know…Dana and I had traveled probably no more than three minutes from the house. Dasha was probably telling Deshawn that it was nearly time for them to leave as well.

They walk from the kitchen after Deshawn retrieves his lunch. The footsteps go from tap tap tap to shmch shmch shmch, their feet traveling over tile then plush carpet. Dasha gives one last look around to make sure they have everything.

Then the back door caves inward. The cracking of the door jamb startles my son and my wife. It is an unknown sound. Although, it doesn’t produce panic, only curiosity.

“What the heck was that?” Deshawn asked.

Rather than answering, Dasha heads to the back of the house to investigate- perhaps mistaking the noise for a bird flying into the kitchen’s bay window. That is when the panic comes.

She sees two figures through the closed blinds. She gasps, “Deshawn, go upstairs and call the police.”

Confused, Deshawn freezes, having never heard his mother say anything close to this alarming.

Dasha, “Now.” She speaks in the sternest of whispers as the men rush in through the door.

The men hadn’t expected anyone in the home. They had pulled up in a utility van that was made to look like the vehicle of the local satellite company. They had uniforms, but no masks. A blonde with longish hair, and a bald man with a handlebar mustache. Dasha can clearly see they are certainly as astonished as she.

There is a difference though: The men were not scared.

They advance, drawing pistols with silencers as they came. She tries to usher Deshawn upstairs, but as she turns to follow a gloved hand grabs her hair and yanks her from the third step. That queer feeling of sudden certainty when you know you are going to fall overtakes her. Then she crashes to the ground, smacking the back of her head on the floor.

7: 42 a.m. Dasha is dazed, but coherent enough to see the blonde rush upstairs and pluck Deshawn from the landing. Doubtless, he was heading for the ball bat in his room.

Her view is suddenly changed when the bald one hefts her from the ground. Tears escape her eyes. No scream escapes her mouth.

Deshawn is forced back downstairs, putting up a fight the whole way. Blondie has hold of him, shoving my son forward, Deshawn collides into his mother. Neither fall. However, when Deshawn regains his equilibrium he rushes Baldie- the man holding a gun on his mother, my wife.

Enraged, Deshawn now looks more like an animal than a 14 year old boy. Lips pared back, teeth showing, and eyes full of angry, stinging tears. Baldie waits for him to move in and without much thought or effort thumps him on the head with the butt of his gun. Deshawn crumbles.

That makes his mother finally cry out.

7:43 a.m. Baldie signals her to be quiet by taunting her with his gun. When it doesn’t work, he points it at Deshawn instead. That works.

Blondie looks at his partner. They exchange a brief, casual, but more important knowing look.

7:44 a.m. Deshawn rolls up and over and swings an arm up and into Baldie’s crotch. It’s a final desperate hope of escape. He tries to get away, probably hoping he can make it outside to get help.

7:45 a.m. It doesn’t work. Blondie fires, hitting Deshawn in the back. The bullet traveled the perfect path to hit his heart then left lung, causing him to asphyxiate on his own blood.

7:45:30 a.m. Dasha wrenches free of Blondie and in a last move, reaches out for her baby boy. My wife’s last moments were confused, angry, and without hope. Furious and embarrassed, Baldie fires into her face twice. The life leaves her and she slumps over our son’s body. My wife is left to bleed on our grey Berber carpeting.

As it stands now, the stain has been cleaned but I still see it. I see lots of things these days, few of them good.

I learned something from my mental reenactments though. In just over five minutes two thirds of my life was taken away. In the time it takes you to floss, read an article in a magazine, or some other inconsequential act, they were gone.

What I learned: Tragedy is swift.

My name is Delon Moss. There was a time when I had the perfect life. You’ve seen now what I believe to be the method by which I had that life taken from me.

However, to better help place it into context I will share with you exactly what I had; exactly what I lost that was so perfect, so dear to me. I’ll share it so that you may understand my pain just a little bit more. I don’t want your sympathy, and I certainly don’t want your pity. I’ll share it so that you may come to understand-if not necessarily agree- exactly what caused me to devolve...

Creative. Genius?

We often ask of our entertainers, artists and writers; “Where do you come up with this stuff?”

                People in general view those that dare to dabble in the arts as some type of peculiar spectacle, hard to understand, and even harder to fathom where the ideas come from.

                While I’m not sure I am even qualified to answer, I can say the root of any creativity is in the idea. Coming up with an idea for a drawing, painting, poem or a screenplay I could say is the easy part. Everyone has ideas, EVERYONE. Where things get difficult is deciding to do it, the execution is the work of it.

How should it look? What should its mood or tone be? What am I trying to say? Am I trying to say anything? These are the questions that those creative folk wrestle with daily. Believe it or not, there are certainly those of us out there, those savants, those people filled with nothing but passion and purpose and know-how that have the actual creation step mastered. Perhaps that is where the “genius” piece comes into play. However, most of the rest of us have to engage in actual work in order to get to that finished product from our brains to the page, or stage, or screen.  

As a writer (writer meaning; amateur, and largely unpaid) for me, things always work better if I base a story on real events, people and places. Personally, that old cliché of “Write what you know” tends to work. I get more detail, more emotion- more everything in whatever ends up on the page. The characters are people you could know, the circumstances feel familiar, maybe even raw to the reader. Or I hope they do anyway.

But I digress, my point in saying all this is to place before you the fact that the idea is what’s important. The key to starting any creative endeavor is to have an idea that you can build upon. I believe that everyone starts at this point with an equal opportunity.

We all have ideas.  Some we’ve shared. Whereas some we’ve kept to ourselves for fear of reprisal, theft, or maybe even embarrassment. But the point is everyone has something, based on their personal perspective that they want to see brought to fruition.

Where most get caught up in indecisiveness is the follow through. Maybe you’ve been told you’re not creative, you’ve no experience in a creative medium. Regardless of what made you second guess your spark, it doesn’t matter. What needs to happen is the act of trying to get your creation from idea to reality.

Think back to when you were a child. Did fear of criticism stop you from coloring the pages in a coloring book? Absolutely not! If you were one of the truly lucky ones you weren’t even held back by lines! Some of us even dared to make the sun green and the grass orange (Not me, of course I’m way to straight-laced for that sort of unruly behavior).

So while being “creative” can seem daunting at its core it’s simply a matter of putting rubber to the road. My advice to anyone that has been sitting on a marvelous idea for days, weeks, or years: Take that idea and do something with it. And remember, the secret is, it’s not as hard as you think.