Monthly Archives: October 2009
Making amends for Vietnam War
Eating right can be such sweet sorrow
Life’s Ultimate Prize Goes to Those Aware
“Let it go” really means Let it go
Mother Nature’s quick fix heals the blues
Voice needed to keep us men folk in line
Safe place no guard against PTSD
Comments cure Contoveros’ curiosity
PTSD alert: don’t squander away your life
A Teutonic Plate shifted inside of me.
I felt someone had thrown water at my face, had “hit me upside my head” and looked me dead in the eye demanding my fullest attention. Have I been squandering away my life?
Wasting my life?
Why even ask this question now, when my most productive years, the salary-producing ones, have ended as I have “gone on disability” and live from the benefits provided by the Veterans Administration and not from my labor?
This question shook me to the marrow of my bones a few days ago. I was attending a workshop for veterans and their families facing PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder) when I felt a Greek Chorus address me with its multiple groupings of male and female voices, advising me not to squander away my life.
Later, I asked myself what it actually means, this “squandering” business.
What’s there to Really Squander Away in Life — Life Itself
And does anyone intentionally set out to squander a life away? Squander. Most people only use the word sparingly, and usually when money is the focus of the inquiry. We all have heard examples in our lives: “He’s going to squander away his inheritance,” or “she squandered away all the money raised for little Jimmy’s operation,” and one of my favorites espoused by today’s pundits, ” George W. Bush squandered away all the Good Will America generated right after 9 – 11.”
“Squander” hardly ever appears alone. I normally see it used with the word, “away,” as in the loss of some unique skill. “We had so much hope in his potential, but he seemed to have ‘squandered away‘ his (fill in the blanks) . . .”Natural Ability” . . . “Writing Talent” . . . “Singing Career,” etc.”)
But I’m not talking about forfeiting some achievement, great wealth, or some future thing.
I’m talking about Life.
How does one squander that away?
(See Part II, Squander)
‘Infinite Mercy’ May Set my Teacher Free
Meditation Aimed at PTSD Veterans
Tibetan Book Winds its Way Thru My Life
I got a chill when I saw the word “Tibet” today because it took me back to the late 1960s when I was a newly minted second lieutenant trying to make his way in the US Army. The words that impressed me then, however, had nothing to do with the military. It had everything to do with life. Nearly 40 years later, I see that the “Tibetan Book of the Dead” called out to me, though I may not have known it then. Continue reading
When Is Using God’s Name Blasphemy?
When Your Helping Just Isn’t Enough
Music (mantra) melts the mind madness
Release Me; I Swear I’ll Never Sin Again
Identity Loss Leads to New Outlook on Life
Goodbye Love; I’m Off to Find the Wizard
Can aspiring to be “God-like” be heresy?
Who’s to Blame For War After War?
“I may be a descendant of someone’s slave”
Some wounds may never ever heal
Why must this path hurt so much?
“Thank you” for letting me serve, somehow
Potluck heads bucket list of things to do
Banner bird brightens boy’s breakfast
“Don’t like this love…(crap)” she told me!
Veterans find joy in their own backyards
Meditative dining offers food for thought
Dream reveals a key to unlocking Paradise
Serving others helps to serve you as well
What’s Love Got To Do with PTSD?
Angels Appear as Earthly Messengers
It’s just like heaven . . . Being here with you . . . You’re like an Angel . . Too good to be true. When You are near me. My heart skips a beat. I can hardly stand on. My own two feet. Because I Love You; I Love You, I Do. ‘Angel Baby’. My ‘Angel Baby’. Oh, Ooh, I Love You, Oh, Ooh, I Do . . . No One Could Love You . . . Like I Do!
— Rosie & the Originals
Angels appeared to me through a synchronicity of dreams and later, a conscious meditation, where I realized that certain people that I had met in my life served as agents of change, directing me through the hills and valleys of my present journey. Yes, I call these “messengers” angels, thank you, Dr. Carl G Jung. And you will see why!
First, let me tell you about the dream. A white-haired man dressed in a three-piece suit spoke with another man also dressed in a suit. They stood in an aisle of a train, near the seats where I sat, along with another man and a young woman.
No one appeared to know the other, but the seated passengers, myself included, were deeply engrossed in the conversation the two standing men were having. “Don’t you know me?” the taller man spoke to the white-haired, older man, who had identified himself as Socrates. I forgot if he mentioned his last name.
—————-
“I’m sure you will recognize me,” the second man, who called himself Plato, added. This man was slightly bald and started challenging the elder speaker to recall an earlier time the two spent long hours together. I don’t remember any details of their discussions, but they were profound, enlightening, and mesmerizing.
The men looked toward us, the seated passengers, as if they had interrupted some activity, but I spoke for the three of us, stating that we were keenly interested in what they had to say, and to please continue with their discourse.
Moments later, I was alone with the white-haired man. I noticed that he had a slight beard, trimmed neatly, and had a cherub-round face. Was the face German? Nordic? Or was he from some other nearby European country that provided red cheeks and a rugged look among its dwellers, I thought. He told me he had finished one book and was writing a second. He seemed cautious and concerned about my reaction when he told me about the first one, claiming some people would not warm to the subject matter or believe in its content.
“What’s the name of the book?” I asked, curious and interested in his story as I looked into his eyes to get a clearer view of this man. “The book is about Angels,” he said, initially glancing to the floor and then directly towards me, his eyes lighting up. “Those I Know, have Known, and will be Knowing,” he added with a smile.
- Before I had a chance to ask him more, whether that was the name of the title or something else related to the writing, the scene had shifted, and we were near the front of a bus, not a train, and I was getting up to exit the front door where Mr. Socrates and his fellow conversationalist continued their discussion. I nodded goodbye to all, stepped off the bus, and only realized hours later that the white-haired man was some sort of messenger, perhaps the real Socrates, and his sidekick was none other than another philosopher from 500 to 400 BC. But I wasn’t sure of his name. Until days later!
Contoveros 