the times that try our souls

"These are the times that try men's souls: The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman." – Thomas Paine, published 12/23/1776

Two nights ago there was a vigil in downtown San Francisco organized by the Veterans for Peace to mark the U.S. death count in Iraq reaching 4000. Last week was the fifth anniversary of the war. As this war progresses, there will be a growing number of those in the military who turn against it and realize that they can not in good conscience keep fighting.

In times where war is waged for unjust reasons, there are always those who do not shrink from speaking out and resisting. During the Vietnam War, once that resistance came from within the military itself, the war drew closer to its end. In a brilliant twist on Thomas Paine's term "summer soldier" those veterans who did not shrink from speaking out against the war termed themselves "winter soldiers". The first Winter Soldier gathering occurred in 1971. At seventeen, my friends and I listened to the chilling testimony coming over the radio of atrocities both committed and witnessed. It was a powerful act of magic, a powerful act of changing consciousness at will. How could we not give love and thanks for the courage it took for these soldiers to speak out about what they had seen and done? How could we not see them as true patriots?

My friend Michael McCusker was a Winter Soldier. I respect him more than I can put into words. A veteran of Vietnam who turned against war, he committed the rest of his life to peacefully challenging tyranny. War changes people. How can it not? As much damage as it does, it also can bring about spiritual awakenings and a deep commitment to non-violence.

Once again, these trying times find us needing to give love and thanks to soldiers who speak out. This time, it’s a different war, but the stories stay the same. This time, it was soldiers who have served in Iraq and Afghanistan. They too call themselves Winter Soldiers. Like last time, it was an event not covered by the major networks or television stations. Those who listen to KPFA or other Pacifica radio stations knew of it, but otherwise, it was under the radar of most Americans. That does not mean it is not potent and powerful. It is magic. Speaking out, these soldiers practiced the art of changing consciousness at will. I am choosing to believe that the Winter Soldiers will lead many more to examine their consciences and whole heartily object to this war.

Pagans fought long and hard for the basic right of a Pagan soldier to have a pentacle put on his tombstone. Soon we may be supporting the right of Pagan soldiers to claim conscientious objector status and be released from fighting.

There are many Pagans who do not consider themselves pacifists, who are not committed to non-violence. And, there are many that are. One of the things I hold dear about my spirituality is that within Paganism, there are many paths and many temples. Integral to being a practicing Pagan is respecting that there are many God/desses, and many ways of seeing the world. To me, I see no contradiction in a soldier in battle wearing a pentacle for protection and other Pagan soldiers asking to be released from battle because of their spiritual convictions. I honor both, but my spiritual affinity is with those who seek deferment.

I’ve a love/hate relationship with Reclaiming, but I am ever so grateful that this tradition I’ve been part of creating has the following within its Principles of Unity:

“Our tradition honors the wild, and calls for service to the earth and the community. We value peace and practice non-violence, in keeping with the Rede, “Harm none, and do what you will.”

I consciously and conscientiously object to war. I know that there are plenty of Pagans outside my tradition who feel the same. In the trying times ahead, some of them may be soldiers who have seen enough, whose stomachs, hearts, and minds turn against war and killing. There is also the possibility that the draft could be reinstated and conscientious objector status will once again be sought by the many who have never even considered being a soldier. If this happens, my son may be among them.

Thank you, Winter Soldiers. You have my love and my thanks. Your magic was in speaking out. May all of us Pagans who abhor war and practice nonviolence invoke the same magic and speak out.

I am a conscientious objector.

Are you?

full moon

I've just come back from driving my son and his best friend to South San Francisco to go to a party. All the way there the full moon held our attention, big and brilliant in the sky. We all longed to capture the moment, all wishing we had a camera. For teenagers, they were suitably awed and amazed. It's a spectacular moon on a spectacular night.

It's exactly one moon cycle since I came home from the hospital. I am settling into acceptance of the diagnosis of diabetes. There has been grief for my old self and my old ways. I miss potatoes. I miss margaritas. There also has been gratitude for the healthy changes the diagnosis has wrought. Would I ever have changed my eating habits in such a dramatic way or stepped up the exercise to such a degree? Probably not. I am proud that I am managing the disease without medication and that my blood sugar is now on the low side of the completely normal range. Eating a low glycemic diet - which means eating only foods which slowly turn to sugar - and exercising daily is keeping me healthy with the added side effect of weight being lost. I have a disease, but my goodness, I feel good!

The moon is full and night and day are in almost perfect balance. In the past, I struggled with the equinoxes. Balance seemed so darn unnatural, coming as it does only twice a year. This year, with the moon so big, bright and full, it seems light is shining on all that is out of whack and also what has come into harmony and balance.

Two days ago it was the fifth year anniversary of the war in Iraq. Nothing to celebrate, but plenty to grieve. That evening I was invited to a dinner at a friend's house aimed at getting second and third wave feminists talking. I learned about the Third Wave Foundation and listened to younger feminists describe what being a feminist means to them. We older feminists told some of our stories and managed to not completely monopolize the conversation. In fact, balance came easily. I'm still processing how much has changed and too, how little has changed. It was so strange to be telling stories of trying to stop the Vietnam war on the anniversary of this war. We talked late into the night, and the conversation, like the dinner, was rich and filling.

So, the moon is overhead, and I'm thinking about balance, feminism, war, diabetes, teenagers, and the beauty of a moon filled sky. Time to stop writing, and go out and stand in the moonbeams. And put in my Pagan prayer for peace. Again.

a new window

A week ago I received a phone call from a friend of a client. She had found my card in his wallet and she remembered him talking about his “shrink”. She called to let me know he had died of a sudden heart attack.

I had seen J. once a week like clockwork for well over seven years. He turned fifty a few months back, and we had spent some time reviewing all the events of his forties that had been so difficult, both of us imagining that the fifties would be better. He had worked hard in therapy, and for the last two years he’d been sober. J. was a big man who tried to move thru the world taking up as little space as possible. He was quiet, shy, and uncomfortable being the focus of attention. The very fact that he could tolerate therapy at all was a miracle. Early on, I learned to draw out and encourage his dark sense of humor. He could come across as dour, but laughing, he became a different being.

J. had come from the kind of twisted Christian home where almost anything enjoyable was considered sinful. Pride was something to be shot down, and the body itself was considered to be evil. How perfect that he would end up with a Pagan priestess as a therapist! I don’t think he ever knew that I identified as Pagan, but he certainly learned over the years my world view. Somewhere in the first year I picked up the Mary Oliver anthology that sits near my chair and read him the poem “Wild Geese”. It was a poem I would read to him many times, and we would refer to it again and again. Last night, I read it at his memorial.

I’ve been crying on and off now for days. It seems so unfair and tragic that he would die just as he was coming fully alive. I’ve been feeling how strange the relationship between client and therapist is, how intimate and yet, how removed. In some ways, I was the closest person to J. In the past seven years there is no one he saw or talked to as regularly as myself. Our relationship existed between the worlds, outside of regular life, contained in fifty minutes once a week. What happened in that place between the worlds was meant to change the world for J., and in many respects, it did.

Talking to one of my colleagues about him, I said “I just wish he had died loved”. “He did, Deborah, he did. You loved him”, she said. And, this is true. I did. I’ve been thinking of all those moments when he would dive deep into pain and I would sit and bear witness, holding the belief that he would survive the feelings and become stronger. I also remember the moments his smile would come out like the sun from behind clouds and I would beam back at him with my own light.

Psychotherapists aren’t trained to use the word “love”. Love is so, well, unprofessional. But it is love that guides the best of our work, which is the curative force in that magical fifty minute hour. I did love him, and this past week I've allowed myself to feel just how much delight I take in each and every client I work with. I've always said that I love my work. This week, I let myself feel just how much I love my clients.

A month or so ago, J. got a new job. As part of the condition of taking the job, he asked that a window be put in the windowless office he would be occupying. Our last session we talked about the new window, and all that the asking and receiving symbolized.

His death has put a new window into my work, opening me to a deeper understanding and a mindful tenderness for this strangest of relationships. As much as therapists work to help clients change their lives, every single one we work with transforms and changes our lives. I will miss J., and oh, how grateful I am to have known him.

Bitch slapped by the Goddess

Two weeks ago there was a notable eclipse. I won’t be forgetting it, as that was the day I came home and began a new phase of life. I had spent four days and three nights in the underworld of institutionalized western medicine, a shamanic immersion if there ever was one. I'd walked into the emergency room with what I thought was a small matter that would be taken care of with antibiotics. I walked out several days later with the diagnosis of type 2 diabetes, armed with insulin, syringes, a glucometer, and yes, antibiotics too.

In between the going in and coming out, I was treated for diabetic ketoacidosis, as well as the virulent and resistant MRSA staph that is plaguing this city. Thankfully, the staph culture eventually came back negative. Ketoacidosis has a high enough mortality rate as it is. Teamed with staph, my chances of survival would have been uncomfortably dicey.

Interpreting the dream of those few days was rather easy. I started out worried about a skin eruption that was located right next to my belly button. Something smack dab in the center of me was definitely off kilter. My intuition to have my blood sugar checked turned out to be eerily on target. Without my insistence on a blood sugar test, I could have been sent home with massive amounts of antibiotics that wouldn't have touched the raging ketoacidosis. Always follow the intuition; it has its own science. Regular medical check-ups couldn't hurt as well.

I had many hours in the creepy isolation room in the ER to wake up to the fact that something was seriously wrong with me, and that my partner, one of the most neurotically germ-phobic characters around, is as stalwart a soul as you can find. Then, after a Kafkaesque interchange with a doctor who started out asking "When did you start using IV drugs?”, it became clear that my chart contained the misinformation that I was both an IV drug user AND a smoker. Apparently, a medical chart IS your permanent record, and once something is on there, nobody is willing to take it off. And guess what? Nobody believes an IV drug user is telling the truth. The irony of me having to mount a campaign to have this taken off my chart is not lost on me.

Being an IV drug user and a smoker communicates that you are a person who engages in risky and life-threatening behavior and that you are much more concerned with momentary pleasure as opposed to long term health. I continue to fight to have this information removed, while also facing that, although diabetes does run in my family, my steadily increasing weight over the last ten years has contributed heavily (yes, pun intended) to invoking this disease. Losing even 10% of my body weight could put this disease into remission. Exercise is the key to lowering the blood sugar and the truth of the matter is that with more exercise, I would weigh less.

Last year after Pantheacon, I had a dream of Margot Adler telling me something important that I couldn't remember upon waking. Margot caused a stir last year at Pantheacon by challenging Pagans to take better care of our health, of making exercise part of our lives. Like many others in the community, I have heartily embraced the philosophy of “eat, drink, and be merry”. For real health and well being, that should best be followed by a good walk. Many of us prefer a good book. I had applauded Margot’s challenge last year, but I hadn’t truly listened to it.

For the past two weeks I've exercised everyday and I am no longer eating anything in the white family – flour/sugar/potatoes/rice/. I also am not drinking alcohol. My glucometer provides instant gratification after exercising. If my blood sugar is raised, all it takes is 20 minutes of moving to bring it down substantially. So, I'm keeping my body moving. My pedometer is showing between three to five miles walked a day, and I am committed to keeping it this way. I've upped my swimming to more than three times a week. Today, miraculously, I didn't inject insulin and my blood has remained at completely normal levels. It's looking like that I will be able to manage the diabetes with simple changes in diet and with steady exercise. This changing consciousness at will just may be the biggest piece of magic I perform in this lifetime.

It couldn’t have come without a fast and furious bitch slap from the Goddess. Four days and three nights in a hospital have turned me around. I am grateful and, most importantly, I am alive.