Due Ritual

The dogmatic chaos of my childhood left the 10 sibs and I dogmatically repulsed by anything ritualistic. "Faith" was, and to the best of my knowledge remains the most despised F-word in the family bad-word vernacular. Current knowledge of my sibs and their off-spring is hard to trust across 40+ years of estrangement, but I have seen precious little evidence to the contrary.

When my father died in 2005, I was attempting to be Catholic and working with a spiritual advisor to attempt to sort through the chaos of my own anti-religious development. It was my first and still only attempt to embrace religious community. I am still not fully comfortable putting my Catholic adventure in the past tense, but my membership hasnae been in good standing since my return from Ecuador in 2008. My spiritual advisor was old enough to remember the "Therapy Funeral" theories of the 70's by which I symbolically accepted that my birth family could not help me in my quest for healing. I even remember the spiritual advisor's name. Her husband's surname, too. Lost her academic acronyms, but. . . Progress over perfection. Her, I know where to find, should I need the official yaddahs. For sure, she, personally, wasne big on official yaddahs. She offered the framed degrees on her office wall as TP, should I need them. "Getting kind of rough on an asshole, ain't ya?" I responded. Her laughter filled the entire community center of the church campus. The volunteer receptionist wanted in on the joke.

Yesterday's walk through Fort Defiance State Park was deliberately developed directly down this strictly personal therapy thread. I never did make it up onto the widow's walk. I felt like I was skirting an altar as I circled it, unable to set foot on it. Have I ever set foot on any altar, even when I was on a church remodeling crew? Dunno. . . Seems irrelevant just now.

I believe I am doing better today. I still wish there was an easier measure for the beginning and end of psychotic episodes. One of many wishes in my wish car. Perhaps one day. . .

As I began my wanders along the south bank of the Ohio River (Kentucky), I found myself unable to sincerely appreciate the beauty of the hills which look so much like the hills on the nort bank (Indiana). Beautiful, indeed, but. . . Youngest son's 33rd birthday is on Monday. He has been struggling mightily with the demands of fatherhood lately. Most especially the job title demands which will be needed provide college tuition, etc., for his two beautiful children. I turned the beat up pickup truck south. Monday is more days than I actually need to drive to the urban homestead. I am navigating by the compass on the rear view mirror more than by the road map. Road maps almost never include the prettiest roads.

Think I am doing okay. My imaginary big brother feels at peace.