Author: Candid Corvid Productions

After a chiropractic adjustment, my realigned cervical spine soon goes out again from the simplest of this or that movement because the muscles themselves are not being retrained, and thus, go back into same held-stuck patterning.

I am finding this thematic greatly irritates me, taking me away from desiring to direct morning energy from sitting down and doing needed paperwork to immediately launching into clean up and “make changes happen” external expressing.

My mind fights for focus and will over attending preperceived “priorities,” but maybe being stuck still at the desk is not the best thing for me in my quest for healing’s recovery – and I need to stop fighting myself in internal conflict over it.

Distorted expectations were drilled into, ill-fitted squezed around, and demanded of me.

All they wanted, “reasonably,” was conscription of my soul’s blind obedience in puppet dancing to irrational rules and obligations.

Rejection, judgement, and deep shame eruptions into my bloodstream by implanted mines set to trigger at “disobedience” awaited my even daring to breathe

Pavlovian training associations with elders top downing has me seeking how to purge regressive programming.

Fifty-one is a good time – the perfect time, in fact, to have a mid-life crisis.

I plan to live at least to one hundred years old, and fifty is officially half of a century.

When I was just turning forty, my ex decided he would have his mid-life crisis – and transferred the bill to me.

Yeah, yeah – one side of the story. Who cares, anymore.

But, I must have finally reached some kind of real base for myself after ten years of struggling through malarkaical circumstances to achieve any recovery.

I pant and twitch as account the cost, and wonder how now to define myself.

When I learned how the man died, I was frustrated at his unnecessary loss of life.

He had been running and had a heart attack, as he made it to the masjid. The men there did not know how to save him, for they did not believe in intervention.

This had happened elsewhere and was conveyed by travelers, but soon a local mid-aged father and husband also died of a heart attack – and was not saved.

I was so upset by this repeat occurrence of non-intervention and I felt that it was a type of irresponsibility to preserving life by not using knowledge humans have been given.

Because I frequently now visited the local masjid, I was invited to attend the man’s funeral. I felt conflicted about this because it was such a personal gathering and I did not know the family.

When I was at work the next morning, day of the event, I was walking outside to the mailroom with my manager who was training me, and I looked up and gazed at the clouds gathering overhead with sun streaming around and illuminating them from within.

Deep thinking, I was suddenly given a vision of the clouds bringing those who had come to transport the man’s soul to Heaven.

I saw a revered woman in charge, orchestrating everyone in preparation. She looked down at me and smiled, nodding her head in approval and inclusive acceptance.

This acknowledgement startled me because we both knew I did not conform to religion’s inclinations. But, what mattered was that I was on a righteous path that only the most honor bound and determined dare quest upon.

Years later with little to show in my hands except those things which truly matter, I ponder at these occasional gifted glimpse-contacts with the spirit world and reexamine what my life’s mission is.

I do “good works” and attend to my own and others’ needs, but it feels like something important to my soul is missing – and that part of me is still on hold, waiting.