Monthly Archives: August 2014


All illness originates in the mind.   I thought I had read somewhere that this was a quote from Hippocrates, but I cannot find the quote on Google.  No other explanation makes sense.  Why is it that someone who smokes will never get lung cancer, and someone who never smoked does?  Why do some people who eat nothing but healthy organic food still get sick, and some who eat nothing but junk food never get sick?  The source of illness originating with our beliefs and emotions explains this.

I developed varicose veins during my unhappy marriage.  What does Louise Hay suggest as the probable metaphysical cause for varicose veins?

Standing in a situation you hate.  Discouragement. Feeling overworked and overburdened.

Bingo!  What an accurate description of what I was feeling during my marriage many years ago.  I was just starting to get in touch with my feelings back then.  I was afraid to express them.

My father denied his feelings.  He saw expressing them as a weakness.  He told me that a man never shows his feelings in public.  He also loved the word should.   His wife should never have died.  His niece should never have died.  His grandson should never have died.  All three deaths happened within months of each other.  How overwhelming for Dad.  He could not handle it;  so he left his mind.  Louise Hay claims that  “Alzheimer’s is a desire to leave the planet.  The inability to face life as it is.”

Illness is not something that just happens to us.  What is going on in our emotional lives and our thought patterns are factors.

I no longer see illness as something bad, and something that I need fight against.  Illness is my body’s way of telling me to examine my emotions and thought patterns because something is not at ease.


The Biology of Belief   by Dr. Bruce Lipton

Heal Your Body  by Louise Hay



Roy Wilfred Johnston died the same day Katrina destroyed New Orleans.  How appropriate since he was like a hurricane the last months of his life.  Violence-In-Diapers is what I called him in my head.  He was either trying to assault people, or screaming and swearing when restrained.

How painful to see your once-peaceful and intelligent father reduced to a drooling, diaper-wearing, violent maniac.  My brother, sisters and I had wished he had died way before August 29.   An early death would have saved us from being assaulted and seeing him being tied to his bed.

On Monday August 29, 2005, at 11:00 a.m., Dad had a heart attack and died in his hospital room while tied to his bed.  They did not find him until 11:15.  They revived him.  They did  not see the Do Not Resuscitate order (DNR).  He was unconscious, but hooked to machines in Intensive Care.

My brother, sisters and I did not understand why Dad was in Intensive Care.    We did not know that the hospital staff had missed the DNR.  The doctor diplomatically suggested  that we give permission to unplug the machines.   The doctor thought that we wanted to keep Dad alive with the further brain damage he had suffered while being dead for fifteen minutes.  Also, the doctor had just been yelled at by another family who had wanted to keep their loved one alive when he (the doctor)  suggested that they pull the plug.  How relieved the doctor was when he discovered that we had no problem with him pulling the plug.  He apologized for missing the DNR.

They pulled the plug at 3:35 p.m.  Dad hung on, breathing on his own, until 4:30.  At 4:30, he finally let go.  Amen.

I heard about Katrina destroying New Orleans on the radio as we drove to the funeral home.  The story did not register because of my emotional numbness.

Have they repaired all the damage caused by Katrina?   I am still working on the damage Dad caused me.  I know that he did not mean to damage me emotionally.  His intentions were good, but he, too, had emotional damage caused by his parents.  His parents had emotional damage caused by their parents, and so on.

I can see the damage I unintentionally caused my children.  Perhaps one day they will start learning to forgive me as I am learning to forgive my father.


What happened to the huge house I grew up in?  Did it shrink?   It was only a semi-detached three-bedroom with a fourteen-foot front?  How much bigger it seemed when I was growing up.

My brother and I shared the second floor back bedroom; my sisters shared the middle room, and our parents had the front bedroom.

I cannot speak for the other closets in the house, but ghosts and monsters lived in the closet in the room my brother and I shared.  We never knew where these ghosts and monsters went during the day.  We had the courage to check our closet out during the day.  We never saw any ghosts and monsters coming from our closet at night, but we knew that they were there waiting for us.

We sold 505 Perth Avenue after our parents died in 2005.  The new owners gutted the house.  The outside looks much the same, but the inside is another world.   (Took quick glances at night through the windows.)

Does the back bedroom still have a closet?  Do the ghosts and monsters still live in it at night, or , like us, have they moved on?




I can easily criticize another human being’s behavior and get upset over it, and yet think it different when I do the same thing.  It is no coincidence that human and hypocrite both begin with H.

Before I was married, I judged harshly men I saw fooling around on their wives.  These men would complain that their wives were always cranky and refused to have sex.  “That will never happen to me,”  I thought.  “My marriage will be happy, and I will never  fool around on my wife.”  And then?  And then I got married.  My wife was cranky and always yelling at me.  Sex?  Ha!   I remembered how harshly I had judged the unfaithful husbands.  It was not right what they did, but it was understandable.

Before I was married, I judged harshly men who killed their wives.  And then?  And then I separated from my wife.  She  constantly denied me access to our children violating the court order.  How frustrating because my lawyer told me that it was a waste of money and time taking my ex-wife to court.  He said, “The courts will crucify a father for violating a court order, but do little or nothing to mothers who do so.”

My frustration grew over the games she was playing keeping our kids from me.  This one time, she hung up the telephone saying that I was not going to see the kids.  I went to the matrimonial home to confront her.  How angry I was!  I had never hit a woman before, but was going to do some serious bodily harm.  She was no going to stop me from seeing our children.  While I was driving, I heard a Voice.

“You’re really angry at her,”  said The Voice.

“Fuckin’ right!   Bitch!   She’s not going to keep my kids from me!”

“So you’re going to harm her?”  said The Voice.

“Fuckin’ right I will!”

“Okay, so you beat her.  She ends up dead or in the hospital.  You end up in jail.  Who is going to look after the kids?”

At that point, all my anger vanished with the realization, “Oh yeah.  The kids.  Who is going to look after the kids?”

The Voice continued, “Not to mention the psychological damage the kids will have seeing their father beat their mother.”

“Oh yeah, the kids . . . ”

No more anger when I thought what was in the best interests of the kids.

I still showed up, but I was calm.  She called the police acting hysterical claiming that I was breaking in to beat her.  I waited calmly for the police to show up.  Naturally I was not arrested because I had done nothing wrong.  I explained to the officers how she was trying to deny me access.  With the police as witnesses, she could not violate the court order that time.

Although she continued to deny me access after that incident, never again did I ever think of harming her thanks to The Voice.

It’s not right when a husband harms his wife, but  it is understandable given all the circumstances.

It was not right for my ex-wife to deny me access to our children, but it is understandable given the depth of her pain.  Imagine how much pain she was in not to realize the damage she was causing the kids by keeping them from their father.

I love the words from the song,  Put Your Hand In The Hand  by Ocean:  Take a look at yourself and you can look at others differently . . .



I still have my doubts, sometimes, but I am following my gut feelings more these days.  I do not let my doubts stop me.

To friends and family, my gut feeling is wrong when it does not agree with what they think I should be doing.  “It doesn’t make sense,” they say.  And they are right.  Common sense is the product of the finite human mind.  A gut feeling is the product of  The Infinite Mind and often beyond the understanding of the finite.

Figuratively, my gut feeling told me to jump off a cliff.  I jumped.  I have no idea where I am going.   It’s scary, but oh what a ride!



“O world, thou choosest not the better part”

O world, thou choosest not the better part!
It is not wisdom to be only wise,
And on the inward vision close the eyes,
But it is wisdom to believe the heart.
Columbus found a world, and had no chart,
Save one that faith deciphered in the skies;
To trust the soul’s invincible surmise
Was all his science and his only art.
Our knowledge is a torch of smoky pine
That lights the pathway but one step ahead
Across a void of mystery and dread.
Bid, then, the tender light of faith to shine
By which alone the mortal heart is led
Unto the thinking of the thought divine.

                      – George Santayana


I try to live in the present, but I keep thinking that something is going to come along and save me.  I forget that I am not a body; that I am not separate from  I Am, and that there is nothing to save.  I keep thinking that if  Mr. Godot will only show up with a gazillion dollars, or perhaps a little less than that, then this will solve all of my problems.

Why do I continue to think that money will solve all my problems when deep down I know that it won’t?  I know that no matter how much money Mr. Godot brings, it will never be enough to solve my feelings of lack and inadequacy.  Nothing outside me can affect what is inside me.   I know this,  yet I continue to fool myself.

I came to this planet many years ago.  I only planned to stay for a weekend, but the many opportunities for self-deception bedazzled me.  Oh the fun I have distracting myself with self-deception!

If anyone happens to see Mr. Godot, then please tell him to hurry up.  Thanks.


“Your problem is that you are too sensitive.  You should not be so sensitive.”

That is a common criticism of me from my family.  They use it to dismiss  issues I raise.  It is okay for me to bring up safe surface feelings about sports, entertainment, and gossip.  Any feelings below this surface on deeper topics are verboten.

Let’s say that their criticism is valid.  Let’s say that I am too sensitive.  How do I reduce my sensitivity?  This is like telling me that I am too tall.  How do I reduce my height?  Cut my head off?   (I suppose I could cut my head off, but then I would worry about not meeting the height requirements for some rides at an amusement park.)

My family is telling me not to feel.  I understand why given their drug and alcohol use.





If my ex-wife had been honest, then she would have told people how she kicked and hit me and threw dishes at me; that she refused to go to marriage counseling because she did not want to deal with her childhood-sexual abuse issues.  Instead she told everyone that I beat her.

If my ex-wife had been honest, then she would have told everyone that I left because I did not know how much longer I could restrain myself  from not striking her back, and after our three-year old daughter started kicking me saying, “Look Mommy, I’m kicking Daddy just like you.”    Instead she told everyone that  I left her for another woman.

If my ex-wife had been honest, then she would have said, “Even though I assaulted him and refused to go to counseling, I was angry when he left me.  I got back at him by using our kids.  I did everything I could to deny him access to them.  I would pretend we weren’t home when he came to pick them up.  I would keep them from him at Christmas and Father’s Day.  I would never answer his calls when I was home, and would hide the telephones when I was out so the kids would not answer and talk to him.”   Instead she told everyone that I never wanted to take the kids, and left them with her all the time.

If my ex-wife had been honest, then she would have told everyone that I chose not to take my share of the matrimonial assets, and paid full child support on top of that choice.  She would have said how surprised her lawyer was because usually fathers give up the matrimonial assets in exchange for not paying any child support, or reduced child support.   She would have said that I made this financial sacrifice because our children’s living standard would have suffered if I had taken my share, and  indirectly she benefited.  Instead she told everyone that I never paid her any money; that I was a deadbeat dad.

If I were honest, then I would explore the full depth of my pain and let it go.  If I were honest, then I would acknowledge my responsibility in the breakdown of the marriage and stop seeing myself as a victim.   Instead I wallow in my pain.  Instead I wallow in the role as a victim.  Instead I hope that one day the pain will go away, but that I will remain a victim forever.


Okay, I was being silly.  The title should be,  Why I Write.

I have to write.  I must write.   I must write my thoughts and feelings out everyday.  If I do not, then I do not feel left.  (There I go being silly again.)

In boxes and boxes and more boxes, I have papers and journals dating back to the Big Bang.  I suspect my family will throw these boxes out after I leave my body for a better climate.

My family and some friends do not think much of my creative career.  They have criticized me ever since I quit my secure, high-paying  job to creatively pursue poverty and starvation.  Quitting my job was not a wise move financially.  I admit that.  Emotionally, quitting my job was the wisest thing I did.  It began my journey from my head to my heart.   I hated my job, and it was killing me.   I listened to my heart and quit.   Family and friends do not understand.

“You should never have quit,”  they say.

“But I hated going to work.  It stressed me out!   The job was killing me,”  I say.

“We know, but you should never have quit.  You were earning good money,”  they say.

“But it was killing me!”

“Still, you should never have quit.  You’d be on pension by now if you had stayed.”

I am making progress journeying from my head to my heart.  I could never write about my feelings, or my writing before.  I felt ashamed about expressing  my feelings.   I felt ashamed about my writing.  I still have some reluctance about expressing my feelings and writing, but I write anyway.   It feels right!  (Didn’t get silly that time.)

Expressing your feelings is hard; expressing them creatively is harder.  It takes courage.  You have to go to those dark places inside that no one wants to go to.   It is hard work.

My family and friends have a limited view of work.  To them work must involve digging ditches and heavy lifting.  They have no idea how hard it is to face yourself on that blank page everyday.

“When are you gonna get a real job,” they say.

Bastards!  I have a real job!   This is my real job!   I am always working.   Emotionally I am digging ditches.  Emotionally I am lifting heavy things.  I am not making a lot of money, but I am still here.   I have survived many deep, dark moods without killing myself.  Writing saved me!  What is that worth?

Why do I write?   I write to survive!







I saw a man sitting on the sidewalk with his back against a building.  He munched on a hotdog.  His shoes had no laces and holes in the toes.  His clothing tattered and dirty.  His winter coat — it is August and hot — his winter coat was not tattered, but you could not tell what color it was because of the dirt.  He had not shaved in several days.

“Excuse me,” he said as I walked by, “can I talk to you?”

“I can’t give you much because I’m almost as homeless as you are,”  I said giving him some change.

“How did you know I was homeless?” he asked.

“Are you kidding me?”

“Seriously,” he said.  “How did you know?”

“Uh–er–I took a guess,”  I said.   I did not want to ruin the impression he had of himself.

“Well you guessed right.  I’m seeing my worker tomorrow.  She may have a place for me.”

“I hope so,” I said.  “Good Luck!”

I walked away wondering,  Is there anything about me that I can’t see, but is so obvious to others?