Other Family Members
- At July 29, 2012
- By Betty
- In Blog, Healing
0
They wear fur coats even in Summer, communicate without words, and depend on our attention, care and love as members of our family. Not just the nuclear family, but as companions to the human family throughout a long history.
Archeological evidence suggests the dog, as descended from the gray wolf, was domesticated for its hunting skills roughly 15,000 years ago. The cat, descended from the subspecies of the wildcat, was welcomed around 5,000 years later also for its ability to hunt.
Today, the domesticated cat and dog still serve in their original capacities and much more. As with any long-standing relationship, The reasons for our seeking the companionship of a pet and a pet’s attachment to a human are varied and complex.
We can speculate that pets share their lives with us in exchange for shelter and protection, but many survive on their own. And, strictly speaking, we no longer need to rely on their hunting instincts to help us capture our food.
So how do we explain a strong mutual bond that has survived over thousands of years? Perhaps the answer lies in an entirely different kind of survival. It’s possible that the exchange between human and pet is also one of emotional support.
When we hug and pet a cat or dog and use our voices to make sounds of appreciation, we don’t know how they feel, but we do hear purring and observe tail-wagging and other physical responses of pleasure and playfulness that lighten our hearts.
It’s hard not to believe our care of pets is as emotionally healing for them as their presence is for us. their influence is unlike any other for making us calm and focused with an increased sense of responsibility for their care.
When we provide food and shelter, we receive pure affection and loyalty that never fails to touch our hearts. Cats and dogs also give us gifts of unconditional love and trust in ways as unique as their personalities.
Because of my attachment to pets, I responded out of sympathy to many online requests over the years for pet healing, but I didn’t consider offering a healing until it became necessary to heal my own pets. That’s when I realized its value and decided to make it available.
To read about this healing, I invite you to visit Caring Pet Healing under Services on this website. This webpage can also be accessed under caringpethealing.com
That Extra Gland
- At July 25, 2012
- By Betty
- In Blog, Counseling, Healing
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You know you have it when you cannot say no to the downtrodden, forlorn and, above all, master manipulators of those of us born with a sympathy gland. To be fair, I should include all those who have acquired a similar phantom gland through guilt.
It’s not the same absolute sincerity and foolishness, but it will allow for the same complications and lead to the same enormous amounts of time given over to those who would enslave the energy of others for their own benefit regardless of the detriment to others.
Please understand, I do not include the genuinely troubled who are always open, appreciative and who enthusiastically participate in their own recovery whether it be from emotional or physical complications.
They are, without exception, a joy to work with and allow for a true exchange of human thought and feeling to occur for a successful and satisfying healing. I wish to narrow the scope down to the sympathy-seeking, ever-thoughtless professional energy-stealers.
At this point, you’re probably wondering why the tirade about the behavior of people who should appear to be obvious and therefor easily avoided under all circumstances, extra gland or not. Ah, this is the worst part of glandular excess.
The personal satisfaction, the personal identification of this healer-counselor is in helping others. This sounds reasonable, even logical unless this also includes the need to be needed as the means to self-worth which includes the need for approval from others. “you helped me” becomes the siren song.
“You didn’t help me” becomes the manipulator’s refrain. That extra gland puffs up with equal parts determination and misplaced responsibility to heal that which cannot be healed like the all-consuming need to have someone’s devoted sympathetic attention on every sad, bad emotional change the manipulator experiences.
The intention is never healing or even self-improvement. After months and sometimes years of diligent attention, the manipulator still feels wounded and still insists on transferring emotional burdens onto the very person trying to foolishly help. There is no help for the professional victim.
So, dear reader, I cannot remove this extra sympathy, but I will respectfully apply its amazing capacity to those truly seeking counseling and healing. Those who are inclined to use and abuse other people’s time and energy are invited to go elsewhere to satisfy their endless need for attention.
Story: Between Two Worlds
- At July 18, 2012
- By Betty
- In Blog, Story
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Henry points his finger at a cloud. He imagines the cotton feel on the tip of his finger. A butterfly passes close to his face. He likes the yellow ones on his grampa’s farm. His father called grampa grumpy. He didn’t look grumpy to Henry.
He sees a flash of his mother–her dark hair and eyes. He hears her whisper. Henry turns his head and sits up. His chubby five-year-old fingers try to pick pieces of grass off his new shirt and pants. He looks back over the field to the shadow trees.
His mother taught him about shadow trees. They protect each other and when people look at them from a distance, they hide in shadow. She told him each tree has a secret sound. Henry’s father laughed and said it was the wind.
The trees are hiding. Henry can tell. He hears his mother. He holds his hands over his ears until the whisper leaves and he hears only the wind. Henry’s attention moves back to the sky, the clouds and a red-tailed hawk gliding overhead.
Henry’s grampa is teaching him bird names. The whisper returns. He holds his breath and waits. His mother’s voice tries to reach him, but he won’t let it. He squeezes his eyes shut to concentrate and he smells the lotion made out of roses that his mother puts on her hands.
“Go away!” He opens his eyes, looks at the clouds. He points his finger at a cloud. The sky is distant, a million miles away. He can’t touch the cloud no matter how hard he tries.
“What are you doing here? Everyone’s looking for you.” Donald kneels down next to his little brother and helps Henry tuck in his shirt.
“You know Mommy’s in heaven. Right?”
“No she’s not.” Henry’s eyes are unwavering and as dark as the shadow trees.
Story: A Small Encounter
- At July 09, 2012
- By Betty
- In Blog, Story
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“We at Blue Eagle Airlines apologize for the delay. We will get you on the next flight available.” The airline clerk whispers something and hands the official a hand-written note.
“Your new flight number is 643. Flight 643 is due to arrive in approximately 45 minutes. Thank you.”
“I could use a drink” Raven comments to no one in particular. She examines the polish on her nails. She wanted a darker color. Raven checks her itinerary. Boston again. That’s three times this week. How Arnie ever talked her into living in Arizona is beyond her.
“I know the real story.”
The woman to Raven’s eye is a size 10 on top and a size 14 on the bottom and no one, but no one she wanted to have anything to do with.
“Is that so.” Raven half-closes her eyes. She has several faces. This is her, do I look like I give a damn face, or facade in Arnie-speak as Raven calls it. In their first fight, she told Arnie he had a BA in BS. His white face got so red he looked like he was sunburned.
“I heard it from my friend Dory who works at the newsstand, right over there.”
As the woman leans forward, Raven is assaulted by a lavender smell the likes of which she has never encountered. Repulsive is too kind a word. Raven moves as far back in her chair as possible and decides to entertain herself with this stranger while she’s waiting.
“How long have you known Dory? And what is your name?”
“Oh, I’m so stupid. I’m sorry. My name is Penelope. Gosh! Dory and I have known each other since third grade.”
“Your name is Penelope?” My gawd! Raven doesn’t know whether she feels disgust or pity.
“My name is Raven.”
“Nice to meet you. Please call me Penney. Only my sister Pam calls me Penelope.”
Raven suppresses a smile. She imagines ten children, each name beginning with the letter P. Unfreaking believable!
“So what amazing information did Dory impart to you?” Raven can tell by Penney’s slightly parted lips and lowered eyes that too much sarcasm has slipped out. Raven takes a different approach.
“So why the delay? What really happened?”
Penney looks into Raven’s eyes and wonders what it would be like to be so beautiful. She feels uncomfortable and imagines how Raven must see her, and she is embarrassed and even a little ashamed. Of course this woman doesn’t really want to talk to me. What’s the matter with me.
“I don’t want to bother you. Really. I have this habit of maybe being, you know, too friendly. I’m really sorry. Excuse me.” Penney moves to the last row of seats where Raven can no longer see her.
Raven thinks she could really use that drink now. She feels slightly uncomfortable as if she forgot something. Oh, Raven girl, a penney for your thoughts. The humor feels contrived. So I hurt the country bumpkin’s feelings. Who cares! But she does and that surprises her, and nothing, but nothing ever surprises Raven.
Story: A Change of Mind
- At July 02, 2012
- By Betty
- In Blog, Story
0
“Did you read about the accident on Lincoln Way? It’s on page 4.”
Marge never understood why Danny didn’t take the newspaper to work and read it during the day.
“I don’t read about tragedy.” As soon as the word came out, Marge knew she shouldn’t have said it.
“A tragedy! Are you kidding me. You should read it to see if anyone you know got hurt.”
“I watch the news on tv.”
“Yeah. That’s so much nicer. Video of mangled cars and people.”
“Do you want pork chops or hamburgers?”
“Hamburgers!” This is shouted by all three kids from the next room. Someone is screaming on the tv.
“Your father will decide.” Groans follow their mother’s announcement. Marge feels like a rope is tied to her from every person in the house. Every move, no matter how careful, how slight, gets a reaction.
“Which one do you want?” Marge is waiting for Danny to decide. She knows the routine by heart. First he’ll be silent for a long time, then he’ll ask what else can he have. Their oldest child, a daughter who knows everything at 16, told her mom it was her fault that Dad was so spoiled.
“We’re having hamburgers.” For the first time, Marge makes the decision and purposely ignores Danny as she gathers the onions, and ground chuck to fix for dinner. She catches herself. She was going to ask Danny if he wanted a salad.
“Hey, wait a second. I haven’t made up my mind.” Danny’s voice is flat and he sits very still.
Marge can feel the imaginary ropes tighten around her, making her moves jerky and it’s hard to breathe. Danny only hit her a couple of times. Four different times to be exact, but that was 12 years ago. He said he’d never do it again.
Marge helped him keep his promise. From that time on, she made herself neutral and agreeable, and she kept her opinions to herself.
Marge looks at Danny. Danny’s eyes look darker. She feels this is somehow familiar, like the buttons on his shirt, the creak of his chair and the fear in her chest. Even the smell of olive oil beginning to smoke on the stove is perfectly familiar.
“Well, whatever your going to cook, you better get it in the pan!” The newspaper hides Danny’s expression.
Marge moves the frying pan off the burner, and methodically begins chopping the onion to mix into the meat. Was she careful for nothing? Was she afraid of something she created in her mind? This thought is worse than believing Danny could be dangerous.
Could she do what she wanted? Could she feel free, or as her daughter would put it, was she emancipated?
Marge passes the salad to Danny.
“Tastes great!”
He always says that. Now that Marge thinks about it, she can pretty much predict what he’d say. The food has no taste. She looks around the table at her daughter, her twin boys and her husband. The only person she doesn’t recognize is herself.
Story: Freedom
- At June 25, 2012
- By Betty
- In Blog, Story
0
“Sandra, come here. Look at that!”
Nonie’s granddaughter came over to peek out the lace curtains. She searched the alleyway below. Some garbage cans, a tabby cat. Nothing unusual.
“I don’t see anything Nonie. Want me to fix you something to eat?” Sandy’s job was to look after her grandma every day after school. Sandy’s mom said everyone has to pitch in and help.
“No, you’re not looking. Look! Right there. He’s right next to Merna’s garbage. He won’t find anything there. She’s a vegetarian.”
Sandy was getting used to these “episodes” as her mother called them. This was especially embarrassing last Saturday. Nonie wouldn’t cross the street. She stood on her sturdy legs, crossed her arms over her enormous bust and slowly moved her head from side to side like a 4-year-old.
Worst part was the smirks and laughs as people passed them. Sandy thought of pretending not to know Nonie.
“Nonie, do you hear that? Someone’s calling you.” This is how Sandy got her grandma to move in public. The weird thing is Nonie would hear someone calling her.
“Ok. Yeah. I see him.”
“Sandra!” Nonie sighed and tugged on the black cord that kept her glasses around her neck where she could find them.
“Do you think it’s ok to lie to me because I’m senile?”
Sandy was shocked. This was exactly what she thought. This time she looked for the man.
“Nonie, I would never lie to you. He’s right where you said he was. He’s wearing bluish pants and a brown jacket.”
“I think he’s intelligent. Don’t you think he’s intelligent?”
“I don’t know. I can’t even tell what he looks like.” Sandy was usually patient. She could be more patient when she was doing something like making Nonie’s sofa bed, watering the spindly plant on the formica counter or warming up leftovers her mom sent from home.
“Look at all his stuff.”
The man looked like he was growing out of his jacket. His large-boned wrists were visible as he concentrated on sorting what was in the shopping cart.
He placed everything neatly into the duffle bag and drew the string tight. He always sorted his stuff behind cheap apartment buildings. That way, even if anyone noticed him, they woudn’t care.
He would leave the cart where it was. He could always find a shopping cart, food in back of restaurants and objects to sell from what people threw away as trash. He stretched to loosen the tension in his shoulders and that’s when he saw them.
The old woman was moving arthritic fingers as if she were waving to him and the young girl’s face was a dim oval behind the lace curtain. The man hefted the duffle bag over his shoulder, walked down the alley, turned left and disappeared.
It was almost dusk. Very soon the man would quietly and carefully find his way back to his private spot, past the line of cypress trees, behind the sign that warned against trespassing.
Story: What Do You Want?
- At June 18, 2012
- By Betty
- In Blog, Story
0
Mike turned his head and leaned into the open car window. He could barely hear anything over the traffic.
“What?”
“Don’t forget to ask Tom … you know.” Mike’s wife Pamela moved her eyes over to their son Skip who sat next to her, carefully peeling foil off a Hershey’s candy bar.
Mike doesn’t want to ask Tom if his kid wants to come to Skip’s birthday party. As it is, 20 kids were invited already. They don’t even know Tom and his wife.
“I don’t really know Tom. I only work with him.” Mike shrugs and feels trapped.
“You promised.”
Mike remembers his promise. He promised he’d ask just before they had sex. Mike can’t remember having sex with Pamela without promising something first. It was like a little game.
“I’ll see what I can do.” Mike gave Pamela his sincere smile. The one that showed all four caps that he insisting on getting for professional reasons.
Mike patted the top of the car, leaned down and pointed a finger at his son and frowned, “Any gooey stuff in this car and you are a dead guy!”
Skip giggled and offered his dad a bite of his candy. At 7, Skip was open and generous. Each week two or three neighbors would automatically drop off toys that Skip had given away. Mike brought home a toy a week for Skip.
At first, Pamela thought this was wonderful and generous. Mainly because it was something Mike did on his own. Most times she had to hint for this or that. In a careful way of course. But then all those toys needed to be put somewhere after they filled up Skip’s room.
All those containers and Mike would forget what he got, so Skip had 6 stuffed teddy bears, 11 assorted balls for every sport and 3 giant giraffes. They did not fit in a container and you couldn’t stick a giraffe in a corner for decoration. Pamela did not like things getting out of control.
Mike constantly and politely corrected those who called him a used car salesman. He sold pre-owned cars. He adjusted his left wrist so the rolex could be seen when he said this. Never mind that he saved 3 years for it. The point was, it represented him, his ideals, his ambition.
He would not go without and neither would his family. He promised himself this when Skip was born.
Mike was 13 and he was looking at his tennis shoes. They were cool. He made sure of that. But the clothes were his older brother’s. He looked up as the school bus came to a stop.
“Hey! What’s up.” He held his winning smile as his eyes searched and compared everyone’s clothing. Mike relaxed. He would pass. No one would notice. If anything, he even looked better than some of the rich guys.