moment here, (a summer sunset behind my familiar mountains) a sudden
splash of hours there, (that afternoon that I had the energy to make
the full tour at the zoo) and days in which I had no choice but to be
fully present (the labor and birth of my children).

There I am, and there it is. Joy.

It is a choice I make, whether to be fully present in that time or let
it slip by like a blip on the radar.  I always have that choice, though
not always aware of it.  Haven't quite figured out how to keep the
fuzziness from sabotaging my awareness yet.

When that happens it's like a short circuit or something.  Suddenly
there's a wall between me and the world.  I want so much to reach out
and participate.I want to grasp at the hands I see reaching out for me.
I can see myself drowning, but my own hands are so heavy, so weak, so
slow.

It's like one of those terrifying dreams where you're trying to wake
up, to somehow wake yourself up or cry out for help, and you can't
because you're paralyzed. I've  often used the analogy that it's as if
I were in the drivers seat of a vehicle, but watching as someone else
drives.  My nephew and I refer to it as "someone else driving the bus".
But those moments when I can choose to be awake, those little sharp
edged moments are so bright and solid and good.

Here I've got to pause to admit something that I've been denying for
years, because I'm convinced this feeling is directly related to my
being manic depressive.  It's hilarious, because I've been in denial
about being in denial.

A Psychiatrist told me when I was about seventeen that I wasn't ever
going to progress in therapy until I came to grips with the fact that I
am manic depressive, that it is a lifelong illness with no cure, only
treatment, and that I WILL be dealing with it for the rest of my life.  

Guess what folks...for the last nine years or so I've been telling
myself that although I may be a little "off kilter" every once in awhile,
 I am no longer manic depressive.  As if it were a childhood
disease and I had matured and outgrown it.  As if I have had the
problem long enough and had enough experience that I am no longer
affected by it.  I kid you not, I sold myself this line of complete and
total (excuse my language but really) BULLSHIT.

Will I ever be able to be all of myself at one time?  How about when we
go back to see family?  Am I strong enough to be firm and true to
myself without being defensive, or backing down, or compromising my
beliefs?

Will it hurt me too much when I see that look that says "I don't know
you and maybe I never knew you at all"?  Or can I stand and be proud of
what I've become?  I have valid reasons.  My experience molds me and
God guides me as I grow.  But will they see?

Will they see the real me or lie to themselves by erecting an image of
their choice because what they first glimpse isn't what they expected
or hoped for?  And what gives anyone the right to judge anyone that
way?  How can they know what tools and gifts I had to choose from when
faced with any particular hurdle?  How can they know what dilemmas I
have faced?  How can they know how hard I prayed, the tears I cried,
how hard I tried, and the answers that were given to me,and in what
time?  Why does it matter to me what anyone thinks?

While it is true that I don't fall asleep at night as easily as most
people, it has nothing at all to do with my conscience.  My conscience
is clear.  Have I always done the right thing?  No.  Heck I'm just as
human as anybody else, I make mistakes all the time. 

I am nothing if not vain, petty, sarcastic, lazy, selfish, and I have
many other fine qualities as well.  But most consistently I listen to
that "still small voice"  and make the best choice possible with the
knowledge I have at the time, taking into consideration all who could
possibly be affected.

Lest anyone think I am bragging...I am fully aware of the incredible
distance I've come since I began this journey, and the fact that I was
dragged kicking and screaming or carried while I was crying most of the
way by God.  I am also aware that I've still got one heck of a long way
to go before I can break the tape.  I know that I whine and complain
about blisters and bunions whenever the good Lord sets me down to
toddle a step or two by His side.

The point is that I'm striving, I'm trying, and I know to whose hand I
must hold in order to run this race.  I know I'm headed in the right
direction, because I'm following the person who laid out the path.

The fact that He didn't lay out the same path for me as He did for my
sister, or mother, or husband, or anybody else doesn't mean I've
faltered or let go of His hand. The fact that I don't edge out other
runners who don't run in time with me makes me compassionate not
untrue.  Just because I've got to laugh louder and sing out more often
in order to keep my spirits high doesn't mean I'm breaking the rules.

I fully and strongly believe that we're all running with at LEAST a
slightly different set of rules.  In other words every person with a
number  pinned to their shirt is not required to abide by that set of
rules with which another person has chosen to burden him or herself.

If more people took the time to read their handbooks (written by That
One who has run the course already)  they'd have less time to spend
hurling comments at  the others. They would have less time to spend
attempting to tailor His words to slot into their beliefs and penciling
new rules in the margins.

After I wrote this I looked at it and realized how judgmental it was.
Snort!  Well, if I can't laugh at myself, then who can I laugh at?  

Love to all.