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CareGiving Stories Continued

Wounded Sacred Dementia

My last foster care-provider
and -receiver story
is also a sad story
of my last special needs adoption
of bipolar born,
and oppositionally reared,
alcoholism.

My BiPolar Wounded Child
turned an auspicious five
on the day I first saw her,
and promptly rejected her,
not in dipolar person,
but in a picture of Little Brown Girl
with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome
surrounded by huge multicolored balloons
like a bubble bath
gone delightfully wrong
for a demented princess,

And so has life proved to be
living in her often queenly raging
perpetual-childhood Reign,
not so wonderfully benign,
now mid-adolescent,
at least hormonally.

Dementia,
like Fetal Alcohol,
was on my list of
“Will not consider even meeting,
much less living and dying with.”

The local Department of Children and Families folks
knew I had a too-empty bedroom
and restorative therapeutic experience
and special needs caregiving training
they had provided,
patience I had practiced
retained
restrained
rewoven cooperatively.

I was certified for FirstAid, but not Last,
and administering medications
and receiving ecotherapies
and what to do when a child is choking
and not yet choking
and mouth-to-mouth heart palpitation,
and avoiding ear-to-ear mind pulpitization.
Although, truthfully, I believe my Permaculture Design certification
was more helpful
for restorative WinWin therapy consultations
with wounded kids,
and their not-well-trained adults.

SocialWorker specialists
invited me to consider four kids
waiting for a less toxic residence.

One was Dementia.

Another older girl,
also AfricanAmerican,
wanted to wait for a home
without any male presence
in a threatening house,
due to past unthinkably unfortunate events,
furthering her internal climate
of ZeroSoul Zone pathologies.

A one year old white boy
would never walk.
I couldn’t see how I sprint
through a successful WinWin family outing
with two wheelchairs to push around.
It was already discouraging enough
with one
to often choose exploring voices outside,
now rather staying more too sedately home muted,
ZeroZone diluted,
inside.

The fourth was an older hispanic boy
who looked WinWin perfect
but then was suddenly hospitalized,
for reasons never ominously or even reassuringly explained,
and it looked likely he might never leave alive;
LoseLose.

This was one of those moments
to pause
and wonder about therapeutic timing
and nutritious choices
creating WinWin nurturing branches
or not, more WinLose,
in others’ BusinessAsUsual lives,
not just my own ZeroZen SoulZone.

Dementia’s Social Worker
was WinLose pre-disposed and concomitantly desperate
to close her unfortunately least marketable case.
At five,
this BiPolar Dementia already had two priors.

Prior attempts at WinWin adoption
that ended LoseLose,
at best,
a toxic six weeks later.

She had bounced
from one unsuccessful
They Lose and I Lose foster home
to the next
and no one of them
trained for WinWin special needs alcoholic placements,
should there actually be such a training thing,
because they didn’t want such needs
demanding in their already too complicated
indoor lose some-lose Sum
ZeroSoul too dissonant lives.

I agreed to meet Dementia
because her SocialWorker had persuaded herself,
whether through ignorance
or incompetence
I still know not,
although I’ve heard no WinWin rule
that one is less ignorantly likely
to incompetently appear
without the other,
She was persuaded
Dementia was not alcohol baptized
BiPolar Competitive more than DiPolar CoOperative,
Marked for a lifetime of Trumpian Wounded Child struggle
with bipolar cognitive-affective dissonance,
dismay, despair,
dissonant eruptions,
in addition to her cerebral palsy lifetime
of stinky and wet incontinence.

I met Dementia
in her most successful
(least tragic) foster home.

Mom was surrounded by so many kids
she did not know what to do.
But remained wise enough
to promise strong toilet-training skills
if only so someone else
would finally change Dementia’s messy climate diapers.

I brought a Dorah doll
for her recently past fifth birthday
and asked her if she spoke Spanish.
I have no idea what she said in response,
probably not Spanish,
but she delighted in tearing the packaging
into confetti
with a suspiciously satisfied smile.

Dorah would live on for a few months,
gradually losing body parts.
An arm here,
a leg there.
She went bald,
unexpectedly one scissored night.
Then her capacity to speak
and sing evaporated,
a mixed blessing
in my opinion
not that it was often asked for,
or ever heeded,
or even appreciated when received.
Finally
Dorah’s merciful beheading
led to a tearful cremation.

I had a lot of questions
for FosterMom
because I could not understand a word
Dementia mumbled.
I wasn’t even sure
of distinguishing between Yes and No
other than the too obvious non-verbal communication
that filled in for NegativEnergy
dissonant messaging systems.

So I asked why she seemed to have no resonant consonants
and could she hear clearly?
resiliently?
creolizingly?
Is that a lazy left-brained eye?
Hard to tell because she needs both Left
and Right eye surgery
for lids she cannot bicamerally lift
enough to see the warm brown gleam
of her smiling therapeutic eyes.

What are those bald patches
in her hair?
How is she coming along,
or merely commingling,
with incontinence?
Why is she a choking risk?
Why does she gulp and swallow her food whole?
Why is she throwing her food
and other nutritional
nurturing elements,
toys,
soap,
colored markers?
Who is she talking to now,
because I can’t see anybody
in front of her eyes and ears
can you?

Lots of questions.
Not many informed responses.
So I told Dementia’s SocialWorker
I would take her as a pending pre-adoption placement
but only if she promises to leave her with me
long enough
so we can get her medical attention
needed for better long-term health-wealth results.

Wounded Sacred Dementia: Part Two

Dementia’s derelict WinLose SocialWorker
suboptimizingly hesitates
when I tell her
I have not changed my mind
about not adopting Fetal Alcohol Syndrome
into my vulnerable home
with a seven-year-old AfricanAmerican boy
blind
and unable to defend himself,
or even run paraplegically away,
in the likely event of predative attack
by a jealous younger girl-child
who needs to be the ego-nurtured baby addict
of her household.

My older two AfricanAmerican sons
could defend their Nubian Princely selves,
and most certainly would,
after all,
they had experience living with Tyrant
who was older
and bigger
and louder.

The SocialWorker commits to giving me six months
unless someone else comes along
as WinWin qualified
and ready to commit
to bipolar alcoholism
for ZeroZone Soul life.

We both knew how unlikely
this would unfold
in our shared HereNow
4Dimensional RealTime
of ZeroSoul understorying TaoSpirit.

So we got Dementia’s ears tubed,
all the better to hear our creolizing consonants with.
Her eyes WinWin opened
to communication’s PositivEnergy integrities
all the better to watch us form our cooperative consonants.
Her brain pictures
all the better to predict her bipolar
ZeroSoul RightBrain emotional swings.
Her scalp de-ringwormed
all the better to fill her pretty head
with ribbgons
and butterfly berets
on her own tiny yang-braids.
Her now open eyes
wearing glasses
all the better to watch us WinWin smile back
and too often LoseLose frown,
to be incontinently honest,
holding our noses and heads
against each LoseLose other.

By the end of the first week
she no longer needed to take food to bed with her.

By the end of the first day
she taught me
When Dementia rises from her feeding chair
during a meal,
more of an athletic event,
a wrestling match really,
to jump Yang-up and Yin-down
and run around,
this does not mean she is done eating,
or feeding,
or whatever.
She has other
messier ways
to let me know
when she’s All Done!!!!

Jumping during mealtime
is something about liking the food,
absorbing PositivEnergy nurture,
and needing to calm down
and express Yang-enthusiasm.

So I stop removing her food
until the pink plastic bowl is serenely empty.
Although she usually takes care of bowl removal
for me,
or against me–
not entirely sure she is sure.

I put out another bowl
if she asks for it
(no judgment)
and leave it out for her
to eat or feed on, again,
depending on your dipolar-bipolar perspective,
or to just check on from time to time
to be sure it remains there
and not yet LoseLose empty,
until she learns to trust me
to listen to her good food to eat
PositivEnergy messages
as much or little as she wants to share
whenever she wants.
All I require is a Please?
Not even ThankYou!
although that would be nice,
and PositivEnergy appreciated.

So, no need to hoard food
or bolt it down without chewing
or LoseLose throw it
before someone takes it away.

Eventually,
more like a slow groaning year,
Dementia’s SocialWorker
threatens to remove her from my care
rather than leaving her with me
until she finds a more appropriate pre-adoptive placement.

Is this a WinWin promise
or a WinLose threat?

I offer to help her recruit an ego-ecotherapeutic adult
or two
without young vulnerable children
and pets,
and too awfully many sharp knives
and scissors
and voices,
who might agree to adopt
if I provide monthly respite.

But the Professional SocialWorker
in her infinitely divine
ZeroSum Win-Lose wisdom
does not want my help.
She refuses to look for a household without high risks
of further Dementia dings,
or to even disclose Fetal Alcohol labels
to prospects for WinWin adoption,
Or to even find an appropriate foster placement
in which Dementia could more successfully
more restoratively,
with further resilience and self-sustainability,
wait and heal and hope
for that just-right therapeutic parent(s).

I am now persuaded
that Dementia’s best restorative justice and peace hope
is to be rescued from her demented SocialWorker
and, to be fair,
from a retributive lack of welfare committed system
designed to reward the heavily mortgaged SocialWorker
for punitive anti-BirthFamily decisions
not in Dementia’s best
short-term
or long-term healthy interests.

My AfricanAmerican husband and older sons agreed,
given SocialWorker’s issues,
fueled by denial of internal climate pathologies,
we should proceed toward WinWin committed adoption
and hope for our mutual therapeutic best,
and not worst,
somehow both care-giving and care-receiving democracy,
mutual creolizing acclimation
as a resilient Left and resonant Right
multiculturing household,
environment,
habitat,
home,
sort of a PositivEnergy networking nest.

I would have asked my youngest son
but would not have known how to ask,
nor how to misunderstand his non-verbal benign response.

So Dementia is still with us,
turning seventeen later this year,
our only post-millennial girl
living with five trans-millennial males,
deep listening with Dementia
teaching hard lessons:

Resilience is to LeftBrain cognitive dissonance
as RightBrain Resonance
is to affective disintegration,
as notnot PositivEnergy
WinWin democratic trust
is to NegativEnergy LoseLose autocratic anti-trust
in self or Professional SocialWorker other.

Resilience Left and Resonance Right
polypathic Yang and Polyphonic Yin
nurturing nutrients
for rich dense resonantly complex
WinWin attitudinal
and behavioral co-empathic systems.

Just as chaotically dissonant
WinLose angry
and LoseLose fearful ecopolitical systems
can grow wickedly complex interdependencies
unraveling GoldenRule cooperative
WinWin strategies
to sustain self-other perpetuating equanimity.

Resilient healthy gains
sustain
despite fading outdoor voice losses
of RightBrain therapeutic polyculturing resonance.

Dementia
has her own wild
outsideLeft–insideRight
polarizing resonance of voices
as deep and sacred
with each new outdoor RedSky dawn
as resilient resonant DNA-RNA Solidarity
Blues-inside imparts.

 

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Random Acts of Grace

I wonder if our reasons
for growing random acts of violence
are similar
to our dwindling random acts of reasoned healing,
kindness,
gratitude,
unrequited love,
uncommodified,
unconscripted,
unscripted,
uncontained
restoring cooperative ecopolitical relationships forward
not just because this is our right and healthy familial thing to do
but because we multiculturally know and extend,
believe and intend
actively faith
these are our greatest
most noble
most therapeutic gifts of hope
given before punishments
for random acts of violence
could even have become conspired.

It has been speculated
by military-industrial hypnotized media
seeking short-term sensational profits,
and by cynical economic and political prophetic voices,

We have become numb
to millions of homeless children,
many of whom are now being burnished,
refurnished
and retooled
as LoseLose suicidal nihilistic soldiers,
pawns for burning with emotional hate
without ever having known love’s potential maturity.

Permanently stuck on pre-adolescent
survival of the All MonoCulturing Male Unit
erasing hard-fought memories
of compassion
for growing up among millions of homeless children
of all multiculturing genders
and nearly all species
with possible exceptions
for scavengers,
like cockroaches
and river rats
and millions of starving children
drowning
melting
fired-up fuel fading from view of homeless futures
requiring further punishment
for bothering to persistently survive
on air waves
and water
and plants
bought and sold
and too-patriarchally owned by other,
supposedly adult,
mature people,
presumed to only know how to play
I Win
so You Lose
competing evolutionary MightMakes GodRight games.

I wonder if our reasons
for random acts of restorative justice
to achieve healthy WinWin
outcome reminders
our troubling predators with our disturbing prey
could become permaculturally relearning opportunities
revolutionarily expanding
mentors among these already starving homeless children
and non-consenting adults,
sibling and tribal groups
health care giving and receiving as best we can,
not having seen or heard or felt bilateral co-operative WinWin
opportunities for renewing climates of health
since successfully departing
our long dead EarthMothers’ wombs.

When punishing weapons
for addiction to violent choices
are accessible to those who believe they,
and we,
can holistically afford them,
can afford to compromise investments with integrity,
our rights of WinWin ownership requited,
then those raised more through retribution’s fear and anger
than restoration’s love and healthy synergy
will always flood our gun shops first
and ballistic associations last
through clouding media’s ecopolitical marketing of death
and terror
over cooperatively-owned matriarchal-patriarchal balancing life
as yin with yang restorations,
preyors of benign predation
loving bilateral revolutionary relationships,
mutual creolizations within all ecotherapeutic EarthTribes
for social arts and communication,
and scientific enculturation,
deep learning cooperative restoration
of mutual education.

Deep learning
among homeless childhood memories
of double-boundaries
for healing lost compassions.

Violence corrupts this void
left through grace’s wrongful absence.

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Broken Planting Oaken Tree

We have tree traditions,
still accessible in diverse backward
and forward
reforesting cultures,
of planting a commemorative tree
when a great and portentous series of loving events
comes to its untimely rest.

Recently
my middle son’s lifetime friend
decided it was time to travel with the starlight
and so he left us heartbroken,
trying to be happy for him,
and sad without him,
to become OK with his decision
that he had uncovered enough sadness
despair
depression.
His final vote was cast
and no one else was invited
to participate in his great transitional selection.

So, my son and I
will go into our messy forest
also known as the back lot,
where former residents have dumped asphalt roofing shingles,
and buried an entire breaking down garage.

If we were to dig deeper than necessary
we would probably find other mislaid treasures.
Shattered glass bottles and hearts
and open rusted food and toxic feeling cans,
and plastic of all dismembering colors
and ugly unshapely shards of angst,
but this day
we will dig only as deep as we must.

We will first visit a handful of oak babies
sprouting up under bushes in the side yard
and among poison ivy on the north side
so my son can choose which of these
will become Greg’s oak tree of new life
not beyond
yet still after suicidal death.

We will prepare this sapling’s new home,
digging a deep and wide welcoming hole
among back lot brambles of our thoughts and feelings,
then clear away potential choking vines and voices
now covering a clearing
surrounding trees have left
just right enough for a growing Greg
Large shade tree
to hug my son’s grandchildren,
and their Greg the OakTree loving children.

Then we will uproot our chosen new life tree
with reverence
and baptize her future MotherTree roots
of sacred fertility,
and as we sprinkle holy compost
to shade her vulnerable transparency to shaded light,
we will sing our allegiance to gratitude
for each life created through Father Sun,
nourished with Mother Earth,
sadly smiled with sacred GrandMother Moon,
sprinkling sounds of thanks
for each day
of each life
this oak tree,
as Greg,
will continue bringing us.

We will read and look and listen as Jesus taught
it is ungrateful sacrilege to remain angry
about not having received more grace
than we could have earned with more generosity of time,
when we could choose instead
to give thanks for each day shared with us
doing the best we can,
to give care as we would continue to receive.

Our love for Greg
grows through this oak tree’s future shade,
and west wind protection
for all our future days of thanksgiving
and suffering lost loss,
security for our children’s
healthy and happier children
knowing
remembering
feeling
sensing
this canopy grown Greg
still choosing flight
with starlight nights.

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NightFlights

From onset of puberty
on through my early twenties
I had frequent flyer dreams.

Like learning to ride a bike,
I was nocturnally certain
just the right balance of body focus and mind flexibility
would lead to inevitable lift-off.

Perhaps it was not a coincidence
that the more daylight time riding my first and last red three-speed bike,
the more likely I was to invest my nightflights
in flying forward and yet flexibly floating free
to soar with stars
float and spin with the moon
looking down and back and out at EarthTribe’s AquaMarine Home,
laced with also flying cumulus fluffs of vaporous white,
as ephemeral as identity myself.

Adolescent hubris,
I know,
to imagine floating flexibly
with just sufficient internal focus, balance, centering
as if a Bodhisattva Flyer
of space as time traveling
forward future
and backward pasts,
outer becomings swelling
with inner flying beings co-gravitating
contracting concentric balance,
dreams of humane-growing flight as inhalation,
internal as external exhalation
mindbody co-operation,
co-optation,
co-present floating flights
of dreamscaped transparent night.

In my dream
we remain free to fly,
free from mind v body polarities,
spirit-nature remains inspiring bodies,
spiral flying full-flight dreams
of economic
and political
and psychological
EarthTribe Revolutions.

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Contagious Gratitudes

Honey,
sometimes I feel my grateful care-giving
for our mutual care-receiving
grows increasingly under-valued by you
and so,
perhaps for that reason,
also under-valued by me.

Are you suggesting,
my generous lover,
that positive gratitude,
like negative attitude,
is contagious?

Yes, that.
But also I worry
you believe your ultimate gratitude
for my generosity
is to apathetically receive ever more of my care,
rather than to repay in-kind
over our relational time together.

Does expressing my gratitude
with civil please and thank yous
and you are greatly welcome
and with I owe you
some good care-receiving in return
count as at least partial care-giving repayment?

Yes,
and so would taking out the recycling basket
when you fill it,
rather than just leaving it over-flowing
with your Earth-resident care-giving
for me to take out
for us,
as if I were your care-giving robot
nutritionally-compensated for a robust future
by your mere past care-receiving
patriarchal presence
within us.

Are you suggesting
the absence of my care-giving actions
speaks louder
than the presence of my care-giving words?

Something like that, yes.

Well, thanks for that future care-optimizing feedback.

You are quite welcome
to act with care
even before you speak of our mutual care.

Is the recycle basket overflowing
with my care-giving again?

I thought you might have noticed
when your glass bottles
fell to the floor.

Oh,
I thought that was just matriarchal Earth’s gravity
saying ThankYou.

No,
that’s Her way of saying
it’s past time to clean up your care-giving act.

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Broken Family Pilgrimage

Broken hearts
bodies
neural systems
minds
heal in a profoundly broken,
sometimes revolutionary,
way.

Almost 18 now,
youngest son Yin speaks no domesticated,
commodifiable
marketable language,
only primal syntax of saintly glory,
heroic internal/external story
without distinction between “life” and “love;”
he can only know life/love as co-arising NOW,
inviting his perfect insight,
eco-self thru interdependent-other consciousness
flowing through DNA-engorged neural norms
of autonomic karmic grace
and Presence-Centered beauty,
ZeroCentric YinYin polydextrous
mind-body flow
primally rooted in
“love-as-happy” snaptic
dipolar correlated with
“loss-as-absence” aptic
polycultural faith
in Time’s unfolding harmonic abundance.

Teacher of Mystic
full-bodied mind-dreams
in sea of child naivete
of Win-Lose evolutionary revisionism
of his Earth Host’s
rainbow revolutionary evolutionary re-membering
of what only human language has exegetically severed.

Sainted SunSon
with primal gifts
to smile with intelligence of good-reiterative humor
to dance with feet and hands
with skin and ears and bones,
to sing bicameral balance in neural-cranial vibrating septum,
dia-hemispheric vision
sound
voice of all Earth’s bicameral livings
and minds
and hearts
and legs
and arms
especially stereophonic ears,
echoing eco-resonant deep sound,
co-gravitational nondual voice.

Mystic Son
resounding fractal-octaved crystal memories
of primal forested seasons
with reasons for Heaven Dawning
Golden Rules Upon Earth’s
Bilateral In-Formation,
I is You is Me.

Zero-Zen
ego/eco double-binding
co-arising
buddha body consciousness
rich in healthy wealth nutrition.

Perfect son.
Perfect co-mentor.
Perfect neighbor and family member,
sometimes rather verbal family contract renegotiator,
bus always right and true,
noble and good and just,
good-humored contentiousness
about our collective cognitive dissonance,
thinking we are healthy and he is not,
as usual,
half-ass backward.

Perfect co-messiah
of regeneratively full life.

Perfect icon
of low anxiety
grows low neural synaptic activity
emerges (0)-centric ego/eco Angel-not-so-manic Syndrome,
silent siloed saints
of cooperative ecoconscious conscience
regenerativity as beauty with good humor.

Excellent zen-guru,
tao transducer,
in our dipolar incubator,
regenerative nest
floating in our polycultural timeless sea
where seasonal syntax
speaks bicameral reality.

Yin-sun knows “family”
only as ballast
toward regenerative kinship
“we cooperatively
intergenerationally,
tribally,
eco-culturally are
and ionically share”;
without shadow of
ballistic weaponed
“you’re not family”
eisegetical creed
deductive reductive dominating
exegetical greed
to cooperatively feed each other
nutrients of healthiest wealth
regenerative open-optimizing
Win-Win
reverse hierarchializing
in-formating full-health function.

Yin-son’s family
means you are loved
with dignity and co-respect,
co-investors in Earth’s tribal gifts,
grace,
karma,
information
and cellular intelligence,
cooperative,
co-arising,
octave-harmonic frequency
Midway balancing
between hopeless tumor
and faithful humor.

Our Yin-Sun
who teaches me everything
I need and want to know
to love and care for him
is to learn love and care for self.

Broken hearts
bodies
neural systems
minds
heal in a profoundly broken,
sometimes revolutionary,
world turned rightside down
deeply transitional and climatic,
even clinically chronically decommodifying
degentrifying, decompositional
yet still-inceptual
enthymematic
wavey wu-wei way.

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Peaceful Losers

Patching up enslaving hatred is sure to leave some hated aftermath.
How can this be regarded as tolerable,
these interior human natured self-hatred transgenerational aftershocks?
Therefore Wisdom holds the Yang as Loser paradoxical space,
And does not dispossess guilt toward any Winners.
Virtue, like indentured servitude, is for coredemptive patching up;
Violence of enslaving hatred is for assigning Loser guilt.
But, the way of wisdom is partial toward inclusive Winners;
Siding only with coredemptive dispossessive losers
of enslavement, possession, cancerous wealth of entitled self-hatred
and fear of death as loss.

Knock Knock.

Who’s there?

Slave.

Oh, well, first, ummm…Slave whom?
And, second, are you sure you intend to knock
on my front door?

First, Slave Hater.
Second, does that sufficiently answer your question?

No, not really, Slave Hater could be most anyone I’ve ever met;
this really doesn’t help me figure out who you are
knocking on my door
in this eternal moment.

So why don’t you open your door
to answer your own fearful questions
about my Hater identity?

Because anyone I would welcome into my life
would never knock first.

What does that say about your identity?
Who are you,
a 24-7 pit stop
only open for those who have a key to you?

That doesn’t sound quite right,
but perhaps not wrong either.

Well then it sounds like we are a good fit.
I’m Slave Hater,
both not quite right or wrong
for your passive-aggressive locked door
Win-Lose logistical strategy.

Wait a minute,
I didn’t say I’m passive aggressive,
and everybody I know locks their door
to win some safety from losers.

But you do say you are passive-aggressive
in your habitual practice of reminding those around you
of what you did not say or do.
You have less empathy for enslaved losers
than fear of becoming one yourself.
Don’t worry so much about it,
all us losers already know you’re a loser too
and we will feel comforted by learning
that you finally recognize you are one of us self-haters.
It’s OK,
really.
You hope that hanging onto that one last key
in your pocket
means you’re not a total loser.
It does.
OK?
No one intends to dispute that,
at least no one you are ever likely to meet
to know and learn to love,
as long as you totally invest in that last sole-Winner key.

Patching up a great hatred
is sure to leave some hatred outside
and behind,
downstream for future struggling memories
dreams
and generations.

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