sorchawench

FIRE: Red Jasper, Lava, Quartz, Amber, Carnelian, Citrine, Red Tiger Eye, Fire Agate, Fire Opal, Garnet, Red Calcite, Red Jasper, Rubellite (Red Tourmaline), Ruby, Sardonyx, Sunstone, Volcanic Black Salt (natural)

EARTH: Quartz, Malachite, Obsidian, Hematite, Jet, Apache Tear, Onyx, Coal, Tiger Iron, Green, Bloodstone, Emerald Peridot. Agate, Celestite, Green Jade, Green Tourmaline, Halite (salt rock crystal), Jasper, Salt (all types), Schorl (Black Tourmaline)

WATER: Amethyst, Aqua Aura Quartz, Aquamarine, Azurite, Moonstone, Blue Tiger Eye, Azurite, Blue Calcite, Blue Lace Agate, Blue (Indigo) Halite/Salt, Blue Topaz, Celestite, Chalcedony, Chrysocolla, Indicolite (Blue Tourmaline) Lapis Lazuli, Moonstone, Pearl, Sapphire, Sea Salt, Selenite, Sodalite

AIR: Pumice, Mica, Amethyst, Diamond, Mica, Opal, Yellow Tiger Eye, Topaz, Turquoise, White/Clear Fluorite, Zircon, Selenite

On Saturday I participated in the Women's March, as so many did, around our country and around the world.

Initially I was confronted by people who accused me of joining "the rioters", during the inauguration. I didn't respond to those accusations, because I knew, in my heart, that we could have a peaceful demonstration about the issues behind the march, especially in my little Republican town.

As we started our 2.5 mile march, we had several people honking in support of us. We "outrageously" stayed on the sidewalks, so as not to disrupt traffic flow. We were "out of control" as we used crosswalks....and when the red hand popped up, stopped our march, waiting patiently for the signal to cross again.

Men, women, children, dogs.....we marched. We heard honks the entire way. People would wave from cars. We had people coming out of their businesses and filming us. Several would wave and shout encouragement to us. Amazingly, no windows were smashed, no cars were flipped, and nothing was set on fire.

We didn't even have a police escort.

As we marched, I took Live video on Facebook. I did make a sarcastic comment about how there was "a riot on Kemp St." I recorded the length of the march, and the people chanting and holding their signs. And, I posted these things on Facebook.

Within the 2 short hours that I was on the march, the comments began. I came home to a barrage of hatred, anger, and physical threats.

I was told that I "needed to make my husband a sandwich."

I was told to "get back in the kitchen."

I was told that we were lucky that "X person wasn't in the area, because he would have mowed us down with his truck."

By Sunday morning, one of my posts had reached 895 comments. And while there were a lot of people professing support....there were more who spewed hatred and anger.

I was shocked. I felt violated. I felt attacked by my countrymen. People who said that "Americans were the greatest people on earth." People who swore by the oath, "United We Stand." People who were adamant about protecting our Civil Rights.....especially the 2nd Amendment....

People who were enraged that a group of Americans would DARE to exercise their FIRST AMENDMENT RIGHT as guaranteed by the founders of our country.

I was told that "if I could not support our President, then I should move to another country."

I was told that "my opinion didn't matter."

I was told that I did not have "the right to body autonomy, but at the same time, that I had more rights than men."

A Facebook friend asked for clarification on what the Women's March was all about. He asked that the conversation be civil and informative.

The first three comments were:

"They're pissed about the cost of lunchmeat."

"They want the government to provide them with free tampons."

"They want the government to pay for their abortions two days before their due dates!"

One of those commenters was on *MY* friend's list!

Now, I'm not really shocked by having some of the anger and argumentative comments that I did. I actually expected it.

The country is more divided than ever, and has been for over a year. We've lost touch with each other. We're too busy pointing fingers at each other about why THEY are wrong to realize where WE factor in to the problem.

But, in a 3 day period, as I watched the country react to proposed cabinet nominees, to the inauguration of a man who has made statements that go against everything I believe in, to the new fun term, Alt-Facts, I realized I wasn't ready for the LEVEL of HATE that I faced. From complete strangers. From people I *KNEW*.

People I trusted.

HATE.

Not just anger. Not just differing positions. Not just pro-life vs. pro-choice.

These people HATED me.

I couldn't put a word to what I was feeling. For 3 days, I was on the edge of tears, every day. Many of my friends circled the wagons around me, voiced their support and pride in my participation in marching. They showed me love.

But, when you have such an overwhelming wave of hatred....it is very hard to hear the love.

I am an American. I enjoy privileges that so many in our country and around the world cannot even know. I "Hold these truths to be self evident...."

And I am HATED for my love of the freedoms of my country. I am hated for speaking out about my thoughts and feelings about this "Land of the Free".
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I feel betrayed....on such a deep level.....and by my own country.

“Maja! What are you doing?” his hushed voice, urgent. “You shouldn’t…”

I hissed between my teeth at him to be quiet. They would hear him.

They always hear us. They ALWAYS listen.

He became quiet and watched me. His eyes said what his lips could not.

Stop.

Please. Stop.

I could practically feel him trembling next to me, holding back the tension of the danger I was putting us both in.

My hands flew, silent, strong, and sure.....the clay took shape beneath my fingers.

Curves, dips, long smooth stretches.

It began to form. A woman, poised, graceful and still....frozen in pointe. Her arms extended up and wide, as if she were welcoming the touch of a lover. My knife quickly formed the wild tangle of hair down her back. And, with my tongue sticking out of the side of my mouth, I carefully sculpted the details of her tiny face.

The look on her face was one of ecstasy. Of freedom. Of willful abandonment.

I sat back on my heels and took a look at her. My eyes floated over the curve of her breasts and hips. I admired the length of her legs, smooth muscle holding her high. Her hands, so very small, open in supplication.

And her face.

Ahhh, her face. I could not say for certain that her expression was one of true freedom, but I imagined it was. It looked like how I felt that one winter eve that Father had gathered us all close to the fireplace and, using his finger to caution us to silence, reached into his bag and pulled out a piece of chocolate. We all got a small bit. Even Mama, sick in her bed.

That taste of the forbidden, eaten in total silence, lit only by a low fire, felt like freedom. It was a moment where we enjoyed something different. Chocolate had been outlawed for years, bad for people, made people prone to spontaneity and noise. In large amounts, it caused people to grow fat…..out of the legal societal standard. And so it became regulated and restricted. As was everything that The Council found to be outside of its collective ideas of aspirations and personal development.

You must be so. You must be as we are.

People were not encouraged to step outside of the boundaries that The Council had determined should be put into place for the good of society. And, the times before were definitely more chaotic and dangerous. In the times before, people were free to create and laugh and be spontaneous. But they were also free to hate and yell and kill.

And they did. Many died. The Wars changed everything. That was when The Council came.

When it was formed, standards were set into place. If you could not follow the legal standards, then you were sent to the reeducation facilities. People who went there came back...different.

Hollow.

We called those who returned The Soulless. We did not speak of those who did not return.

It was easier to conform. It was easier to not “be different”.

.....It was supposed to be easier.....

And then one day, while gathering wood, I stumbled across that slash in the earth. A boulder had been there for all of my life, but time and water did what they do, and it had given way. The clay beneath it was solid, moldable, and irresistible. I had dug out a handful, packed it tightly, looking around for the watchers, quickly put it in a pocket of my bag.

Then, in the still hours of the night, when not even the owl is awake, I crawled out of the loft I shared with my brother and made my way across the packed earth floor. There I sat silently, near the coals of the hearth fire, clay in hand, and began to create.

My first shapes were sloppy and ill made. My clumsy hands could not talk to the clay about the things my mind envisioned. But, over time, I learned how to warm the clay, how to bend it, how to mold it, how to gentle it to my touch.

I never kept my creations. As I felt the night shift, I would take one, lingering look at them before mashing them down, and rounding out the clay. I would then wrap it in the scrap of parchment I had found one day, blowing against a fence along the border. Then before anyone woke, I placed it back into the pocket of my gathering bag, hidden from prying eyes.

I should have known that it would never last. My secret. It was early spring, after Mama went to be with the angels, when my older brother discovered me. He had risen during the night to use the outhouse and practically stumbled over me as he returned. We both froze in terror at his exclamation of surprise, at finding me sitting near the fire.

They always hear us. They ALWAYS listen.

We waited, but the night did not change. His voice was stern and afraid, but low. He admonished me for my behavior, that I was putting the entire family in danger. I cried silently. Large round tears streaked my cheeks because I knew he was right. But, the burning to *create* was so strong, I hadn’t given thought to dangers and consequences.....only soothing the urge of my fingers to mold and sculpt.

He saw my sorrow, and my fear....and my desire. And he grew quiet. I felt his thumb cross my cheek, wiping away a tear. He shushed me and knelt close, drawing me into a hug, letting me weep silently against his chest. When I was done, he looked at me with thoughtfulness in his eyes.

“You will not be able to stop, will you, little sister?” he asked.

I shrugged. I could try....but we both knew that it was unlikely that I would succeed. We both knew what would happen, if my secret were discovered. My brother had a legal obligation to report me to The Council. But, he was my brother.

Over the next several weeks he lectured me. In hushed but angry tones, he tried to make me stop. He tried to explain why I HAD to stop. I heard what he said, but my soul had been touched by a deep emotional need.

I HAD to stop.

I HAD to create.

Soon he began to take me with him, when he would go out to check the snares. He would pack his bag with two apples, a larger bit of cheese, a half a loaf of bread....and then, looking at me with those serious deep brown eyes, he would jerk his head at the door, and I would follow him into the misty woods.

We would walk in silence, our scruffy, ill-fitted shoes falling softly on the moss and forest floor. We were so silent, we didn’t even disturb the wildlife around us. We would walk until the sun was high and it’s motes broke through the heavy trees, scattering golden rays like stained glass. At the river’s edge, we would have lunch on a large flat rock. The rapids and rush of water would help to cover our low conversations.

Every day he would ask me if I had stopped.

Every day I would shake my head.

Then he would say to me, “Show me.”

I would reach carefully into my bag and pull out the creation I had made during the night. One time it was a bear, hulking and rounded....when they have prepared for the winter hibernation. Another time it was a wolf, head tipped to the moon in song. A flower, a bird, a rabbit, a squirrel...all of them born in the light of coals, and all of them doomed to die by sun's setting.

He would take them from me, each time. He would cradle them carefully, turning them this way and that...looking at every angle, every nuance. His eyes were filled with something I couldn't name. And, after a time, he would hand the clay back to me. I would sit it on the rock between us. Then we would eat in silence, watching the water rush and tumble over the rapids.

After lunch he would lightly cuff my head and smile, always kindly, always tinged with sadness. That was my signal. Brushing crumbs off my lap, I would take the clay, warmed by the afternoon sun, and with one last look, I would begin the process of unmaking. I hated this part, I felt like I was betraying each figure I had sculpted. They had such a short life. They deserved longer, better. But I knew the rules. And the risk. So I dutifully flattened and smoothed, and erased....every day.

We moved in this circle throughout the spring and into summer. We would search the snares for prey that Father could turn into furs and sell in the village square. We knew each deep spring in the forest and each flower in the mountain fields. And every day I sculpted. There was peace in the feel of the clay. Peace and comfort.

But with comfort comes carelessness.

We were not the only ones who prowled this spot of forest and field. There were other families, also scraping out an existence as best they could. One warm summer afternoon, while laying on my back in the meadow, I thought to pull out my clay and sculpt the hawk that flew the drafts far above my head. He seemed so free, so unhindered by rules and laws, free to fly anywhere....my mind wandered the sky with him.

That was when one of the others found me. A boy, of similar age of my brother, stumbled across me in the field. At first he apologized. And then his eyes saw the clay, and my fingers, tinged with grey. My heart froze as I saw his eyes grow large with fear. He began to slowly back away, and I sat up and reached out to him....

But he shook his head and turned, running down the hill, as I called out, "Wait!". As he disappeared into the treeline, I felt my stomach plummet. This would be bad. I gathered my clay and parchment, shoved them into my bag, and ran for the forest and home.

When I arrived, my brother was in front of the cabin. He had been looking into the forest, looking for me. I burst out into our yard, out of breath, a stitch in my side. My brother immediately grabbed me by the arm and dragged me into the house.

"Maja, where have you been?!? There is talk" he said, low and angry. "They have called The Council."

My heart stopped.

"They will be coming soon. Father is still on his trip. You have to hide."

I started trembling. This was bad. This was beyond bad. This was the worst that could happen. They would take me to the reeducation center. I would come back Hollow. Soulless.

If I returned at all.

I stood frozen in fear as my brother began to gather items around our meager cabin. A blanket, some food, clothing. He stuffed it into his bag hurriedly. When he was done, he turned to me, his face like stone.....but his eyes....his eyes had that emotion that I could not name.

He shoved the bag into my hands and took mine from me. "Go!", he ordered. "Go deep into the woods. The closest village is 3 days, west. You must go!"

He took me by the shoulders and shoved me out the door. I stumbled on the threshold. I tried to turn to him, but he was taller and stronger than I was. He continued to move me forward, towards the forest. I was vaguely aware that I was crying. With a final shove, he pushed me into the shadows. I stopped and turned to him, my mouth open...but no words would come.

"Go", he said softly, "And Maja....never stop. Do you understand? Never. Stop."

With a sob I spun away and ran. I ran deep into the woods, farther I think, than I had ever explored. Eventually, exhaustion and fear caught up with me and I collapsed into the leaves and moss. I sobbed my fear and anger into the earth. I clutched at the dirt, fingers clawing trails in the mud. Fists pounding against the soil in futile anger.

Finally, my sobs became soft hiccups and gasps. I lay there, smelling the deep wet smell of earth, and prayed for death to take me. Silent tears fell across my cheeks, leaving dirt stained trails. That was when I heard, far off into the distance, the noise.

It was a wailing noise. High pitched and painful. I sat up quickly, fear clutching my heart, and looked around. It seemed to be coming from the direction I had run. From my home. I suddenly couldn't breathe.

I forced myself up off of the ground. My legs were rubbery and pained from the exertion. I was covered in dirt and leaf litter. I felt the sting of a scrape across my check. I must have caught a low hanging branch. I never felt it.

Slowly I began to creep forward. I could see a ledge ahead, a small jut of earth, overlooking the homesteads. I belly crawled under the ferns to the edge. And I looked out.

Lights. A vehicle with flashing lights of red was parked in the center of our small community. The lights were dancing across the walls of the cabins. They bounced and rotated around the open center of our dwellings. I could make out several large figures, in dark grey, going into every cabin and pushing the families into the center of the cabins. I could see the mothers clutching their children. I could see the bowed heads of the men, hands clasped in front of them.

My breathing began to pick up. The air crackled with tension. Finally, I saw what I had dreaded. A pair of the men in grey came out of my cabin. They each had an arm of my older brother. One carried a bag. They dragged him to a man who stood with two guards and threw him to the ground. The one with the bag held it out to the leader. He took it, reached in, and withdrew a small round object.

I knew immediately what it was.

The leader turned around, holding my clay high in his gloved hand, showing it to the people who were gathered. I could not hear his words from where I lay, but I knew what he was saying. He was telling them that my brother had been caught with unauthorized material. That he had not been authorized to create Council approved art, and yet, he flaunted the rules by having clay to sculpt.

I knew the words by heart. We all did. We were raised on them like milk from a mother.

"You will not defy The Council. You will follow the rules and laws of The Council. Peace comes through obedience. Defiance will not be tolerated."

With that he gestured to the guards who hauled my brother to his feet. They dragged him to the rear of the vehicle and opened the doors. My brother began to struggle, but I knew it was in vain. My tears flowed like the river we would sit at for lunch. For a moment, I held my breath as he jerked free from his captors and ran a few steps away. He put his hands to his mouth and yelled.

"NEVER! STOP! DO YOU HEAR ME? NEVER! STOP!"

That was the moment the flame of resistance was kindled in my heart.

This week's topic is about "That One Friend". And I've been having a devil of a time thinking about it.

I have friends who are very dear to me. I have a group of women who are my chosen sisters. Women I know I can rely on for anything. Women who I could tell you hours of stories about.

But, they didn't fit this topic, in my mind.

I couldn't decide which of my friends was *The One*.

And then, sitting in the parking lot of the local University....waiting on my husband to talk with his Advisor, and register for Spring Semester....I had a thought....

And I'm afraid. Afraid because I don't know where it's going. Afraid it might go down forbidden paths.

~*~

For some random reason, I started thinking about my childhood in Panama. I used to dream. I used to have horrible dreams. Don't get me wrong, I still occasionally have nightmares...but those are your standard, run of the mill nightmares.

I used to have NIGHTMARES. I would wake up, screaming in terror, fighting invisible demons, trying desperately to get away.

My husband would take the blows. He would call my name, remind me where I was. Chase away the demon.

That unmentionable demon that used to stalk my dreams as a teenager. Even as he stalked me as a child. 

I recall, one summer's memories....

I had a blood sister. We swore sisterhood over summer scrapes and vending machine cokes. The deepest of bonds. We knew it was meant to be, with the complete confidence of children. After all, we shared the same first name....Tamara.

We loved the same things.

We went everywhere together. 

Summers in Panama and two little girls. Playing Cat's cradle and eating fresh bananas from the tree. My pet rabbit. Going to the movies. Lemonade stands.

Horses.

Oh my God....our love for horses.

I had every Black Stallion book written, in hardback no less. Rainy days we'd hide in my room and read, loosing ourselves into the world of races and far away deserts. On sunny days, She *rode* the Black and I *rode* a horse named Ghost. 

Holding our reins tightly we would ride all over the base, across the golf course and parks. Our trusty steeds would carry us from the housing unit to the Quadrangle for cokes from the Shopette. It didn't matter that we were mounted on ten speeds. Or, some days, only our own imaginations.

I can smell the grass, impossibly green, under our sneakers. We flew down to the Shopette for a candy bar and a soda. One day there was a local selling flowers on base. He had a horse. A real one. Suddenly we were focused. We bugged that poor man until he lifted us up and led us around in a circle a few times. We were in heaven.

When he left, we turned to each other and our make believe horses grew wings. They could travel faster than the sun and we touched clouds. I remember we collapsed on a sunny hill, laughing until we ached. 

We loved listening to Michael Jackson, En Vouge, New Kids On The Block, and were in love with Tom Selleck. Magnum P.I. was a doll.

With her brother and mine, we'd take my dog out and run wild. We'd gone native that summer. If it wasn't for the blonde hair and blue eyes, no one would have known the difference. 

She was *That One Friend*.

~*~

My parents and I saw ships, traveling from lands I'd only read about. We saw them tower over us as they went through the Panama Canal. Nothing could be bigger. Diving down to grab shells from the sand. The tight feeling of salt on the skin as we dozed in the car, on the way back from the beach. All worn out.

I can still remember the smell of the jungle, steaming in the dawn. The rain, coming down in torrents on the tin roof. The grinding of the swamp cooler. The parrot wake up call, outside my window every morning.

I remember spending the night at her house one weekend. I remember her Mother.

And her Mother's boyfriend.

I remember being confused. And scared of everything. I couldn't go to school. Blood in the water attracted the sharks. I wonder now how much of it was my own mind, fighting to grasp this new information. It seemed as though everyone was out to get me. I was out to get myself.

I remember my parents trying to figure out what was wrong. Something inside me couldn't speak and for years I was the odd child. Always sick. Never in school. No close friends. Even after moving back to the US. I still hear the double locking doors close behind my parents as they left me in the care of the nurses at the psychiatric hospital.

Clinical depression, and in one so young.

My doctor, one day, told me that if I didn't straighten out, he was going to send me away for a very long time. Then he stepped towards me.

The staff took that formerly calm girl, turned tiger, and carried her away kicking and screaming trying to claw out His face. The chair that girl threw missed Him by inches. The angry teenager wouldn't allow the frightened child to be harmed again.

For a very long time I suffered from panic attacks. Paralyzing fear and then blackness descending. School was a nightmare. Public outings were the deepest pits of hell.

8 years of therapy. 8 years of learning to control my mind. My friends would ask my parents why I was the way I was. They told a few close people, who I was often in the company of. If she starts hyperventilating and passes out, don't panic.

Just catch her and wait.

I remember going through life not caring. Lost in my own little world. I found friends, and occasionally lovers. But never totally did I let them in. Even if they talked with my parents, they never heard it from me.

At some point, my mind cleared. I distinctly recall this as an actual event. I literally woke up one morning and had enough. From that day on, I learned the fine art of control. I still had my defenses, but I was more honest with myself than I ever had been.

The change was noticeable. I began to work. I went to college. I made friends and I stayed out late, and overnight at other people's houses. 

She wrote me once, out of the blue....and I didn't write back. I used the excuse that I was too busy....school, work, life.....

But, in reality, I was afraid. Afraid of dredging up those memories again.

Today, I regret not writing her back. And I would do almost anything to find her again.

~*~

But I think things changed in 1993, when I met him. Finally, I had someone with me, someone who gave me a feeling of security and strength. No matter how bad the dream, or long the panic attack, he never left. He would catch my fists and hold me down. He would count the time until I started breathing again on my own. He would take my pulse and stroke my hair until I calmed and fell asleep.

He was strong and allowed me to be weak. He stood by me and waited until I got control. And look at how I got control. I was a changed person. I was confident. I was strong. I was independent. I walked in power. I still had dreams, but they faded. I still had panic attacks, but they faded as well. Together we faced the last remaining ones and weathered the small storms.

In June of 2000, we stood on the shore of a lake in Oklahoma, surrounded by our chosen family, and we promised to always be each others strength, during those weak moments.

He was *That One Friend*.

He still is.

I still remember the friends who have passed in and out of my life. I think loving thoughts of those friends I call *Family*. I remember those wild innocent summers with my best friend.

But today, I have *That One Friend*, that I know I can count on, that I can lean on, that will support and love me, no matter what.

And I think I am the luckiest woman in the world.

So......

I think I'm going to join LJ Idol again.....

Ever have so many feels that you can't format the words to get them out?

I do. I need to tell a couple of someones Thank You......but there is so much more than just "Thanks".

The flesh can be satisfied by the moment. The hearts can be unified by melting moments together. But for the souls to collide....

What is your favorite color?
What are you afraid of?
What's your favorite book?
What's your favorite movie?
What's your favorite song?
What are you afraid of?
What do you want from me?
What do you need from me?
What can you give me?
What are you most proud of?
What are you most ashamed of?
What do you love about your body?
What do you hate about your body?
What do you sing in the shower?
What makes you cum?
What makes you wet?
What turns you off?
What makes you laugh?
What makes you cry?
What kind of ice cream do you like?
What's your favorite drink?
What is your hottest fantasy?
What's your favorite childhood memory?
What are your dreams?
What are you afraid of?
What are you afraid of?

What?

The "Copernican principle"—when you get past the solar system aspect, essentially says we are not the center of the universe, but a part of a larger whole. As far as each of us is concerned, each individual is positioned at the center of his or her own universe.

I was the center of my universe and favored by the Gods, until 11:50AM on November 3rd, 2014. That was when they placed the shiny metal handcuffs around my wrists and put me in the backseat of the police cruiser. Arresting me for having some unpaid tickets that had gone to warrant.

It was then that the realization hit me that I was far smaller than the rest of the cosmos.

It was here, at that moment in time, that I realized that my self-centered universe was false and crumbling fast.

The police cruiser took me to the center of town, to the county lockup. I was assisted from the backseat and placed in a chair. A woman in scrubs, armed with a clipboard, began to ask me questions.

Do you take any medications?

Do you have any health issues?

Have you been depressed in the past year?

I think I answered them satisfactorily....but I couldn't tell you what I said. The roar of a thousand oceans filled my ears and my vision had narrowed to pinpoints. Over and over, like a twisted mantra in my head, was a long drawn out scream. I was afraid to voice it, for fear it would begin and last forever.

They took my watch, my necklace, my shoes, and my hair tie. I was patted down, just like they show in the movies. My movements felt stiff and robotic. I responded to commands, but could only give one word answers to questions. The scream threatening to escape from behind my locked jaws.

My universe was a creation of my own mind. I'm not saying I was self-centered in the sense that I was preoccupied with myself or was self absorbed, but my view of the totality of existence was composed of my own thoughts and feelings. The outside world was just that. Something outside myself and perceived as something separate.

I was placed in a windowless room, behind a thick steel door. I believe the normal term is the holding tank. I stood against one wall, stiff and inflexible. The other two ladies in the cell offered to make room for me on the single bench seat, but I declined, afraid that if I bent, even enough to sit, I might snap in half and fall apart.

I stood there for two hours. Shifting my stance slightly, but never relaxing. Outside, in another cell, we could hear a man screaming and banging on the door. Most likely he was high on something illegal, but I could feel myself...so close to that insanity that I felt I might join him.

After about an hour and a half, a Deputy came and took me out. He took me to the fingerprinting room, took my picture and my prints, and explained that I would shortly be released, as my Father was there to pay my fine. My level of relief and gratitude at that point could not be measured.

After about two hours in the holding tank, I was processed and released. But I knew that the woman who left for college that morning was fundamentally changed forever, and that the woman who walked out of the county lockup facility was somewhat more wounded and scarred by loss of her world view.

And if that wasn't enough of a message from the Fates, God, or the Universe at large, 2 days later, I lost my job.

My universe has been ripped from me, leaving jagged gouges where once were smooth plains. I feel as though I've been strip mined by Fate. My forests slashed and burned, my seas littered with the garbage I refused to acknowledge floated around me.

The scream still threatens to escape me. Even though that most terrifying part of my life is now behind me. The scream is the physical manifestation of the awareness that I can no longer walk in surety of my own God-like status.

And yet, despite this, I do not have cause for despair. We humans are, as far as we know, the only species that can actually recognize its place in the universe. The bigger universe that surrounds us. And make changes within ourselves that affect that universe.

The paradox of the Copernican Principle is that, by properly understanding our place, even when that knowledge comes at such high costs, we can only then truly understand our surroundings.

And by being able to do that, we.....rather I.....can make changes to my world.