Attempting to Serve as a Healing Hand of God (Warrior Poet Mental Yoga 183)

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From an involved surgery from last week.

Balancing life in your hands, knowing exactly how delicate, remarkable, and interdependent, such a force happens to be, is grace, a blessing, and also a curse to those with a comprehensive awareness of the responsibility of their involvement and intervention when attempting to serve as a healing hand of God.

Are you good enough? Are you deceiving yourself in your own perceptions and/or your own capability? Are you being too meticulous and tedious or perhaps, not enough? Can the fear of failure or mistake be kept at respectful bay? And in the end, no matter the reality and the truth, will you be judged an unquestionable hero or incompetent charlatan by those in the periphery of the act? Is it enough or too much to be the only one who might know the truth either way?

It is a supreme honor to be sincerely entrusted with such responsibility and faith. It touches my soul and lifts me up more than you know. I hate to fail a patient, a client. . .and even myself, but nothing is ever guaranteed, no matter the intent and no matter the skill. This is the burden that weighs upon the true healers and that you might not ever see. These are the thoughts that linger and dwell throughout their daily lives, in between their every breath. These are the demons they (we) must fight alone, for themselves (ourselves) as much as for what we may do for you and yours.

This surgery actually went as well as it possibly could have and the patient is recovering in good fashion, but he will be on my mind day and night, 24/7, for the next 11 days, that is until he has passed out of the real post-op risk period. I’m hoping for my hospital, my staff, and myself, that once again we will all be heroes. . .for Sampson and his mommy.

Wish us all luck if you will.

Dr. Cribb

The Paradigm Shift Required to Challenge Instability and Suffering, and the Most Convenient Way we Avoid It’s Recognition (Warrior Poet Mental Yoga 168)

The act of visceral behavior and the fact of objective reality, intertwined as they are, serve as the primary auto-corrective forces in natural law and natural order to challenge the madness and instability of the human psyche which is brought about and fostered perpetually by delusional perceptions and techniques of chosen distraction (both of which most often manifest subconsciously and are cloaked in the awareness of the sufferer).

Inducing the sufferer’s engagement in objective reality and acknowledgement of the visceral behavior of all entities of relevance for any given dynamic is essential in the act of helping that suffering soul chose to extract themselves from their madness. That is the point of the epiphany or the paradigm shift required for their exorcism of their inhabiting demon and their resulting salvation. There is no other way.

The victim or sufferer unfortunately believes quite vehemently that they are accurately perceiving, as well as acting upon, reality. The suffering psyche is blind and refuses to even attempt to extend its awareness outside of its “norm” which is in reality a constructed pseudo-norm of isolated subjective bias, utilized (sometimes extremely selectively) to perpetuate a previously accepted standard of existence (suffering, hopelessness, fear in whatever form) for itself. The victim or sufferer implements this bias or self-destabilization out of their own volition, yet will deny any such suggestion, hint, or postulation, and instead will obsessively focus upon an excuse or a number of conveniently revolving excuses to justify and explain the torture and suffering it perpetually endures. A fear of moving forward and out of a “traumatic” past is at the heart of the matter. It is a survival mechanism glitch of the psyche, half trapped in the past, and half trying to believe in the possibility of experiencing a different future, but scared to death to believe in anything more than the “reality” of their past.

I believe what most often and effectively enables these victims and sufferers to disregard these auto-corrective forces of natural order, healing, and hope, is none other than the human language and our ability to talk our thoughts and ourselves away from our other senses and away from (our) actual behavior. Our oratory often becomes a verbal marker for fostering belief in our own delusion, sadly selling ourselves on our words instead of choosing to quietly focus upon the acts of listening and sensing; of silent perception and undistracted contemplation.

Cribb          2017

The Inheritance of All Healers (Warrior Poet Mental Yoga 156)

“One time,” said Castle, “when I was about fifteen, there was a mutiny near here on a Greek ship bound from Hong Kong to Havana with a load of wicker furniture. the mutineers got control of the ship, didn’t know how to run her, and smashed her up on the rocks near “Papa”Monzano’s castle. Everybody drowned but the rats. The rats and the wicker furniture came ashore.”

That seemed the end of the story, but I couldn’t be sure. “So?”

“So some people got free furniture, and some people got bubonic plague. At Father’s hospital, we had fourteen hundred deaths inside of ten days. Have you ever seen anyone die of bubonic plague?”

“That unhappiness has not bee mine.”

“The lymph glands in the groin and the armpits swell to the size of grapefruit.”

“I can well believe it.”

“After death, the body turns black—coals to Newcastle in the case of San Lorenzo. When the plague was having everything its own way, the House of Hope and Mercy in the Jungle looked like Auschwitz or Buchenwald. We had stacks of dead so deep and wide that a bulldozer actually stalled trying to shove them toward a common grave. Father worked without sleep for days, worked not only without sleep but without saving many lives, either.”

“Well, finish your story anyway.”

“Where was I?”

“The bubonic plague. The bulldozer was stalled by corpses.”

“Oh, yes. Anyway, one sleepless night I stayed up with Father while he worked. It was all we could do to find a live patient to treat. In bed after bed after bed we found dead people.

And Father started giggling,” Castle continued.

“He couldn’t stop. He walked out into the night with his flashlight. He was still giggling. He was making the flashlight beam dance over all the dead people stacked outside. He put his hand on my head, and do you know what that marvelous man said to me?” asked Castle.

“Nope.”

“‘Son,’ my father said to me, ‘someday this will all be yours.'”

Cat’s Cradle

Kurt Vonnegut          1963