The Importance of Hope

I don’t feel like I’ve been depressed lately - and certainly, you’d think I’d be able to tell whether I am or am not feeling down. I dealt with depression a lot as a teenager, enough at least that a certain cycle become very recognizable to me, and I would know a few days ahead of time if I was falling into a serious funk.

The world would lose it’s shine, first off. Just small things, like food - even food I really like - not tasting right, mostly sort of ’blah’ or just not good. I’d retreat without realizing it from activities that I love, like listening to music, reading, creating art. My body would ache, I’d maybe feel like I had the flu, and then for several days - maybe weeks or months - I’d feel terrible. As though there was no point in going on.

Obviously, I made it through those years - I’m here now, after all. 

With that in mind, I’d like to believe I’d be able to tell the difference between what’s just kind of a ‘blah’ feeling and genuine depression: but here I am, questioning just what it is that’s making me view the world so cynically these days.

In some ways, I feel sort of like maybe I’ve fallen unexpectedly into a fugue, the likes of which I haven’t seen since the days when I still kept half my most used things in a backpack that weighed more than most small children, and a metal locker in a hallway with hundreds of others just like it. Though the past year has been one of mostly peace and self-exploration, I’m become so nervous about the whole world, politics, and people in general. The more I learn about the world around me, the less certain I am that it’s a world worth living in overall. Still, something won’t let me give up on it.

Excuse the analogy, but I guess it’s because I’m sort of like a domestic rat.

Apocalypse Prophecies

We humans have some sort of weird obsession with the End of the World. Not just now, but always.  

D'OH

If Family Radio (and their supporters) have it right, it may come at the end of this month. According to others, sometime next year. If you’ve looked around a bit, you’ll know it wouldn’t be the first time in the history of mankind that people have looked at some old books or up at the sky and decided, “Well, this is it! Time to stop planning for the future, because there isn’t one.”

While listening to NPR the other night, I heard a couple who believe in the May 21st date speaking about what they’ve been doing since they believe that the end of the world, or at least the beginning of the end, is coming in just over a week: and everyone who is a truly faithful Christian will be lifted up to heaven. They have budgeted everything so that by the time the 21st rolls around, they will have absolutely nothing left in their savings. The wife (or at least girlfriend, I wasn’t sure from just listening) commented at one point that they have a baby daughter. I admire their faith and resolve, but I was somewhat aghast at the fact that they hadn’t decided to leave just a little money - just in case - because the idea that the world will end on the 21st wasn’t exactly divinely issued.

A chip off the block in the road

As wonderful as my spiritual journey has been so far, it hasn’t all been rainbows and metaphorical unicorns.

Lately, night after night, I find myself sitting up until the sun rises. Two, three days go by before I give in and lay down, close my eyes, and pass into black sleep and wake feeling sluggish and worse off than I did before.

It’s the dreams.

I can’t remember most of what happens in them, but I know this - it’s almost always my father.


Hit the jump if you want to read more - but be forewarned that this is a seriously ‘downer’ post.

Assumptions make an awkward situation for you and me

We didn't have as many crosses as this, but you get the idea.

A few years ago - maybe as few as two - had I walked into a home and realized that I was in a pagan household, I would have expressed mild interest. Much further back and I might have felt a certain degree of discomfort.

My mother‘s enthusiastic discovery of Jesus Christ around 2003 meant I lived in a very Christian flavored home. Bible verses on banners and in frames, a cross in every room, a small ceramic bust of Jesus above the TV, etc. Christian pop and choir sung hymnals played all through the lit hours of the day, and some hours of the night. There was a time when I would get yelled at for wearing ’boy’ shirts or basketball shorts - after all, women aren’t supposed to wear men’s clothing, according to scripture. Living in such an environment (and having grown up attending my grandmother‘s church), it shouldn’t come as a huge surprise that I just accepted Christianity as a belief and a part of my life.

Though I had friends in high school who talked about being witches or Wiccans, I don’t know how serious they were about it then and didn’t really take it seriously. Kids in black nail polish and bondage pants came off as less youth-seeking-spirituality and more teens-rebelling-against-the-norm.

Sorry guys, but this look just doesn't scream 'seeking a deeper spiritual truth' to me.

Though I might have worried vaguely about their immortal souls at the time, I didn’t (and still don’t) believe in forcing my own beliefs on any else.

These days, now that I’m exploring a pagan path, however, I recently found myself in a very awkward feeling situation.

Sour Dreams

Anyone who’s been following along so far would know that, based on my past posts regarding Symbolism, Dream Guides and spiritual direction, that I hold dreams in pretty high regard. Even if dreams are just the result of the mind spitting out random images and ideas, I believe very strongly that they provide a window into the subconscious and the things that worry - or delight us - the most.

A month or two back, I was plagued by stressful dreams about my father, and life in general. I chased them off by hanging up a dream catcher near my bed, and putting a special gris-gris near my sleeping area, with carefully selected items inside to - if the intent was correct - redirect any bad dreams so that if they didn’t hit the dream catcher, they still wouldn’t get to me.

For a while, this seemed to work. If one were to believe the idea that Dreams come from outside the body or mind, and were the result of spiritual or magical influence, these measures made sense. And as I’ve said before, if they can affect my subconscious and give me calm, then I don’t care whether or not they’re magic.

But what if the cause of the dreams is completely internal? Magic or not, if I’m setting up things to keep out bad influences and ignoring the cause of stress carried in my own subconscious, then I’m not going to be very effective.

I’m bringing this all up because, much to my annoyance and loss of rest, the stressful dreams have returned with a vengeance.