Sin Duda

Before we moved to New Mexico, we went on a scouting expedition: explorers entering a foreign land to determine if it could actually sustain life. That’s an exaggeration. For us, in any case. What isn’t is the mysterious nature of the high desert to people who grew up at sea level with their toes blue from soaking in the Pacific Ocean.

We camped at Water Canyon, which is 6800 feet elevation at the trailhead. In this unfamiliar land, in the dark of night, we heard the clanging of trash bin lids, a sound we recognized from our Oregon camping life. While it’s possible human vagrants enjoy banging cans in the middle of the night as they search for scraps of food, it’s more likely to be bears. And judging by the signs around the camp that warned against the beasts, bears were most likely responsible.

First the bears found us, and then it started raining. Although we’ve since learned that water in Water Canyon is a rare phenomenon, it fooled us on that first visit because it rained so hard we thought we might be washed down the gully — and make no mistake, this happens. When it rains in New Mexico, it pours. It floods.

To be honest, rain is also a familiar sound to Oregonians. The desert operates in extremes, though. It operates in high highs and low lows, in emptiness followed by arroyos clogged by floods that rip out shrubs and break away the dry wood. And so a new cycle in our lives ensued, heralded by floods and bears and the birth of a new child. She was born in the rain of New Mexico, before the high desert gave way to its other extremes.

In Oregon, I swam in the ocean. I swam in great rivers. As a child, I nearly drowned in an Oregon lake because I didn’t have the stamina to swim to shore — and that was one of the smaller bodies of water. Water disappearing was not part of my childhood. In fact, it was rather the opposite. The water was so everpresent in Oregon that it fully saturated my head. But here in New Mexico, I experienced extreme dryness for the first time.

Bears hibernate and then lumber awake, and they are fierce and hungry and full of aching life, banging on trash cans to find it. Desert waterways are the same. They are conceptually like bears — symbols of constant rebirth. While the droughts last, the Rio Grande dies completely in places; in others, it lingers, but only as peaceful rivulets etching out waving patterns in the sand. But when the rains come — and I mean really come! — the Rio Grande turns into a wild river that spreads over its banks, fierce and hungry and full of aching life. It becomes a rio salvaje.

These cycles in life are normal, but they are writ large in the consciousness of New Mexicans who must live through the droughts before the rains will come. After living here for twenty years, I’ve come to see my life as a series of droughts and floods. I, too, operate in extremes in work and sleep. Since moving away from the River Valley three years ago, I’ve been in a perpetual drought. At least it has felt that way. I haven’t been creative or intellectual or offered anything of value to the world. I’ve been in a desolate wasteland. A drought before storms.

But lately…lately, I’ve been picturing my many projects and variant skillsets like the valley of dry bones in Ezekiel. In Ezekiel’s vision, God connected the disparate bones together, ball into appropriate socket. The bones took on flesh, and God breathed life into them just as he had done to Adam. In fact, this ghostly vision of dry bones rising up has haunted my mind for months. Then the reality of the vision hit me: God was going to renew his people. It was a promise he made through the prophets. By extension, God promises to save us through Jesus breathing new life into our dry bones. But through Jesus, the cycle was completed. There would no longer need to be droughts followed by floods; no more hibernation followed by the intense hunger of awakening. I should have already known this, but there is a difference between knowing something and accepting it as truth in the core of being.

The spirit of God is a deluge, but like the River Valley, his great river has been diverted into arroyos, watering the crops that have sustained the people for centuries. In the yearly cycles of the Rio Grande, the diverted flood waters have led to the harvests of fall. And that’s where they’ve led me. Not to a time of rebirth, reawakening, or an opening of the flood waters, because that already happened. On a micro level, seasons still occur in our spiritual walk with God, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the once-for-all renewal that planted a seed that has already sprouted and grown continually in the direction of the light. That harvest, watered by the spirit, is now ready to be brought in.

It strikes me that I have friends who are also entering their time of harvest, but they, too, sense instead that they’re in drought, that the fruits they’ve labored to produce have died on the vine before bringing anything to the world. Or they sense the harvest passed them by, leaving their fruit to rot. But this is not true. The Bible promises it is not true, in numerous passages. In Psalms: “The Lord will fulfill his purpose for me; your steadfast love, O Lord, endures forever.” In Philipians: “And I am sure of this, that he who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ.” In Psalms again: “He [whose delight is in the law of God] is like a tree planted by streams of water that yields its fruit in its season, and its leaf does not wither. In all that he does, he prospers.” In Jeremiah: “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”

The time of harvest is, in a sense, also a foreign land, but not a place I can scout out ahead of time to get a lay of the land. I have a sense of the harvest, anyway. I have a sense from reading about the harvests of saints who’ve gone before me. I can sense it in other ways, too. And it’s good. The work to bring it in may be difficult, but the fruit is there because the harder work, the initial work, happened a long time ago.

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A Vision of Life

¿No estoy yo aquí que soy tu madre?

Our Lady of Guadalupe is an image you will find all over the SW. In that sense, she has been near me ever since moving to New Mexico. At Mass on Sunday, the priest, who is Polish — as in, from Poland, not born in America — spoke of the Our Lady of Guadalupe on Sunday. That’s the reach this particular Marian vision has had; she’s connected to the giving of life here and abroad.

Nevertheless, she uniquely belongs to Mexican identity, dating from the 16th C when the native Mexican peasant, Juan Diego, experienced four visions of her. She spoke to him in the Nahuatl language of his people, and identified herself as Mary the mother of Jesus. Her message to him was simple: build a shrine at the location of the first vision. Further visions were necessary because the local bishop didn’t believe Juan’s story — the last vision of which was stamped on Juan’s cloak. The image on the cloak has become the template for the Our Lady of Guadalupe we see depicted today: pregnant with head bowed, indicating she wasn’t the goddess Juan’s people revered, but a worshiper of God and a bearer of the Christ child.

Mexico’s history of Christianity isn’t perfect by any measure. The Spaniards conquered and colonized a land belonging to others. At the same time, they were Catholics, following a religion that was intermixed with their monarchical government. So the results of the Spanish-Catholic mission was mixed at best — mixed up with military power and greed. Hence, the vast spread of the gospel was brought to the native Mexicans, not through the domineering Spanish-Catholic government, but through a native son and his humble vision of a maiden. And through this vision, the practice of human sacrifice was eventually eradicated from the land of Mexico.

Make no mistake: the Aztecs weren’t a simply a peaceful nation overtaken by the brutal Spanish. They were themselves a brutal people, both as a military force and in their practice of regular human sacrifice. In some estimations (scholarly estimations differ), they were sacrificing 20% of their population. The gods they worshiped were cults of death. This is why Our Lady of Guadalupe is associated with a life-giving message. The visions of her subverted the death and destruction of both worlds, Aztec and Spanish, and brought peace among the nativos, criollos, and mestizos.

I found myself thinking of St. Patrick of Ireland — my native culture, somewhere back there — when the priest spoke of Juan Diego and his visions. In both cases, Christianity was already present to some extent in these lands of pagan worship; yet, in both cases, these men are credited with the wide-spread belief in Christianity. In addition, they have both become the very identity of their respective nations, albeit Juan Diego’s vision is larger than he is. And, in both cases, legends have sprung up around them, such that it’s difficult to determine what is factual and what is mythical about their stories.

Apart from these obvious similarities, I recognize a twin soul in Mexico and Ireland. The term soul is slippery in this context. What do I mean exactly? I don’t know, but the San Patricios recognized it when they defected from the United States and joined the Mexicanos during the Mexican War. Although there are a number of theories as to why these men defected, simply put, the soul here is most likely that of Catholicism. Those heady days when Catholicism was used for political purposes had given way to Protestantism’s unholy marriage with the state. This marriage caused suffering in Ireland, and was now encroaching on the Mexican border.

On a more spiritual note, like other Catholic nations, Ireland has had its share of Marian visions. A mother is very important to the human soul and apparently very important to the Catholic soul. In essence, it’s related to the very idea of a motherland, something which many Irish have lost, and which the Aztecs were busy losing in the days of Spanish conquest. A mother brings forth life that leads to connections among humans, just as the earth brings forth food that binds a society together. However, in worshiping a goddess, the people are worshipping something they long for but don’t understand: a culture of life. Ultimately, the life people long for is the Christ child, and this is why Mary is the ultimate woman. She isn’t a goddess, but a bearer of God.

More specifically, I see these two nations as clinging to a culture of life through their religious faith and being attacked at the very heart of that culture of life. Their strength becomes their weakness. Mexico is in the grip of violence, as Ireland has been for centuries.* That’s what my mind was reaching for when I suddenly thought of St. Patrick while listening to a homily on Our Lady of Guadalupe. That’s always what my mind reaches for, in every story I write, and the manner in which I live. I’m reaching for a culture of life and having to fight against the inevitable attacks from the culture of death that surrounds me.

It’s my prayer today and always that the culture of life wins. Of course it wins. What would the gospel mean if death prevailed instead of life? Yet, it’s up to us as humans to be bearers of that life that Jesus gave us. That’s the great commission from beginning to end: be fruitful and multiply, bringing the gospel to all nations just as Mary brought forth Jesus.

*There are some ironies that have occurred in Ireland since the settling of peace in the 1990s, but it’s beyond the scope of this post to go into that. Human societies and their evolution–>devolution processes are consistent and ironic at the same time.

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Roswell Journals: a history and imagined future

As I’m writing my first (perhaps only) Roswell alien tale, I’ve been thinking about the history of this town. The character of the town was subsumed by aliens, at least to the outside world. When living here, you get used to seeing green alien statues around town, but the aliens are just a façade. It isn’t the town’s true history.

I’m thinking about this because I’m imagining what the town would be like in a post-alien reality. That is, if UFO sightings have become commonplace around the world, international travel to this small New Mexico town would largely cease. It might still be a pilgrimage site for alien researchers, but the novelty would have worn off, especially given the context. In my book, the aliens have spread a virus which is curbed through a series of inoculations. The setting is a post-inoculation world, where most of the population has been successfully treated for the virus. Those who haven’t responded well to the inoculations still have extant viral side effects, mostly madness.

For the record, this is not meant to be a post-apocalyptic tale. My previous book, The Minäverse, isn’t really post-apocalyptic, either; it’s rather a picture of future consequences given trends in human behavior, the economy, and robotics. Post-apocalyptic story societies, on the other hand, are ones that have been utterly destroyed and are at the point where human extinction is inevitable if people don’t have the wherewithal to band together and start anew. Of course, warring factions rise up because of the power vacuums, thereby creating story tension. Calling The Minäverse a post-apocalyptic tale is, therefore, exaggeration, as none of the above exists in its near-future Albuquerque world. This is a bit of a digression, but it makes a necessary point. One reviewer criticized The Minäverse for life merely going on in a “dystopian” society, thereby normalizing it. But the society isn’t dystopian any more than it is post-apocalyptic, and that’s what life does — it goes on for better or worse in sometimes less than optimal circumstances, such as an economic recession.

Likewise, my current book is a vision of future consequences given trends in human behavior, economics, and alien visitation. The alien virus was a plague that killed and sickened a lot of people, but it wasn’t that different from, say, the Spanish Flu. It didn’t cause world-wide collapse of infrastructure. However, being that aliens have not only become commonplace, but that the world has obviously soured on them (being sick isn’t all that intriguing), much of the infrastructure has changed for Roswell, NM. It’s reverted back to its original economy: agriculture.

Roswell, you see, was originally at a crossroads where cattle would come to be watered at the springs. It was a cattle town. Later, a large aquifer was discovered when a local resident drilled a well in his backyard, which led the way to an increase in agriculture. Now, the town is known for growing pecans, alfalfa, pumpkins, and corn. Not to mention the continued running of cattle. Even after the Lincoln County war, the town subsisted as a place for ranches and dairies. To this day, when you sit at the Starbucks, you can hear the cattle lowing. And the local cheese factory is one of the biggest local job providers.

Stripped of aliens and international tourism, that’s what you have here. Yes, like most of New Mexico, the military and science/tech have long had a presence; in fact, it was probably a combination of these elements that led to the original 1947 UFO crash. But the military base is now a community college. And it isn’t a stretch to believe that the aircraft company currently in operation could just as easily remove itself to a state offering something better. Also, oil — at some point, somebody will get the local oilfields shut down.

So that’s how I imagine the Roswell of the future: a town kept going by the making of cheese and the tending of nut groves. It’s a sleepy town — the Roswell Bubble, I call it — in a future world that exists in a curious state of peace. But while no apocalypse has occurred, and neither has the society become fully dystopian, the humans who continue living in normalcy don’t have a clue who is really in charge and what those entities want. It’s easy for them to ignore the stories that don’t add up because life is normal. When you go to work and return home daily to eat a nice dinner with your family, you forget the undercurrent of “something not quite right.”

Remove the cute façade of aliens in Roswell and your adequate night out dining (despite the tourism, there are no good restaurants here*), and the history might unsettle you, too, if you think about it long enough. After all, it does have a “true” history. But don’t worry too much; eat your steak and swig your beer. The sun still shines, and the sky outside in the “Bubble” is still delightfully blue.

*Some of them are adequate restaurants, but nothing rises to fine dining, unless you consider Red Lobster to be fine dining. That’s the best restaurant experience I’ve had in town.

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Truth: What Is It?

I’m writing this as a warm-up piece, don’t know when I’ll actually post it. It might ramble a little.

*****

I’m at an action scene in my book, which takes a lot of energy to write. For the unaware, writing can be incredibly exhausting. It’s like exercise, though. It’s good for you, and once you’ve done your “workout” for the day, you’re a lot happier and at peace with yourself.

I started taking a class on Wednesday nights, a church “midweek refresher” kind of thing. For those who’ve known me for a long time, you know that I eschewed Bible studies years ago. I know you know because I got a lot of pushback on my position, which I still hold to. Lifelong Christians spend their childhoods learning scripture in Sunday school and church, only to graduate to adult Bible studies post high school. In these adult Bible studies, they sit and argue over the meanings of passages and terms; some of the hardcore debaters bring their Strongs’ and transliterations. There’s nothing wrong with that, except that wrangling over words in Bible studies has become synonymous with being a (caveat: Protestant) Christian for many people. Therefore, they never quit this phase of student life because it’s what Christianity means to them. By contrast, it’s my contention that we shouldn’t be students all our lives. We should go forward into the life of Christian vocation.

I don’t mean that we should ever stop reading the sacred scriptures and meditating on it. In fact, this is one reason I appreciate the liturgical calendar. Not only is the Word of God spoken out loud to the congregation every Sunday, there are passages to be read daily. I get them here. What I’m opposed to is continuing to sit in a hot stuffy room (or a drafty cold one) and arguing about what every passage means down to the letter of each Greek and Hebrew word, long after the student days have ended. Apprenticeships are meant to turn into vocations. Vocations do require upkeep, but they don’t require the kind of intense learning that a student engages in.

That is all philosophical, though. The truth is I used to have two modes: the observation and thinking mode; and the combative one, where I had to argue everything because my ego was wrapped up in knowing more than others. I still have two modes (quiet observation and thinking; then speaking), but my ego is no longer wrapped up in knowing more than others. Knowledge is useful, but when is it enough? When do I have enough knowledge to “armor” me into becoming an active agent in the world?

This midweek refresher does verge on being a Bible study. And that’s okay, I think; it’s an upkeep class for me, one that brings me and hopefully others necessary encouragement. And the funny thing is God knows what we need. He knows before we ask. So when I signed up for this course — there were three options — I didn’t know that the above was exactly what the teachers would be talking about.

The class subject is becoming a conqueror by putting on the armor of God. When we put on this armor, we don’t remain frozen as an inanimate suit of metal. There happens to be an inanimate suit of armor in the school room where this class meets (the church has a private school attached). It looks sturdy and ready to go into battle, but it’s hollow inside and therefore can’t move. What’s the purpose of armor that remains frozen in a room? The spiritual application is that we are to be not just hearers of the word, but also doers of the word. And how do we do that? We begin with truth. Not the truth of the world, which adds qualifiers such as my truth or their truth, but a First Principles truth that creates a foundation for everything else. This is also not the kind of truth that emerges from wrangling over which Bible student has the most clever insight into a passage. It’s not about a Bible student’s ego. And God’s truth is greater than any clever insight we could come up with. God’s truth is quite literally the foundation of the universe.

This First Principles truth is the foundation that carries us out into the world to do what God has called us to do. And doing what God has called us to do brings us peace. Going back to my first paragraph, it brings me peace when I complete tasks like exercise, writing, and editing. How much greater peace will I have when I am actively fulfilling God’s purpose for my life? This is the subject we discussed in class last evening, and I think it’s very important — also something that I’ve been struggling with for years: the peace with God vs the peace of God.

Of vs with? Isn’t that wrangling over words a little? Maybe, but it’s also highlighting a straightforward biblical concept. When we are saved through Jesus, we have made peace with God. We are no longer fighting against him. When we act out our salvation (that is, when we are inspired by our salvation), we have the peace of God that can only come from living according to his will and purpose. And that peace, which comes from pleasing God by our actions, leads to our joy.

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Repressed Memories and Alien Abductions

Psychoanalysts love repressed memories. But repressed memories are anything but substantial in nature. That is, they should hardly be considered admissible evidence in a court of law. That’s probably too hard a stance. They are circumstantial evidence, at best. Why? Human memory is weird and subject to alterations through time. And that’s to say nothing about the way an immature mind processes memories. Children get things wrong — all the time. In fact, they quite frequently misinterpret parents’ arguments or words and actions. As I already stated, their brains are immature. They aren’t necessarily capable of processing adult behavior. In other words, they don’t “just understand” what’s going on (as we often expect them to) and then retell the truth when recounting events. There’s a fiction among adults that children always tell the unvarnished truth whether we like it or not. Sure, they might tell the truth according to how they interpreted it, if they don’t have a reason to lie. The crucial part is “tell the truth according to how they interpreted it.”*

Despite the faulty nature of childish interpretation and memory storage in general, in the early 90s, there was a whole slew of cases of sexual assault and molestation brought against men over the surfacing of repressed childhood memories, which could just as easily have been implanted memories led by ostensibly well-meaning psychoanalysts. It’s difficult to make it to adulthood without some kind of trauma, which the childish brain might bury instead of processing simply because it’s easier. When truly horrendous images of child abuse come out of hypnotherapy sessions, there’s no guarantee they are actual memories. They could feel very real, though, especially as they provide a good answer for why the patient is so miserable.

In one example, a teenage girl accused her father of long-term (over the course of ten years) sexual abuse after having been through a therapy program for her eating disorder. The evidence pointed against the accusations being true, but the girl continued to believe in her allegedly repressed memories, which the clinic “needed to clarify” and, hence, the child wasn’t allowed to go home even by parental request. Of course, they also did their mandatory reporting to child protective services. These repressed memories were brought to the fore due to sessions with her therapist along with the “grisly recounting of trauma by other patients.” That last part is what I find so suspect about this story. The social atmosphere of the therapy home was one of depressed teenagers who told tales of abuse. An atmosphere like that could very well spread a social contagion of abuse to a teenage girl who is suffering and in desperate need of attention.

That being said, the teenage girl had also gone through very real trauma because her parents had divorced when she was young, forcing her to take on stepparents and at least one step-sibling. To be fair, I’m sure a divorce wouldn’t traumatize all children that deeply, but neither is it an ideal situation to have one’s safe world of mommy and daddy torn asunder when one is still in primary school. It’s going to take the normal grieving process and a lot of love to become okay with it. However, some children are more sensitive than others and have a harder time coping with their emotions even when there is no lack of love. And divorce is just the trauma the article (linked above) mentioned. Who knows what else this girl experienced to make her feel miserable and desirous of having something big and tangible to attach her misery to?

I started thinking about this due to a conversation on Facebook about the Kavanaugh case because friend Kerry Nietz pointed out that repressed memory cases were dubious at best. Alien abduction cases have come to the fore through the same process of hypnotherapy that often bring to the surface molestation and sexual assault incidents. And are we willing to give the same credence to alien abduction cases that we give to alleged sexual misconduct toward a child?

It’s a fair question, as far as I’m concerned. How far are we willing to give credence to repressed memories? I can’t imagine that all repressed memories are skewed or false. The hypnotherapy state used by psychoanalysts isn’t meant to be a deep hypnotic state, in which memories can easily be implanted. It’s meant to be a relaxed dreamlike state that allows the therapy patient to come to terms with something they may not be able to come to terms with in the conscious, waking mind. But that’s all theoretical, isn’t it? The mind is an inexplicable machine at times. A psychoanalyst may not be able to intentionally implant ideas or memories in a patient’s mind but could easily guide the direction the patient’s thoughts are going, especially if he (or she) has a preconceived bias about why the patient is suffering. Also, as I already stated, hypnotherapy is a dreamlike state. Dreams have a touchstone in reality; they can feel very real. We may even incorporate them as memories in our minds. But dreams aren’t real, and they are not exact replicas of past event. If they dredge up past events, those events are littered with surreal elements that could only exist in the mind.

I don’t have any definitive answers, even about alien abductions, even though I jokingly refer to them as demonic encounters. That may not actually be a joke. Aliens might be demonic entities. They might be demonic entities that do indeed abduct human beings. They might be non-demonic entities that do indeed abduct human beings. Then again, they could be false interpretations of a dreamlike state, eg, as someone on the same thread mentioned, they could be the brain processing its claustrophobia when experiencing sleep paralysis.

*In my own freeform blogging fashion, I was just reminded me of an Agatha Christie novel — she loved to delve into psychology — in which a child had misinterpreted the scary gloved hands of a murderer as monkey paws, and the then adult woman was still terrified of her horrifying memories of a man with hands like a beast.

*****

And yes, I am still writing my book Order of the PenTriagon, about alien abductions, among other things.

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