If I were the boss, I would not allow anyone to see a doctor, for any illness, that would result in a patient taking Cymbalta, Prozac, Zolaf or any of those other psychotropic drugs…A person should be able to meditate and exercise, and over time relieve their anxieties and depression. It’s in the BIBLE. There’s no need to experience these things. God’s got it.
As a matter of fact, doctors are just not necessary, except in emergencies or if there is a problem.
All of this probing and exploratory exams are outrageous and an offense on the temple of God, which is your body.
So, quit eating at fast food places. The food is trash! Exercise daily! Not just walking, but lift some weights for your muscles.
Eat foods that are NOT processed.
I left a piece of bread on top of my refrigerator, and was gone for months. When I returned it was still there. Not one bit of mold or decay.
Do squats! That is how you will keep your colon healthy.
Have peace of mind, by having faith in God. Do not gorge yourself on the table scraps of the medical industry, the insurance fat cats and the politicians and lobbyist that grease the pot.
Stay away from doctors….
Now go forth my child and live like “the lilies of the fields.”
If this sounds crazy to you, so be it.
I’ve gotta get out of here and back to Costa Rica, where things make sense to me.
To me. Would you like for this to be your stove. Probably not. Would you want to live in a five hundred square foot house. Probably not. Would you really want to leave your culture behind and learn another language to survive. Probably not. Would you be OK with an occasional snake or scorpion in your house. Probably not. Would you drive a thirty year old car and work to keep it running, on outrageously rough roads. Probably not.
My life is nice. Because I’ve made it nice, for myself. I’ve worked hard to be where I am, in my casita, by the sea. I’ve sacrificed a lot.
The point is ~ enjoy your own life. Be where you want to be. If you don’t like where you are. MOVE! Quit complaining and whining, and acting jealous.Do something.
If you think that my life has been easy, think again, my friend.
I rarely experience envy. Because I like my life and I stay busy creating it, with the help of God, who makes all things possible.
If I feel envy, it’s a twinge here and there, when I see happy families. I never had one.
And even, with that, I have to open my eyes to the people who God puts in front of me.
If folks would put as much energy into having a good life, as they do comparing themselves to others, it would be a different world.
You can have your big house, big car, status job, big boat….
Surf or Die!
I’m screaming ~ It’s your CHOICE!!!!!!!
A phone call changed everything. A fall changed everything. My eighty-two year old father-in-law, sounded weak. We knew we had to go home. Home, to our other home. The tickets the TSA, the missed beats in my rhythm. The changing of tunes.
He’s no longer with us now.
One day that will be me. None of us get out of life alive.
We wake up in one dream, we sleep, and we wake in another.
Over and over and over and over and over ~
Back to the U.S. My beloved Costa Rica, long gone, in the rear view mirror. Once again, I have to make the transition. Granted it is from the tropics to the tropics, but it doesn’t compare. I leave behind loved ones, friends, and waves. I loose my surf momentum. But I greet loved ones, friends and a beach where I perch and pace and wait for waves. I do what I can to keep myself in shape.
Friends are the best no matter where I am.
While I was gone my friend, Jimmy passed away. If he were here, I would surely have already visited him. I would have dumped on him, all of my difficulties, while he patiently waited for me to wind down. He was like that. He had the gift of listening. He had many gifts.
I loved that old man.
Jimmy was born on this island, quite a few years before ’64. He left and went to the big city, New York, as soon as he graduated high school. He came home, about fifteen years ago.
He was so cool.
The island that we live on, Amelia, is still somewhat segregated. There’s a neighborhood, 5 blocks by 12 blocks, that by history and desire, is people of color. I live in that area myself. I think it’s the sweet spot of the island.
The past few days, on the Public Broadcasting Station, they have showed numerous documentaries of the Civil Rights era, such as the Freedom March. I am grateful for the changes from those days. I remember them well, even though I was a young child.
I thought of Jimmy. Black Jimmy. A big man, in a small house, who had a parade of white people who visited him, on a regular basis. They were seeking council, with the wise.
“It’s not about me.” “If you want to be somebody, be yourself.” “I am not my job.” “Rise up and enjoy the day Lord has made.”
Not that every person was confused when they visited, but many were. People sought out Jimmy, when their mind was muddled by some common dysfunction like, family issues and love sickness. Romance and finance are at the root of most of our daily dilemmas. Jimmy knew our stories.
The whirling dervishes could be kicking up dust in your head, when you walked through the always, open screen door, and when you passed back out on the street, you breathed in the fresh air of Ram Dass, Jesus on the Mainline, meditation channel.
In the years that I have left to walk this earth. I want to be like Jimmy. Although I accept we each have unique qualities, to our personalities, there are underlying characteristics we all can share, if we choose, such as; listening, reaching out, lightening the load, choosing not to give in to gossip and character assasination, being of service, and not waiting to be called.
To be black or white, rich or poor, will create circumstance in your life, but it is not going to define who you are.
We did, me and Black Jimmy.
Free at Last
Happy Father’s Day
Originally posted on Secondhand Surfer:
I can remember being so excited to go to “the shop”. I must have been five or six. When I was there something happened, people were interested in me. I was interested in them, and what they did. There was a secretary and a type writer. There were men wandering around and they all wore white shirts that had my name on them.
The shop had a smell about it that I loved. It was dust and cigarette smoke. Now I know it was dust, cigarette smoke and money.
There was a door that I was not allowed to go through and, of course, that’s where I wanted to go. Through the years, I just became old enough, to open the door and walk through. On the other side, it was dim and kind of scary. First, there was a hallway, created with one by’s and chicken wire. I…
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27 short years ago, today, my life was changed. It began a second go round. For thirty-one years, I had tried to get my feet on the ground; tried to make things work. But I failed. I failed miserably.
I couldn’t keep a job. I had constant anxiety, but didn’t know what anxiety was.
For some reason, I was pegged. I lived under a cloud of words and other people’s lives. They were a weight around my neck and I was drowning.
I prayed for help and I got it!
Yesterday, I closed the door on my second life. The one where I learned to live in the day and in the moment. The one where I did the right thing and just showed up everywhere I was supposed to be. Not that I would change those things. They are the staple of my happiness.
I have people in my life ~ a fair exchange of friendships.
Today, on this anniversary, I am letting go of the stormy petrels that haunt me. Or maybe, they’ve let go of me. Either way, I’ve paid my dues.
I thought to myself, I’m nobody’s darling, never have been and never will be.
Yeah, the line up’s changed. It’s filled with almost naked women; some charging, some not. I hear guys say “they are hot, but they can’t surf”. Well, we know those words are enveloped in the pungent odor of animal poo. Too many pics to prove them wrong.
On the other hand, there’s the beguiling, sweet smell of pachouli, floating on the water’s surface. Good grief! And there’s always the girl, that’s surrounded by ten guys. She’s cute and demure, with head bowed. She let’s the waves go by. WTF….
Sometimes, I talk to the girls and encourage them…they surf good enough… a guy would go. It’s a lot of fun. But if you can’t take the hits on the head and the water up your nose, don’t bother. And thanks for distracting the guys, it helps me get waves.
And if you get good, be prepared for, NOT BEING ACCEPTED, but attempts being made to run you out of the water. I once saw the author of Samba to the Sea, attacked by an over bearing, chest beating surfer, demanding respect, in the kiddie pool of waves. The next day she paddled out on a child’s blow up toy and caught waves…ahahaha-there’s your RESPECT. I was very proud of how she handled that. My challenges like that always ended up in near fist fights. Times have changed and believe me, it’s OK with me.
I’ve had a good run here, this time in Costa Rica. I’ve enjoyed all the changes. The young girls are fun to surf with.
But I just keep laughing at this Mi Ola, bathing suit thing. Yeah, the girls are pretty and the suits almost non-existent. A tiny triangular patch in the front and a thong in the rear. Are these women really concerned about their modesty?
However, considering the money invested, I hope they don’t loose their suit.
And Samba don’t snake me, because if you do, you will be getting a view of my big butt, brown Hurley’s.
Surfing is so much fun.
Don’t tell anyone, but ten years ago today, I was on a trip in Mexico. I was doing my usual thing, wandering off from everyone and everything. I was breathing in the hot sun and the clean air. I was admiring the cactus. I was a little nervous, on edge. I felt alone.
I mean really alone.I felt as existential as a roadside chicken.
Then I saw it. There at my feet was a piece of cloth; worn burlap. It appeared to be something buried. I squatted and began to dig. My mind said, walk away, this is trash. What are you doing? But I couldn’t stop. My curiosity had me.
And I’m so glad I didn’t, because what I found was gold. An actual buried gold brick. What!
How did it get here?
I started looking over my shoulders. I grabbed the bag and held it close to me. My mind was racing, it was asking questions and it was answering them. Am I going to keep it? Of course, I am. Am I going to tell anyone? Hell no! How will I bring it home? Change of plans from flying to driving. How am I going to explain all of this money? I’m going to pretend to be a surf photographer. I’ll purchase a good camera and an adequate lens, I’ll drive an old 4X4 and I’ll seek out cheap living arrangements. No one will ever know that I’m, in reality, a wealthy gold smuggler.
To this day, I pose as a surf photographer and place a PROOF watermark image on my photos, so people can buy them for $5.99. I wouldn’t want to give anyone the impression that I am rich.
And no I can’t remove it and give away my photos. People might find out about my fortune in gold and well, I can’t have that. I have to keep up appearances.
Ask a stupid question and you’ll get a stupid answer. ~ heard by me from my grandmother many times
And no I can’t tell you where the gold is.