Uncategorized – Page 15 – One Woman's Quest

Day 156 “Good and Evil”

Jane first contacted me because she thought she was under psychic attack. I agreed to meet her at her apartment.

A slender, attractive blond answered the door.

“Jane?” I noted her hesitancy, but she stepped aside to let me in.

The apartment was small, and despite the clutter, quite tidy. I asked her permission to walk around. Nothing that felt external jumped out at me, however, I did feel a lot of chaotic energy connected to Jane herself. What I was sensing didn’t fit the woman before me. She seemed “normal”.

“What makes you think you are under psychic attack?” I asked her.

Jane told me she felt it, and sometimes she would hear voices. She said it happened at all hours, day and night, and she was losing sleep.

“It doesn’t make practical sense,” I told her. “Who would be attacking you and why? I am more inclined to believe this is an internal phenomena.”

“You mean I’m doing it to myself?” She considered this thought, and then slowly nodded. “I’ve wondered that, but why?”

I suggested she come to see me in my office where we could explore the possibilities.

Nothing on the surface seemed out of place. The first couple of visits, Jane arrived looked refreshed and well dressed. She shared that she had troubles holding down a job, mostly because she still didn’t know what she wanted to do. She had also been seeing a psychiatrist to help deal with personal issues. She didn’t really remember much of her childhood.

I noted that Jane, apart from being highly intelligent, was also incredibly creative.

“Sometimes, I can be,” she concurred.

I maintained that the phenomena she was experiencing was internal, as if there was more than one person inside her.

This notion set of an unexpected chain of events. This well polished woman of nearly thirty suddenly transformed into a little girl before me. Her legs started swinging back and forth and her responses took on a childish, sing-songy tone.

“How old are you?” I asked on a whim.

“Nine,” she replied, and then without hesitation, “Where’d you get that picture? Is it your hand?”

She was referring to a plaster mold of a hand that hung above my desk.

“No. See mine’s too big. I don’t know whose hand is it. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“I know you,” her eyes continued to scan the things in my room. “You are going to help us.”

“I hope so.” I suddenly knew I was in over my head.

* * *

“What do you like to do for fun?” I asked Jane during our next visit. She was her usual self when she arrived, but the question caused her to stir in her seat.

I waited for her to get comfortable again, but suddenly she didn’t seem to be able to. She stood, and started to pace.

“Did I ask something that was upsetting?”

The woman that turned to me was not Jane. She looked much older, and worn by the years.

“Oh, I know how to have fun, alright!” came the response. “Are you one of those self-righteously moral types?”

“Can’t say that I am?”

“I like a good drink, and a hard man, if I can find one.” She laughed at this. “What is it you hope to do here anyway?”

“Jane thinks she’s being attacked psychically.”

“Jane thinks she’s too good for the rest of us.”

My head was reeling. What was happening here was beyond me. After ‘Jane’ left, I had to confirm with my secretary that what I had just experienced was true.

“Did you see Jane before our appointment? What colour was her hair?”

“Blonde, as usual.”

“And what colour was it when she just left?”

“Come to think of it, it was red. How did that happen?”

“You tell me!”

* * *

I shared with Jane what had been happening during her visits.

“How is this possible?” she asked me.

“From what I can tell, something traumatic must have happened to you to cause your psyche to split into different identities.”

“That’s what my psychiatrist says.”

“And you don’t believe her? Doesn’t it make more sense then psychic attack?”

“I just wish I could know for sure.”

A thought occurred to me.

“Tell me about grocery shopping.”

“What do you mean?”

“How do you know what to buy? Do you ever find yourself getting home with things you either don’t remember buying, or don’t even like?”

“All the time!”

“Well, that must mean everybody participates. Next time you grocery shop, stop and listen. See if you can get a sense of the others.”

The suggestion worked. Jane called me with excitement. “I know what you mean, now! My psychiatrist says this is a great breakthrough.”

But the progress would be short-lived and my lack of expertise would be to blame.

Little Janie arrived next accompanied by a horrible smell that made my stomach turn. I could only describe the energy that followed her as evil, and I reacted accordingly.

We did a ritual to cleanse her from this demon, and banish it.

It worked too well.

It turned out that the demon-like figure that had appeared in my office that day was the one that held the key to Jane’s ability to heal. The evil that it reeked of was the torture and humiliation that had been perpetrated against young Jane. In order to be whole again, she needed to access that knowledge, and I had banished it.

I had not seen that like the ying yang symbol, there is good in bad, and bad in good. I had reacted out of fear.

“Evil is the construct of man,” a religious studies prof once said. “The idea of demons was borrowed from the Greek, daemon, which actually means mischievous. The idea being that demonic beings were intended to shake us from our complacency and help us grow.”

The entity that appeared in my office that day accompanied the young Jane. It came because she trusted me to help it, and I did not.

Judgment is such as harsh thing, and when we put it in the context of good and evil we eliminate other possibilities.

Jane would have to work long and hard to regain the trust of this part of her – so essential to her wholeness.

Day 155 “Straw Dogs”

In today’s reflection, Derek Lin explains that straw dogs are small figurines, woven from straw, that are used in rituals, and later burnt or discarded. He says that we are like straw dogs in the ritual of life, eventually discarded in death. He suggests that this imagery should help us put things in perspective, and see the triviality in our mundane arguments.

I must be missing the point, but I could not resonate with today’s reading. In fact, quite the opposite. It bothered me. I felt this was a flippant view of life’s process – to assume our role as trivial, like straw dogs, and therefore, meaningless.

I am not a taoist, as I have said before, but I have partaken of different rituals, and it occurs to me that a ceremony using small effigies could be effective. It could give us the opportunity to consider the many ways that we glean our identity and reevaluate the importance of each.

For example, my therapist recently gave me a small, woven doll to represent my inner child. She suggested that I carry her with me to remind me of the little one’s needs. This figurine represents one part of me.

I could also make straw beings to represent the many other parts of my self, such as the risk-taker, the rebel, the conformist, the artist, the insecure, the pessimist, and so on.

Doing so would give me an opportunity to consider the role that each plays in my greater being, and I could realize that some of those aspects are just straw dogs and ready to be burnt or discarded.

If I chose to throw all those individual aspects away, I might understand that I am greater than the sum of all my identifiable traits, and be humbled into appreciating the mystery that is life.

I am not ready to view the totality of my existence as a straw dog, but I am willing to admit that sometimes, it is worthwhile to stop hanging onto that which has no value in the larger picture.

Day 152 “Winds of Change”

The cab follows familiar routes, and as a passenger I am afforded the luxury of observing the sights. Having grown up in this city, there are many memories stored here.

The driver takes the route past the park: a favourite drive for me. Majestic green trees line the street, and beyond a grassy expanse offers the promise of leisurely walks, and family outings. Every stage of my life has been marked by time spent in this place, and some little bits of my past bubble up in passing. Today my mind flashes to drives through the park with my mother, begging her to stop so we could play on the swings. “Another time,” she would always promise. Never enough times for our young hearts.

Beyond the park, we come to a halt at a traffic light. There was no through street here when I was a kid, and the house on the corner belonged to a friend’s mother. I remember how she resisted selling when the city put the new road through, and hung on for years. She is dead now and the house is boarded up. I assume her children did not carry on her cause.

A little further up the road is a restaurant where I once worked. At the time, it was well known, attracting both locals and what we considered to be “celebrities”. Long lines of people waited to get in well into the night, and we worked hard but thrived in the bustle. Now the sign is faded, and the parking lot overgrown with weeds. A converted church next door is the new “fab” place to dine.

We pass another green space, once a field, that is now well groomed for soccer players. The houses just the other side, previously old and neglected, now house new families with fresh hopes.

Coming into downtown many of the buildings are the same, but the names have changed. A parking lot is being cleared for new construction.

The cab drops me at my destination, and as I sit in the new station, waiting for my train, I contemplate the many changes that this city I call home has undergone.

Isn’t that life? I muse. Some things stay the same, but much changes.

All change is for the better, I once read. I wonder.

Thor and my lives have certainly undergone change in the past year, and I dreamt of a snake again last night, waking in a panic. My dream snakes have been harbingers for the changes we have undergone, but this one was coiled peacefully, and causing no harm. Still, it made me ponder what is next.

My journey to this station reminded me that it is naive to think things will never change. Perspectives change, causes lose their impact, and priorities shift.

Armed with this new outlook, I am willing to bet that this next life shift will be positive.

We are ready for good news.

Winds of change brings us renewed life and enjoyment.

Day 151 “Patterns of Energy”

Pythagoras, best known for his triangle theorum, believed that the world could be defined in terms of patterns of energy. He assigned numbers to those patterns, becoming the father of numerology.

Numerology is a fascinating study of how numbers determine our personality, life path, soul secrets, and path of destiny. An excellent read and how to for applying numerology to your own life is Numerology and the Divine Triangle, by Faith Javane. Dan Millman looks at the numbers, and patterns, related to birthdates, in his book, The Life You Were Born to Live.

The idea that who we are can be defined by patterns, in this case numbers, is an interesting consideration.

What are your numbers?

Day 150 “Daily Loss”

I was just twenty-two when I met my children’s father. With one failed marriage behind me, I was grateful for this man that considered me worthy of sharing a house and raising his family, so when he took me home for the first time, as a new wife and mother, I wanted to make a good impression.

Stewart’s mother had passed away the year before we met, and his father had been to visit prior to us making our vows, but his siblings were a mystery. We arrived unannounced, having flown eight hours with our four-month-old daughter. His father greeted us with open arms, thrilled that we made the trip. We had barely settled in when his first sister and husband arrived. I waited, out of sight, giving Stewart a chance to say hello.

Squeals of delight accompanied the greetings, and I gathered that the couple had just returned from a vacation in a sunny locale. In response to a question about their trip, Stewart’s sister responded: “It was lovely, except for those bloody northerners.”

I felt my face begin to flush. My father’s family came from the north of England. I had no time to compose myself before they were ushered into the kitchen to make my acquaintance. Thrusting out my hand, I declared: “Hi, I’m your new sister-in-law – one of those bloody northerners.” It was not a good start.

The day progressed in much the same way. When my husband’s older brother arrived, I noticed that his loafers were missing one of their tassels. Trying to inject some humour into an uncomfortably stuffy situation, I blurted: “Nice tassel.” All eyes were immediately upon me.

“Pardon me?” the tone was incredulous.

“You are missing a tassel. I was just trying to be funny.”

My new brother-in-law looked at me with a glint in his eye. “Do you know what the word ‘tassel’ means to us?”

I didn’t know, but I was certain it wasn’t good.

“It means penis” his wife chirped in. “You’ve just admired his personals.”

If I hadn’t felt so close to tears, I might have found it funny.

Stewart’s youngest sister just came right out and said what she was thinking. “We don’t honestly know what to think of you – we never thought Stewart would marry, and now here you are and with a baby as well.”

After a night’s sleep, I was ready to try anew. Having settled the baby, I busied myself in the kitchen, making a hearty breakfast for the others. The smell of bacon and sausages lured them in with murmurs of appreciation. Freshly brewed tea was sipped in anticipation of the feast to follow. I heaped the food onto plates, added fresh toast, and watched as my new family happily consumed my offerings. Brushing aside yesterday’s disappointment, I felt renewed hope. When the food was all gone, and everyone was sated, Stewart’s youngest sister offered to clean up. I went to retrieve the now waking baby.

“You’ve ruined a perfectly good pan,’ my sister-in-law confronted me when I returned. “What kind of an idiot are you that you would use a steel spatula on a non-stick pan?”

I didn’t know, was what I wanted to say, but I couldn’t risk responding – the tears were threatening. I had never used a non-stick pan before. At home, we had cast iron. “Sorry” was all I could blurt out.

“I should think so!”

I knew in that moment that I would never be good enough for this family, and I felt and all the guilt and shame that had shadowed me all my life, as the daughter of dysfunctional parents.

* * *

“You must look back and forgive that young woman,” my therapist advises. “See it from a new perspective.”

Let go of some of your clutter, Derek Lin writes in today’s reflection. Let go of something everyday.

The clutter I need to clear out is emotional and psychological. Every time I cook eggs, I am reminded of that day and how I was such a disappointment to that family. We are divorced now, and they are no longer a part of my life, but the guilt and shame obviously live on.

Today, I will let go of the guilt that serves no purpose. I will recognize that making mistakes does not make me a bad person, and let go of the shame.

Today, I will let go of those emotions that stop me from enjoying life, and make room for self-acceptance instead.

Day 149 “Meridians”

By the time I took myself to Emergency, human touch was unbearable. I could get no relief from the swelling that affected me head to toe, and my heart was continually racing. Emotionally, I felt out of control: cranky, teary, and desperate.

The heart palpitations got me admitted directly, but the tests they ran showed the problem was not my heart. An IV drip was started, but the painkiller they were infusing me with did not touch the pain. Two doctors came in and touched me in certain places, setting off cries of agony.

“Your blood tests showed that your liver counts are out,” one young doctor explained. “We don’t know why that is, but it is consistent with someone experiencing your level of pain. We suspect you have fibromyalgia, but you will need further tests. We are referring you on to Urgent Care.”

A battery of tests and doctors followed, checking my kidneys, my heart functioning, and so on. Always the liver counts came back as suspicious. No explanations. Fibromyalgia, each doctor deduced.

“Take pain medication,” the Internist said.

“Your heart can’t tolerate pain medication,” the Cardiologist countered.

“Go see Dr. Li,” a good friend advised.

I called Dr. Li. A tiny, Chinese woman, half my size, Dr. Li had a reassuring presence. She listened intently, and asked specific questions. “I don’t know fibromyalgia,” she said in her broken English. “I will check your meridians.”

I held something in my left hand, while Dr. Li ran a rod connected to a computer over my right hand. The machine squealed and reacted as she clicked buttons, and read the computer’s reactions. At the end, she handed me a printout.

“The body has many lines of energy flow,” she tried to explain. “This tells where there are problems in the flow. Green is good. Red means there are danger spots; yellow is chronic.” I had two green lines; my printout was a sea of red and yellow.

“Each imbalance is scored 1-4. A four means you already have cancer. You do not have a four, but your numbers add up to four. Not good.”

Thus I began my course of treatment – weekly acupuncture, a drastic change in diet, and cleansing with Chinese herbs.

My health improved.

I continued to see specialists, ensuring that I wasn’t missing anything. A year after starting my treatments with Dr. Li, they found the abnormal cells aggressively growing in my right breast. Surgery followed.

I asked Dr. Li about it. She confessed that she had been a medical doctor before coming to Canada, but that she found that by the time traditional medicine finds something, it is usually too late. She prefers to work on preventing disease, where she can actually help the patient.

I escaped the threat of cancer with only a fading scar to remind me, and I credit my work with Dr. Li. Her knowledge, combined with an uncanny instinct for what a body needs, promotes well-being.

It’s all in the meridians, apparently.

Day 148 “The Stream”

There are three ways to get to my favourite place.

I can go out the gate at the back of the yard and cross the farmer’s field, but this only works when the soil is firm and dry, ’cause the ruts are deep and my feet are small.

The second way is through the backyards that border the field. This is tricky sometimes, because not all the neighbours want kids in their backyards, and two doors down there is a family of mean boys. I can take any of them by themselves, but if all three decide to gang up on me, I’m in trouble.

The third way is to go around by the street, but I never feel safe doing this. I am only a little kid, and not supposed to be on the road by myself.

But I will take I whatever risks I need to take to get there.

Once I get past the houses and the fields, there are woods. A path runs through them, but it doesn’t go there, so I have to step off the path. I usually look for openings between the trees, and push branches back to step over fallen limbs or stumps. Sometimes, I stumble, but that’s okay.

Once I am out of sight of the path, and everything is quiet, I listen for it – the bubbling, laughing, trickle of water. The sound makes me giddy, and I push harder through the brush, hardly noticing the branches scraping my skin.

My heart dances when I see the light of the clearing ahead, and as I break through the trees, I see it: my stream! The water is so clean and clear, I can see right to the bottom!

Digging my heels into the rock bed, I squat down, preparing for a long sit. I can watch the water for hours. I love how the stream flows constantly, swirling around rocks, catching twigs and leaves as it rolls, carrying them along until they become snagged again. I imagine that I am the water, cool, crisp, and clear, flowing, constantly flowing. It makes me feel carefree, and alive.

I study the bottom of the creek, looking for life, and if I am patient enough, I will spot a crayfish, white-bodied, translucent, diligently making its way, holding its ground against the current, in constant search mode. Sometimes, I will sit on my bum and dip my toes in the water, tempting the crayfish to nibble, but it never does. It scurries away, as if I am something to be afraid of.

Mostly, I am still like the praying mantis: quiet so that nature won’t notice me, and go about its business.

Everything about this place makes me feel good all over: the constant, soothing rhythm of the water, the warmth of the sun on my shoulders, the gentle summer breeze, the mingling scents of earth and flora, and the unabashed chirping of the birds. In my stillness, I belong here, and a sense of harmonious wonder fills me.

And then the wind will change, and I will notice that the sun has shifted and the shadows are growing longer, and I will know that it is time to return home. As I emerge from the trees, back onto the path, I feel a tug of regret for having to leave the stream behind, and enter once more into the everyday unpredictability that is my life.

Day 147 “Existence”

We are not islands: isolated, insulated, to be ignored.

We are humans dancing through relationships,

weaving our tales,

intertwining stories,

with lovers, friends, families, enemies,

and our selves.

Yearning for love’s repricocity

Delighting in wonder of discovery

slugging through painful demise

striving to be better.

I dream of walls, and towers

and paths that lead nowhere

and these are the nature of my relationships –

artificial barriers,

lofty ideals,

dead ends.

Then I dream of hands that hold me

and gentle waters, soothing

and warm, passionate kisses

and I remember love’s rewards.

I exist.

Not for the possessions that I accumulate

but for the gifts I receive

when my heart opens and

my mind expands

in relationship with others.

Day 146 “The Spiral”

“Remember that night I went missing when I was a teenager?”

“Yes,” my mother replied. “You went off with a man. Your father was so livid.”

“What you don’t know is that I never went voluntarily. I was abducted and raped.”

Mom let this sink in.

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

I have wondered the same thing. In retrospect, I must have been severely traumatized and was likely in shock.

“I was just glad to be alive, I guess. I didn’t know what was going to happen to me.”

“He penetrated you?”

I felt my ire rise. My mother’s attitude towards inappropriate male behaviour was that boys will be boys.

“The memories of that night are only starting to surface, Mom. I don’t remember it all. He took me to a deserted farm house, and assaulted me over and over. I remember shaking uncontrollably, and having an asthma attack. I wondered if I was ever going to get out alive.”

“But he didn’t penetrate you?”

“Mom, this man took me against my will and forced me to repeatedly commit sex acts. That is sexual assault. Do you think it’s only sexual assault if there is intercourse?”

“Why would you dredge this up now? Why not just leave it in the past?”

I couldn’t believe what my mother was saying. I had disappeared one night fourteen years ago. After being left at the side of a highway, I walked miles to return to my sister’s home where I had been staying. The police were waiting for me and knew the perpetrator. They asked me if I wanted to press charges, but I was tired and just wanted a bath. One of the officers told me frankly that I had asked for it, given the tight jeans and halter top I had been wearing. I had no fight in me at that moment. They put me on a bus for home instead. When I arrived, my parents expressed their anger and disappointment in me and I was grounded for a week. There was no discussion.

“It hurt me that you and Dad never asked me what happened. You just assumed I was at fault.”

“Your father was so upset, he never thought you were that kind of girl. It broke his heart.”

His heart, I thought. What about mine?

“Well, I just wanted you to know what happened to me, Mom. I needed to clear the air.”

“I don’t what difference it makes now. It’s in the past.”

“Because whatever happens to us remains a part of us. It is important to understand in order to heal.”

* * *

Two days later my mother dropped by.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” she started. “You think that what happened in the past can continue to affect us?”

“I think that what we experience and how we react to it creates patterns that repeat themselves until we learn to break those patterns, yes.”

“Well, I’ve never told anyone this, but I was assaulted, as you say, by an uncle when I was six.”

I waited for her to continue.

“Mom and Dad got a new car, and they took me for a ride with Dad’s younger brother. Dad was so proud. My uncle and I sat in the back and he pulled his penis out of his pants and made me touch him.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“Because I knew that my mother would blame me.”

“What! Why?”

“She always said that boys will be boys, and girls are responsible for not inviting trouble.”

“Mom, that’s terrible!”

“I can’t believe I’m telling you this. I’m sixty-three years old and never told a soul.” The eyes that met mine were troubled, full of pain. “There’s more. Grandma and Grandpa lived in the little house on the farm and we kids would have to go visit them, but I hated it. Grandma would be cooking at the big woodstove, and she’d tell me to go on back to the bedroom and check on Grandpa. Grandpa would want to do things to me.”

“That is sick!”

“It was sick, but Grandma just said that was Grandpa’s way of loving me. He dragged my sister out behind the barn and raped her one day. My younger brother tried to stop him – got a gun and everything, but it didn’t do any good.”

She continued: “Even my older brother Leo was a bugger like that. He’d try to get in bed with us girls and have sex. We were always pushing him out.”

“And no one protected you?”

“It was just our way of life. Neighbours were the same. We had to run past the farm next door to us every day on our way back from school, in fear that one of the boys would catch us. My little brother got caught one day, and the boy made him perform oral sex.”

I wanted to throw up. “I don’t understand how nobody did anything.”

“We lived on a farm. We saw animals doing it all the time. I guess we just thought it was part of nature.”

“But you do understand that it’s not right, Mom?”

“I guess I always sort of knew that, but I couldn’t talk to anyone about it. I thought it was my fault.”

“You were a kid! How could that be your fault?”

Mom pondered this as if it had never occurred to her before. “Do you really think talking about it can help?”

“I think understanding what happened to us can help us break cycles.” I could see that you she wasn’t getting it. “For example, Mom, you thought that you were to blame for what happened to you. How many times in your life have you accepted abuse because you couldn’t stand up for yourself?”

We both knew the answer to that one. Two abusive marriages in which my mother was always willing to take blame for what was done to her.

“How do I break the cycle?”

“By catching yourself before you go into It’s my fault mode.”

* * *

“I did it!” my mother’s triumphant voice rang out at the other end of the phone. “I was at the doctor’s office and he told me I have cancer. I immediately thought of all the stupid diets I’ve done and that I probably brought this on myself, when I remembered your words. I stood right up and said: “It’s not my fault! I don’t deserve this!.” You would be so proud of me.”

“Good for you, Mom.”

“Now what?”

Mom told me that the cancer was in her bowel, and that they were going to do emergency surgery. She’d suspected cancer for sometime, but hadn’t told anyone. Unable to stand up for herself against my father’s constant abuse, she had contemplated letting the cancer take her life. Our recent conversations had helped her see new possibilities.

“Mom, you need to come through this surgery with a new determination to live – for yourself. You deserve to do all the things you want to in life, and you don’t need to put up with abuse. Choose life, Mom, and when you get better….. take assertiveness training.”

As a therapeutic touch practitioner, I was allowed in the recovery room. When Mom awakened, her eyes immediately locked on mine. “I thought about what you said! I am going to live for me! No more blame or shame!”

* * *

Life is a spiral dance. We don’t leave the past behind, we circle back around to the issues and patterns that have been a part of our experience – always from a new perspective, and always with a new opportunity for understanding and healing.

Day 144: “Seamless Deeds”

The woman on my treatment table was incredibly tense.

“You okay?” I asked. We were exchanging treatments, and this was her turn.

“No,” she said. “I am upset and I don’t seem to be able to shake it.”

“What’s up?”

“I feel like I give and give and I get nothing in return. Do you ever feel that way?”

“Sure. It’s called being a mother.”

We both laughed.

“But actually, that’s not true,” I added. “Children give back in other ways. Are you thinking of someone in particular?”

“My sister.”

I knew the story well. Carly’s sister was a single mother, who didn’t always make the best decisions in her life. Carly was always bailing her out, babysitting her kids, or having them all over for dinner.

“Just for once, I’d like it if she did something for me…. or even acknowledged what I do for her.”

I was reminded of my older sister, also a single mother, and someone who took advantage of others. “Some people are just like that,” I suggested. “At some point I guess we just have to let go of our expectations, or not offer help. You can’t change them.”

“No, you can’t, but it seems like I’m always the one giving and seldom getting back.”

Carly was one of the most giving people I knew and I told her so. “I have always been impressed by how compassionate and helpful you are – almost tirelessly so.”

“But where does it get me?”

Carly’s comment surprised me and made me think. How many times had she done things for me and I hadn’t reciprocated? Was she keeping score? I could see the physical agony that this perceived injustice was causing my friend.

“I always do the right thing, the good thing,” she went on. “When is it my time to receive?”

Carly’s outpouring of emotion made me question why any of us extend kindness. Is it only for reward or acknowledgement? Are we always expecting something in return? I felt sad for my friend, not because her sister was self-serving, but because Carly was so attached to outcomes. She wasn’t able to give just for the sake of giving.

Carly decided to withdraw her support of her sister, and let her struggle on her own. Then she dropped another friend, who she felt was just using her. None of these actions made Carly feel any better. She grew more and more resentful of others. Even her own husband became a target of her score-keeping.

Carly and my friendship also ended abruptly a few years ago. She sent me a letter asking me never to contact her again – no explanation given. I can only assume that I had wronged her in some way.

Carly taught me an important lesson in life. She taught me first the art of giving – as she was an incredibly gracious person – and then the importance of seamless deeds: giving without concern for anything in return.