Category Archives: co-dependence

It’s a Book: Precious Journey releases at long last

It is an allegory. It is steampunk. It is a little bit novel. It is now available from Amazon and other major book distributors – also from your favoite bookstore – ask for it. Here is a sample of my favorite characters and my favorite chapter.

Stalking the Sleuth

Traveler was being followed.  He sensed it from the moment he exited the train.  It was a new sensation. For the traveler, open and transparent as he was, was still used to being nearly invisible, sleuthing from the sidelines.  It did not feel like a malicious sort of stalking, it was more like shadowing, anticipating. For instance, how did this person whom he had not yet seen – merely felt the eyes and their constant following of his every move – how did this person know he would be on the train? Traveler had not known himself whether he would drive or ride until a few hours before departure. Traveler stood for a moment on the station platform and wished he had his Convie. What am I thinking, he asked himself.  I have two sturdy legs and walking is so beneficial to clarity of conclusion.

Followed or not, he was hungry. He turned into his favorite establishment on the wharf and ordered a basket of fish and chips and half a pint of the local ale.  Fishing nets and colorful floats adorned the walls. Over the years, hardwood floorboards had been worn to a patina by the constant comings and goings of locals and tourists.  Places this popular rarely have extraneous personal space. Every inch was shared with a constantly undulating crowd.  Traveler was no sooner seated at a table then he was joined in quick succession by three other persons, two male, one female, constantly in motion changing places like musical chairs as an order number was announced or someone spied a friend, waved, and changed position.

Receiving his order, Traveler closed his eyes and savored the fried sea aroma curling up from the steam. Another basket slid onto the table and a sinewy male eased expertly into the neighboring seat.

“What is your interest in my sister?”

            Traveler looked up into cool and intelligent blue eyes and held their gaze for a few seconds.

“Sean Journey, analyst,” said the man, extending a hand.

The traveler shook hands silently, reached for the malt vinegar, fingered a chip and waited.

“You show up in the city and ask background questions of the flakey receptionist. Next, on a road trip, you stop at a little café that just happens to be owned by my parents.  No doubt, they gave you volumes of information couched in opinion. Assuming you were capable of distilling the information from the opinion; your next stop was obviously here, where my sister spent some of the most enjoyable and enlightening years of her life.”

“You have tracked me this far, including following me from the train station. You are an analyst.” Traveler met Sean’s eyes again and continued, “You have to ask what my interest is in your sister?” he paused. “I wear a trench coat, I have a fedora, how is it you did not assume I am a private investigator hired by the man himself to track Precious?”

“Puh!” The analyst nearly spat. “That man never had a modicum of initiative. He could find her easily enough on his own if he cared to take the trouble.”

“He wants her back.”

“He wants her to come back, you mean –without him lifting a finger.”

“You have a close connection with your sister.” It was a statement, not a question.

“My sister is kind and caring. Growing up twenty months apart, it felt like we were twins. She protected me. She is a very loyal person.”

Traveler began, “You say Precious is kind, caring and loyal.  It seems so out of character for her – from what I have learned of her character – that she would leave the man.” Again, it was an observation, not a question, and the traveler took time to bite off a portion of batter-dipped cod and chew thoughtfully.

The analyst fetched a checkered napkin, wiped his mouth and again made eye contact.

“Precious has an Achilles heel.”

Traveler raised an eyebrow.

  “She can’t help rescuing people.”

“That is the compassionate thing to do,” shrugged the traveler.

“Once she rescues them, they make her feel responsible to care for them. When she draws a line and is no longer responsive to plaintive whining, they accuse her of being insensitive.”

Traveler thought back to the helpless wail that first drew his attention to the cave.

“How did she come to connect with the man in the first place?”

“It was here, at the Western Conservatory of Earth Studies. Precious had a work-study assignment in the botany department. She was building the terrace at Salt Park.  It looks out over the bay. The botany department was eradicating noxious weeds and studying plants native to the area. The man, as you already know, was a botany student.  His field study and her work shifts overlapped.

“She was cute.  She had a fascinating set of tools, so he followed her around like a puppy. And she responded to his needs, encouraging him, complimenting him, building him up.”

“So Precious encourages people and builds them up?”

“Yes, she is always adapting and giving the benefit of the doubt. As a result, people depend on her.”

“It is a credit to her strength of character that your mother has not prevailed on her to move back home.”

“Yes. And one of the greatest disappointments of my mother’s life to find that they are not joined at the hip in every opinion.”

Salt Water Park

Traveler’s basket was empty. The two men rose together in a sort of natural synchrony and headed out the door. Traveler set a course for Salt Water Park and Sean Journey fell into step beside him.

“We have dined together with perceptive conversation,” stated Journey, “but you have not yet identified yourself and your interest.”

Again Traveler mused on the oft-asked question. He preferred not to answer directly. There is no succinct and simple way to reply; “I am a traveler, scribe and cycloptic seer for the core.”  It leads only to complication. First, most people think you are joking. The common man, meaning the majority of homo sapiens populating the earth, would guffaw and snort, “You think you go around seeing Cyclops?” Sean Journey was a human of no ordinary intellect. He had shared honestly. The ball was now in Traveler’s court.

“I am a traveler, scribe, and cycloptic seer for the core,” he replied.

“Meaning you work for the Cranial Reservoir,” stated Sean. “Why the qualifier, cycloptic?”

“I am a visionary of only one eye,” said Traveler.  “Were I to see with both eyes, I would be omniscient, omnipotent. As it is, I observe wisdom. I am able to see imperfectly into the behavior and motivation of others. Once glimpsed, the motivation and personality fascinates me. I travel to ferret out the needed wisdom for each relationship observed.  I scribe. The results of seeing and scribing are uploaded to the global Cranial Reservoir – all the collected wisdom of the ages.”

“You upload directly to the Cranial Reservoir?” queried Sean.

Traveler smiled, “There is a good bit of residue and affinity for the past in me.  I first make my notes on papyrus tablet. The very act of writing is stimulating to thought – therapeutic to confusion. Once I reach the conclusion, my results teletransport to the core cranium.”

“They pay you to upload facts?”

“Sometimes hard facts; more often truth couched in myth.”

“I have accessed the Cranial Reservoir many times in my profession – more often in the classifications of military behavior.”

“My work is about relationships.”

As the analytical silence grew, the men sat musing with similarity of mind. Sean absently caressed a Michaelmas aster and then hefted a black volcaniclastic rock the size of a bowling ball. Fire glass.

“All that rot about Precious loving rocks inordinately? The goblin princess accusation?” said Sean. “Precious loves rocks for what they are, a normal part of our earth surroundings. She also, as you know, loves jewels and gold and silver – for their excellence. The man, he tends to objectify.  He loved rocks only because they were pretty – and because Precious was good at rocks.  He is a covetous being.  He craves for himself everything someone else has.  Precious was naturally gifted with the ability to know just which rock fit in which space as she built that terrace with our father, Petros. Then, she went to college and graduate school to find out the latest techniques for identifying gold and minerals.  The man, on the other hand, absorbed Precious’s successes for himself along with appropriating her tools.  He seemed to think whatever Precious did, he could do better just because he was the masculine portion of the team.  He wanted to stay home and enjoy rocks without having made any effort to learn about them.”

Again, Sean and the Traveler rose from their flagstone seats in tandem. As though with one mind, they headed toward the beach. As they walked, Sean probed for more details about Traveler’s work. “What do you consider your most valuable contribution to the Core – to the Cranium?” asked the analyst.

“Frankly, I come to many conclusions that I choose not to upload to the Cranial Reservoir.”

 “You remain covert? You withhold information?” queried the analyst, almost, but not quite accusingly.

“That is one thing I would never willingly do: withhold a discovery that would make life better for all.  But there is significant danger in serving up truth before the time is right. Precipitous truth could cause a Lady MacBeth situation on your hands.

“You understand the process, of course.  After much research and observation, information is uploaded / teleported to the Reservoir. Everyone has access to the Reservoir — and the Cranium, but few go to the bother to digest and think.  It is much easier to let others digest the information and broadcast it in 60-second sound bites.  Besides, the process to final truth and familiarity with the Universal Cranium is life-long and seems unrewarding to the average seeker.

“Once the information reaches the Cranium, it goes through an extensive process.  Anything that is not precise truth is sloughed off. Unscrupulous – or maybe just ignorant- individuals harvest the debris and make their living – and their power – from it. It is this detritus in the hands of well-meaning, but misguided individuals that can inadvertently cause spiritual abuse or emotional abuse.  Detritus adds a lot of pressure, stress to the lives of sensitive souls. I want to be overly careful. That is why I withhold; until I am sure – sure that everything I upload is precise – so that I do not add to the detritus.

“There are things that people believe so heartily to be truth they would stake their life on it – maybe your life too.  For instance: you must have meat and eggs for breakfast before you have pie.” Traveler paused, and then asked the rhetorical question, “Is it wise to eat a healthful breakfast before pie?  Yes.  Might an omelet serve the purpose just as well – or better- than biscuits and gravy?” Traveler raised his eyebrows into question marks.

The analyst gave a rueful smile.

Traveler continued, “Is it imperative that children respect their parents? Yes. Must adult children follow every word of advice that falls from the lips of antiquated ancestors in order to show that respect?” Traveler paused for a moment and let the question hover. “Myths that hold the essence of truth may cause simple minds to make a shrine of the shell.  They worship the vehicle of truth rather than the truth. They make sacred the cow rather than simply being nourished by the meat.”

It was not often Sean Journey found himself in the presence of someone both safe and intellectual. He proffered a rare insight from his personal life. “I respect my dad for his philosophical, good-hearted patience and perseverance. I love my mother because she gave birth to me and nourished me, meeting my basic needs when I was young. But very seldom do I find it comfortable to visit Castle Rook.”

She thinks of it as her debut novel

She thinks of it as her debut novel, though she has two preceding books in print. The plot is well aged in the whiskey barrel of life. She has been ruminating the twists for more than three decades. This is the book she left the mountains to write 13 years ago, not that she can’t write in the mountains. There is writing inspiration aplenty in such a cozy cabin, but instead of writing, she kept shouldering the duties of others instead of minding her own business – much like the main character in The Right Woman for the Job. In fact, The Right Woman for the Job mirrors many of the experiences of the author – and fictionalizes a reciprocal amount. Like the movie, Groundhog Day, this book has taken many tries to get it right – both in real life experience and in rewriting of the lines. The author herself has changed. The original model characters have changed. Heroes have risen – and fallen. Scenes have been added and deleted, format and metaphor rearranged like the squares on a sliding tile puzzle. The Right Woman for the Job has had many title changes – changes that reflect the character improvement and growth and migration and focus of the protagonist. 

Tuesday, February 2, 2021 is more than just Groundhog Day. The first Tuesday in February is a big book release day in the publishing industry. And this year she will participate – for the first time ever – in the custom of releasing a book on the first Tuesday in February. Chalk one up for the bucket list. Finally, she has done what she said she would do – she never dreamed it would take 13 years and two hundred thousand miles of detours. 

The Right Woman for the Job available softcover from cherryodelbergbooks.com
and as an ebook from Amazon.com

Please Judge the book by its cover

Please judge the book by its cover!

It’s the book she never intended to write. You know, the Christian Women’s fiction one. And the audience for this book is probably well over 50 and likes best to read comforting feel-good books by Jan Karon about Father Tim and all the residents of Mitford. 

It’s the book that disappointed her favorite cousin “why doesn’t the main character DO something?” said the cousin when prevailed upon to do a final read through.

It’s the manuscript the author read aloud to her best friend while on a long road trip, so the best friend is not obligated to read the book again – but that friend did volunteer that she loves the cover! The art is mesmerizing.

It’s the book the author’s 32-year-old daughter will probably never read since it’s not Rowling or Tolkien or Austen or Brönte or Frank Herbert. But her daughter, none-the-less, has an eye for style and an opinion about the cover. And that is how the cover came to be washed in shades of brown and looking like a southern gothic adventure set in the 80s.

Artist Courtney Harris did a fabulous job of interpreting the author’s ideas of a cemetery in Texas in 1989. The author is happy with the cover. The author’s daughter is happy with the cover. The artist’s mother is happy with the cover. The author’s best friend is happy with the cover. So please, go ahead and judge the book by its cover!

Because the back cover says “Caution: contains Bible quotes and seminary speak and a very unconventional love story.” 

Unconventional. Yes. In the latest film version of Little Women, Mr. Dashwood (the publisher) tells Jo March, “and if the main character is a woman, make sure she is married by the end of the book – or dead!” The ending would satisfy Mr. Dashwood – and all those who share his point of view. Someone is dead and someone is married.

Herewith, I lay these heroes to rest

Quarantunes #7

They say, no matter how multilingual one is, in times of stress, we return to our native language. There was much that was lost during COVID-19; but there was also much that was gained. I found freedom of expression in a return to my creative languages. I have learned to share again through music and words via technology. There has been time for reflection on my past – and time to ponder how much of that past I want to take into my future. Welcome to May, 2020! As we begin to come out of our isolation cocoons and venture back into our new normal; this week instead of a piano snippet; I present you an original reading, “I Saw My Hero Fall.”

I SAW MY HERO FALL

I saw my hero fall before my eyes

Gut-wrenched I was because for moment’s pause

I thought utopia had finally come

He was so handsome – understanding – wise

I saw my hero lying on the bed,

his arms entwined; with those of someone else

And though he never ceased to lavish me,

I could not acquiesce – be one of three,

To me, who once treasured his hero heart;

Dead. He is only a man after all.

I found my hero slow to act when back

To back with hardship shared, he shut me out

And I was left in cold and stone, to make

A home for me alone, from sticks and straw

That I myself had faithfully gathered

From the common man, I expect failure,

Not from men to whom I swear my fealty

From the riff raff, I endure rejection

But not from those entrusted with my heart.

I saw my hero fall, beside the desk

A massive falsehood swirling in his head

He had forgotten who he was, who I

Sideswiped by multitude mutinous lies,

Karma of ruthlessness returned to haunt,

And that is why I’m shy of any man,

who trumps my hand at brains, brawn, heart or lust;

I saw my hero fall, and I can trust

In mere men, no more, when gods are needed

I saw my hero fall before my eyes

Gut-wrenched I was because for moment’s pause

I thought utopia had finally come

He was so handsome – understanding – wise

©Cherry Odelberg April 29, 2020

Holding Out For a Hero

WANTED: Hiking Buddy

Wanted: Hiking Buddy
Generally – as is commonly repeated – I savor silence. I embrace solitude. A walk is a meditation. I almost prefer to hike alone.
Generally, I follow the thinking of a young female ranger who once pointed out to me, “Cherry, I have found there are places I will never get to go if I wait until someone can go with me.” And so it happens that I travel alone. I go to movies alone. I take myself out to dinner table for one. I kayak alone. I spontaneously lace on my hiking boots and head out my front door – or I park the Subaru at a likely trailhead and commence exploring. Still, I am a cautious being; and, I like to think, wise. I long to touch the Colorado River – dip my toes in- everywhere I can – all the way from Lulu City Colorado to the backwash of the Salton Sea and the Gulf of California. When I swim in Lake Powell, I think of it as dipping my toes in the Colorado River. Soon after my arrival in Northern Arizona, I learned of Cathedral Wash, a moderate hike of about 4 miles beginning in Glen Canyon National Recreation area and ending on the Colorado River about two and a half river miles downstream from the Paria Riffle. One day I parked my car and headed down the wash. It was a negotiable route until I reached a pour off. The drop was only five feet or so – easy going down, but what of the return trip? I needed a hiking buddy-not a tall one- just someone to lean on-someone to boost – someone to pull. Yesterday I departed from my flat on foot. Half a mile later I was in a gray sandstone slot canyon that stretches from Highway 89 down to Wahweap Bay. Coming from the neighborhood, I accessed the wash at mid-point, hiked toward the bay until I hit a 25-foot drop off. Rather than find a route around, I hiked back toward Highway 89 to ascertain landmarks for the beginning of the route. This route is well known to a group known as The Happy Hikers, and multiple footprints were evident in the bottom of the canyon. As I progressed up the wash, I came to a place where the slot narrowed, where I climbed into a sort of lemon squeezer, no footpath on the bottom so butt scooting became necessary. There was an obstruction. There was light on the other side. Could I cross over? Yes. Should I cross over? Probably not. If only I had a hiking buddy. Unfamiliar with the route, I did not know what came next and I might soon have to reverse the route. Already the rock I had moved to climb into the lemon squeezer had crumbled, being only of mudstone. I had passed multiple small rock falls in the canyon. I backtracked and caught the first available steep climb out of the canyon and followed a coyote trail along the rim, reconnoitering as I went. Yes, the butt scoot would have been possible, but to no avail. Immediately thereafter were two twenty-foot pour offs to circumvent. As it turns out, I made the right decisions. In addition, I have recently discovered a route around the pour off in Cathedral Wash. Maybe I don’t need a hiking buddy after all? But then again, it has been fun going longer distances with the Martys and Lindas and Johannas and Janices in my life. Solitude is fine, but society has its merits. The best things in life are shared. Hiking Buddy wanted!

IMG-4279

(Image is at nine o’clock, tools are obstinate)

What would you give to be loved?

She was single. At an adult time in life when most would assume and presume to be married. Or is that true? Many of her friends were also alone. Grown children. Estranged spouses. Sometimes more than one. In some cases, a deceased spouse. A lifetime of anticipated marriage and a dream of growing old together had certainly taken an unexpected and unwelcome turn for each of them.

Once in awhile, she and her single friends might discuss loneliness – the dream of actually finding a soul mate. Often, they iterated the good; how really nice it was to be single and independent, to arrange life without regard to the strong opinion of another. Some joined singles groups online or in person in an active bid to find a partner. One or two friends were openly desperate, chasing a string of lovers. Others quietly waited and pined.

Secure in her singleness, outwardly content, with a measure of independence, she still found herself one day in deep longing and yearning.

She was out walking (although it could have been any legitimate hobby or activity beloved by an individual; knitting, painting, golfing, yoga). Minding her own business. Steadily moving forward. Putting one foot in front of the other. She was suddenly overcome by longing and yearning. Articulating the feeling, she said, “I would give anything to be loved!” She sighed and coddled the pangs of longing for a few moments.

“Really?” asked her brain. “Have you not done this before with less than satisfactory result? Would you repeat the past? Hold on to someone who didn’t want to stay? Help someone who didn’t want your help?”

Love is not a thing you can barter and get a guaranteed return. Love cannot be enforced. It is ineffective to say, “Look how much I gave up for you! Now you are obligated to love me unconditionally.”

There is such a thing as strong, healthy self-respecting, other-respecting self- sacrificial love. There are things you give up, willingly out of your love for others. For family you love. You self-sacrifice willingly your goods, your desires, even your life to directly love someone else. But, when you give, or give up, in a bid to get that other person to love you because you so desperately need love, that is unhealthy.

So. What would you give for love? Would you give up your writing? Your music? Your goals? Your successes? For a time, yes, to care for a dearly loved one. But for life? For the whims of others?

“Love,” said wise counsel, “is not 50 / 50. It is 100% / 100%. You bring 100% of who you are into a relationship. But if you give up all you are, you no longer have 100% to give. You have nothing to give.”

She reconsidered the ancient parable of the 7 foolish and 7 wise virgins. Be wise. Be always prepared. She got that part loud and clear. For decades she was perplexed by the fact that the wise virgins did not share with the foolish – did not give up their provisions self sacrificially. And Jesus, who was telling the story, thought that was okay? Yes.

Why? Because to split their oil would, a few miles down the road, cast everyone into darkness and make all 14 of them the loser. How much better for the seven wise to hold their torches high, full of oil, and spread light on everyone – even the seven foolish. In this way the wise, the prepared multiplied their effectiveness and shared light with everyone.

“So. Be it known,” she said, “I will not again sacrifice who I am and who I am designed to be in a bid to get someone to love me enough. I will bring my 100% and shed all my light on the relationship until my oil is spent and my light extinguished.”

 

 

In loving manipulation

All she really ever wanted to do was make a difference in the world – one man at a time. Maybe even just make a difference in the world of one man for a lifetime. Service was all she had to give. And we all know love expresses itself best through service. Well, don’t we? So she sat out to change his world one little detail at a time. Not to change him – she knew better than to do that; but to order his world, to organize his life for optimum success. She tidied his wardrobe. She cooked nutritious meals. She stocked the magazine rack and the bookshelf with cogent current events reading material. She was continually self-sacrificing of things she wanted and needed in order to put funds toward his success. She gave him wonderful backrubs to ease the tension of the day and to help him feel secure, cared for, and confident. She put off her own schooling in order to reach higher for his. And did he thank her? Well, of course not! It is embarrassing to be smothered and made to feel obligated. Besides that, maybe he knew intuitively that self-sacrifice is a lessor virtue – perhaps an easier virtue – than to love, really love. Honestly, she should have spoken plainly and let her needs be known. But before we fault her unduly may we remember she was never taught how to take responsibility for her own care – only how to take responsibility for others. Well, somebody’s got to do it! And of course, nobody else did. So she rose to the occasion and lovingly manipulated his environment. And it was disastrous. Obviously, he should have taken responsibility for his own baggage. Just as truly, but maybe not quite as obviously, it was incumbent on her to accept responsibility for her own choices and relational health.

Motivating the Challenged

I love it when people get their needs met; the perfect meal, a soul mate love, a forever home, a fulfilling job, the “ah, ha!” moment in education when the light goes on – the one thing that satisfies so fully it propels them on to fuller life.

I am fascinated by what makes people tick, Mozart and the brain, how to reach students with ADHD, learning to speak another person’s learning language be it visual, auditory, kinesthetic.

So I watched with interest as a young man marketed a breakthrough in how to reach Aspergers.

In a nutshell? Meet their needs. The young man displayed an Aspergers sensory funnel model (which juxtaposes nicely with Maslow’s hierarchy of needs) and explained how students, children and people in general learn or receive optimally once you meet their basic needs.

It is a compelling thought for teachers and caretakers, yet something in me still asks, Who meets the needs of the caretakers of the world? Have they no needs?

Are the caretakers complete and perfect persons? Those who have already arrived? In every type relationship, reciprocity must happen. There is a payoff, a reward of some type.

I love being a caretaker, I really do. But, there comes a time my well is empty. Who refills my well? Can I do it alone? Everybody needs a reward-a payoff.

What is your payoff? Money? Prestige? Power? Acknowledgement? Love? Applause? Feeling good about yourself? What motivates you?

When octogenarians fail to individuate

The woman was barely in her sixties, trim, fit, well-kept; in fact, she still shopped for her clothes in the junior department, not because she was an ill-adjusted old lady, but because clothes from every other department had to be adjusted to fit.  She didn’t look a day over 45. She arrived at the party late, when things were breaking up and people were dispersing – an accurate indicator of her desire to be somewhere else, maybe up in the mountains, solitary. A distant acquaintance had invited her to this neighborhood party – pressed her to come – to someone else’s neighborhood.  Her parent’s neighborhood.  So she curtailed her hiking activities on her day off and slid in – to old home plate -just in time to greet the other guests and wave goodbye.

For a moment, her eighty-two-year-old mother’s face lit with pleasure on seeing her. Then a passing and quickly veiled expression of shock was directed toward her still shapely and tan legs protruding from stylish shorts, followed by composed greeting and introductions. Octogenarian Mama covered well, but her compulsions did not escape the 60-year-old woman. Mama tugged two or three times at the side of her own skirt bringing the fabric ever lower over her knees. It was a familiar gesture to the woman, one her mother employed liberally during the teen years to remind the daughter to cover her legs, to be more modest. 42 years.  42 years later, Mama could beam with pride outwardly, yet her subconscious betrayed her embarrassment through compulsive action.

It would be uncharitable to infer the older woman had not grown over the years. In as much as she was capable, within her limits, she made the effort to acknowledge the changes in culture, the successes of her children, to express her pride in their achievements, though they were certainly not making the exact choices she instilled in them. Like most mothers of grown children, she wanted to be a part of their lives as often as possible.  And like most grown, well-adjusted adults, the children pursued lives of their own in other cities and visited their parents sparingly. Healthily, the children, it seems, have become successful individuals. It is Mama who has failed to individuate. One simple gesture revealed volumes.  She still sees the daughter as an extension of herself. Daughter’s legs are showing and she is mortified. Who can save her from the shame?  Only herself. She must shake off that mortification and individuate. Learn to be happy and at peace by savoring her own independence as a unique individual. Respect and applaud the independence and individuation of others.  She is no longer responsible for her children.  Her reputation does not rest on them. And, in truth, they are not responsible for her happiness.

 

May you be happier than you have been in a long time

She looked happy and healthy there in the staff picture and I told her so, whereupon she confessed to being happier than she has been in a long time.  So where does this happiness come from? I say it comes because finally, her basic needs are met.

Some of us are able to soldier on indefinitely without one or more of our basic needs being satisfied.  She is one of those toughies. It is arduous work. We may be hungry for a time, homeless for a week, not belong or not be loved for a season. Relentless poverty eventually takes its toll. Often, we are so consumed by basic survival needs that we cannot create or produce at optimum levels. Our creative work, our self-actualization suffers.

“If these “deficiency needs” are not met – with the exception of the most fundamental (physiological) need – there may not be a physical indication, but the individual will feel anxious and tense. Maslow’s theory suggests that the most basic level of needs must be met before the individual will strongly desire (or focus motivation upon) the secondary or higher level needs.”

In this case, she is happy because her basic Maslowian needs of food and shelter are met and she is free to relax in joy and create. She is dependent in the sense that part of her job security includes room and board, yet she is not totally dependent.  She is independent and interdependent because she pursued this position and works hard daily to earn and maintain it. Someone acknowledges her value, promotes her well-being, provides the right amount of training and challenging outdoor activity; all in a beautiful mountain setting.

How would you like to be happier than you have been in a long time?  Why not set about to take care of yourself?  To consciously address your basic needs?  A good job may be the first step – preferably doing something you love that includes serving others while taking care of yourself. It is hugely fulfilling to be independent enough to take responsibility for yourself and have enough to share.  Frequent beautiful places.  Exercise.  Don’t quit on your music, or writing, or reading, or things that enrich your life and nourish your soul. Sleep well.  Eat well. May you be happier than you have been in a long time.