FORESIGHT

I DON'T KNOW IF OTHER PEOPLE NOTICE THINGS LIKE THIS OR NOT. BUT I SEEM TO HAVE STARTED CATALOGING CATASTROPHES SOME TIME AGO...

AND IT MAKES ME WONDER: DO SOME PEOPLE SUBCONSCIOUSLY "KNOW" BEFOREHAND HOW THEY WILL DIE? AND IS THIS EVIDENCED BY CERTAIN LIFELONG PHOBIAS OR OBSESSIONS?

TAKE NATALIE WOOD'S UNTIMELY DEATH, FOR INSTANCE. I WAS PROBABLY IN MY TWENTIES WHEN I HEARD THE ACCOUNT OF HOW THIS GORGEOUS FILM STAR DROWNED AFTER LEAVING HER HUSBAND'S YATCH IN THE PITCH BLACK OF NIGHT TO BOARD A SMALL CRAFT ALONE. ADDED TO THIS TALE WAS THE FACT THAT MS WOOD HAD SUFFERED FROM A FEAR OF WATER AND HAD RECENTLY OVERCOME THIS

"UNREASONABLE" FEAR ONLY RECENTLY. (WAS SHE TRYING TO PROVE SOMETHING)?

WHY I REMEMBERED THIS STORY, I DON'T KNOW. THEN THERE WAS THE ARTICLE ABOUT A FORMER BEAUTY QUEEN WITH A PHOBIA OF HEIGHTS WHO FINALLY DECIDED --AFTER GAINING HER TIARA--TO TACKLE THAT "IRRATIONAL " ANXIETY BY GOING FOR A SKY DIVE. HOW IRONIC THAT ON HER FIRST FREE FALL, HER CHUTE FAILED TO OPEN AND SHE CRASHED TO HER UNTIMELY DEATH!

MORE RECENTLY, I READ ABOUT A LOCAL NEUROLOGIST WHO HAD DEVOTED HIS PROFESSIONAL CAREER TO PATIENTS WITH ALS, SEARCHING FOR CLINICAL TRIALS AND ANY ALTERNATIVE TREATMENTS. AFTER HE SUCCUMBED TO THIS SAME DISEASE

YEARS LATER, HIS WIDOW SOUNDED QUITE PUT OUT WITH GOD FOR REWARDING HIM SO CRUELY. COULD IT BE RATHER, THAT THE DOCTOR WAS ANXIOUS FOR A CURE BECAUSE SOMEWHERE INSIDE HE "KNEW" THAT HE TOO WOULD ONE DAY FALL VITIM TO ALS HIMSELF? WHICH REMINDS ME OF ANOTHER STORY ABOUT THE WOMAN WHO DIED OF BREAST CANCER AFTER TIRELESSLY WORKING AS A FUNDRAISER FOR THAT CAUSE--NO FAMILY HISTORY. WHAT WAS HER IMPETUS?

THERE IS A REMARKABLE POEM BY ROBERT FROST* FOUND IN THE FRONT OF CAROLYN MYSS' BOOK, "SACRED CONTRACTS." THE AUTHOR CHOSE THIS POEM TO ILLUSTRATE HER THEME THAT WE ALL MAKE PREBIRTH AGREEMENTS WITH GOD TO UNDERGO THE LIFE EXPERIENCES WE HAVE ON EARTH, OUR INDIVIDUAL SACRED CONTRACTS. THIS IDEA APPEALS TO ME FROM A CHRISTIAN STANDPOINT BECAUSE JESUS THE CHRIST AGREED WITH THE FATHER TO COME TO EARTH AS A SACRIFICE FOR HUMANITY. DO WE, TOO, FOLLOW HIM INTO THIS "VALLEY OF TEARS" TO FACE AN OBSCURED CROSS?

IN THE FINAL ANALYSIS, WHAT GOOD COMES OF SUCH SPECULATION? WE'LL PROBABLY NEVER KNOW FOR CERTAIN IF THIS THEORY IS TRUE WHILE WE LIVE.

BUT IT IS A WAY TO RECKON WITH OUR MYSTERIOUS OBSESSIONS AND FEARS. MAYBE SOME OF THESE ARE NOT SO MENTALLY QUESTIONABLE . MOST OF US WILL NOT MEET WITH INCREDIBLY AWFUL, UNTIMELY, OR IRONIC DEATHS. AND WE SHOULD ADDRESS OUR FEARS AS RATIONAL ADULTS--FOR THE MOST PART. STILL, THESE STORIES KEEP COMING TO MY ATTENTION TO JAR THIS SENSE OF COSMIC JUSTICE. IF WE GET TO DECIDE (AND AGREE TO) OUR FATES,

WE ARE THEN RESPONSIBLE PARTIES WITH NO ONE TO BLAME. AND THAT IS THE VERY DEFINITION OF MORALITY AS WELL AS MENTAL HEALTH.

*THE TRIAL BY EXPERIENCE

A lasting memory

A boy, a border collie, and cobbled streets sloping to the sea. This romantic image of Felixstowe

in Suffolk, England stays with me yet. It was an overcast, chilly afternoon. We had just stepped off the train, having travelled past lush countryside dotted with ancient towns and rolling farms on a summertime trip launched from the UK. The dog and his boy were with us on that train when it pulled into Felixstowe, where we had gamely booked a room in an old-fashioned hotel facing the English Channel. As the nearest venue available to our port of departure, it was a blind choice.

The boy (of about nineteen or twenty) was prevailed upon for directions--after our making much of the fact that dogs are allowed to travel on public transportation, of course. He obliged us by walking us down the main drag of this, his hometown, pointing towards the horizon and a presumable collision point with the sea. As our destination was Sea Road, we thought this was exactly right. Could we get there on foot? He assured us it was an easy walk, although he did not know of the hotel.

So, dragging our luggage in fits and starts down cobbled stones, gravity aided us in making quick progress. However, the streets were coming to life with vendors and shopkeepers of all

types. It was friday, and a spirit of festivity pervaded the marketplace. The day was gloomy and misting a bit as we travelled past the friendly folk; no one seemed to mind. The boy, coming upon a sister and her babies, bid us goodbye in his shy manner, the dog rejoicing with his master in joining his pack.

We marveled at the beauty of old bricks and quaint stores as we proceeded seaward. As we approached the channel, the wind and chill grew--invigoratingly. The streets sloped ever more precariously, and the luggage picked up speed. Our destination seemed to be in a sparsely inhabited area, as we saw fewer persons and more dilapidated, forsaken real estate here. When we came upon the waterside at last, as sign told us Sea Road began at this point to run parallel to it, and we careened to the right, hoods up and shoulders set against the winds.

Another long hike brought us to our final destination, The Marlboro Hotel. We were glad to get indoors and find our tidy, unadorned room with window thrown open to the breeze. No air conditioning here, (the advertisement promised it would be heated)! We were tired but cozy.

As soon as the weather turned again, as it always does in this part of the world, we set out to look for a dining spot and explore this serendipitous port of call. We had no sooner stepped from the hotel's door, when our young lad was spotted strolling along the sea wall, dog at heels,

directly across the street. I thought to call out to him something about the "easy walk" being none so easy, in a joking manner--but stopped short. There was something about him. His lean frame loping so free of care, head held high, seeing some distant dream in the salty sea mist...

It seemed wrong to toss a crass, extroverted American greeting into the reverie I could all but read in his demeanor.

And this is what touched me more than all the beautiful museums and parks I subsequently viewed on my journey. When youth turns homeward at last and says "This place I come from is not so bad. " For a few moments in time he had seen his little village through our amazed eyes and found it lovely. He always knew it was so, but was pulled to what the world called beauty.

His home was becoming Home to him. And that is a sacred moment.

Dreaming with Stephen King...

An unsettling prospect--perhaps--but, so far, not too bad. I drift off each night with Mr. King's "voice" telling me a tale about ordinary people who go through extraordinary experiences.

Isn't this what we all identify with? I'm reading stuff all out of order, I'm sure. It doesn't matter if I have the latest tome on the market. I didn't really love DREAM CATCHERS or DOME so much as the older ones like PET SEMATARY and ROSE MADDER. Those new bigger works were just too bulky and dragged on and on....

"Cujo" and "The Girl Who Loved Tim Gordon" are short and do the job. I even read "On Writing" and enjoyed the ride. As a boomer, I fall into a category in-between those whose imaginations have been well-exercised in childhood and those whose imaginations have been warped by TV, cheap comic books, and movies. It all comes together in one mind with Stephen King, I think.

His characters often repeat unconscious mantras to themselves as they go about their days, just as we all do. The little jingles from cartoons and commercials that play in our heads are just part of the stream-of-consciousness of characters like us. And when these ordinary people confront dead pets coming back to life out of Indian burial grounds, and antique paintings that change and influence the real world, even (as in DUMA KEY), art that predicts the future, we can wonder along with the fictional folks,"How can this be happening?" Which is not that far from "Could that stuff ever happen to me?"

And such is the stuff my dreams are made of. Dreams of the sort that occur between waking and sleeping....We walk the land of illusion and surprise in this sphere. Never quite certain

what will appear to the mind's eye next, yet knowing Papa King will turn the page before it gets too scary.

Baa Baa white sheep

Lately I've run across the phenomena of families wherein one sibling among the many appears to have it together better than the herd, but is butted out of the fold---for a variety of reasons.

Identified by the others as a "black sheep," this one goes on to achieve more life success than predicted by the family. And often outstrips his siblings.

One has only to recall the Biblical account of Joseph ( of the amazing colorful coat), to know this misperception has ancient roots. Joseph gets sold off into slavery by his many older brothers out of intense jealousy of his father's favoritism. One would expect a bad end for poor Joe. Miraculously, instead, Joseph undergoes severe trials but ends up as pharoah's man in charge and is found living large in the land of the pyramids. Poetically, his brothers live to see this and are forced to humble themselves before him.

Those who counsel families professionally, often observe that the "identified patient," tagged as the cause of all familial woes, is actually acting out a normal response to to the others' craziness. (Thank God i got you all into therapy)!

A recent family reunion offered rich food for rumination. I met a couple who'd both fled dysfunctional families by moving several states away in order to raise their own children out of the stream of constant drama. They recounted tales of elderly parents being financially sucked dry, siblings in and out of jail, multiple marital disasters,and teen pregnancies in the present generation of grandkids. Incredibly, their own two sons had grown up to become respectable college graduates with solid values who were now best buds with them both. And, as a testament to their inner strength, their own marriage had survived the sudden death of a child.

Yet, as I watched the diverse families converge on one another in close quarters at this reunion, I noted that this couple was not embraced as wholeheartedly as one might expect. Indeed, it appeared that the more dysfunctional ones clung to one another (for moral support?)!

Who are the black sheep? Who gets to decide? Am I the black sheep in my family, teased since childhood as such because I alone shared our parents' dark hair color? Tagged again in adolescence when I found my interests lay in Jungian psychology, and my siblings in the world of camping equipment and cameras? In adulthood always one step out of touch with the pack because I married and had children ahead of the rest; held down a fulltime demanding job and couldn't always make time to keep up with their lives?

Only in time are our true colors revealed. Now, with more gray hairs than black, I can relax and relate to my siblings on my own terms. There can be no harsh judgement as success speaks for itself: marriage that has stood the trials and temptations of thirty years, three young adult children with good hearts and minds (and jobs)! Retirement allows me to travel more often and connect. I may not act like a black sheep anymore, but I still wear the difference on the inside.

And that same difference keeps me on a solitary track. I've finally accepted that.

Who are the black sheep? Who gets to decide? You can. Embrace it--if that's your lot. Because in most cases, I suspect, it's that lonely rut filled road of the outcast that leads inexplicably to a deeper, more fulfilling life.

Good Dog, speak!

My name is Lexi, and I am an adopted dog of the mixed breed variety. Some call us "mutts."

My mistress sometimes calls me "Lexicon"--which I think sounds common! or "Lexapro"--which I hear is a happy pill! But anything is better than my original name of "Adelheide!"

I just gotta say: being adopted is wonderful. About a year ago I entered the household of my current mistress, joining the pack with her husband and an inbred rottie, named "Luke."

You would think heaven had made a surprise landing in the livingroom the way they carry on about the simplest things I do! In contrast to the big gullute, who can't tell a "Come" from a "stay" command, I look like the smartest thing since cheese whiz!

Luke doesn't understand it when I get slipped the best scraps, and catch the most belly rubs--

I wanna scream "Basic Obedience!" at him, but he still wouldn't get it. Those folks at the SPCA weren't dealing with a moron! I knew my ticket outa there was all about the people....

Once they showed me the ropes, I knew all I had to do was bat my lashes and answer to any name they gave me and I was home free. Goodbye Adelheide, hello Lexi--or whatever...

Spoiled inbreds don't even have to try. They look like the picture of whatever they're supposed to be, and people fall all over 'em. Luke is a beauty of a rottweillor, but I outclass him all the time.

Hey, I got the best genes from whatever my parents were. Some people say I look like a german

shepherd, some guess there's a corgie in there, too; lots say I look like a keshound or an australian shepherd....I like to keep 'em guessing. If I mind my manners and act humble, they just love to feel sorry for me!

As much as caninely possible, I keep to myself. Other than the occasional frolic with the big guy, or the short-lived snuggle with the mistress, I go my own way. If I want attention, all Ihave to do is whimper a little, and she comes running! And don't get me started about the hubbie, he

is so protective, I can hardly go for a car ride without him fussing about it to the mistress!

"Did you lock the doors?" "If you lost her, it'd be the death of you!" Reallly?

But it's nice here. Lots of room to roam about. No cars to watch out for. Luke stays indoors a lot, but me, I gotta see the world out there. There's squirrels, there's ducks, there's even deer!

And a turkey comes 'round at night!

Wre've survived all these eons by adapting

You never get bored. There's others in the pack, but they don't hang around here long. There's a girl who brings her dogs over to play with me. (So annoying)!

There's the really tall guy who lets me sleep on his bed at night when he's here...

There's the little lady who seems like my mistress but closer to the ground; she loves to pet me and talk baby talk to me...They come and go. They all like Luke, too. But I can tell I'm the favorite.

Life is good. Don't ask me for any pearls of wisdom. For dogs, it's much simpler than for people. We adapt, that's our genius. Gotta go now--something moved in those bushes!