Some Lessons in Belonging

"We have to be careful. It can't be easy because they don't want to be one of us, they just want to have the girls and get them pregnant so that they can take them off into their own community."

That is how I remember the answer given to me about why it is so difficult in Indonesia to become Christian (Protestant, Catholicism is considered to be a different religion and there are 7 that are recognized by the government; Islam, Christian, Catholic, Hindu, Buddhist, Confucianism, and Traditional Beliefs). 

The process to become Christian involves, at least, a six-month series of classes before one is ready to be baptized into the religion. I suppose we're spoiled in the US that we only have to profess Christ as our Lord and Savior and we're Christian. We're also spoiled that at least for now, there is a relatively respected separation between church and state. There are myriad traditions and faiths permitted the freedom to worship in ways consistent with their own beliefs that are not interpreted and regulated by governmental entities. 

I wondered why it's such a long and arduous process. I have a friend who attended Catholic schools growing up, despite the fact that she was Muslim. When she decided to become Christian later in life, attending church and making a profession of faith was not enough. She had to attend those classes and sadly, the contents were less about building a closer relationship with God through Christ, but more about rote memorization of verses with unquestionable (questionable) interpretations.

That's not the faith I know, but you know what? What I know doesn't matter all that much anymore because regardless of the intent behind the adage "no matter where you go, there you are", it's not so cut and dry. The 'who we are' that we bring will look different depending on the lens. Full stop.

As in every culture, in American music, film, and literature - American Art, I'll say, there are often common threads of learning and growing, suffering and oppression, defiance, baptism (change) through water, and finally redemption. 

Iron Man plummets into what should have been a watery grave only to emerge better and more enlightened. The same happened to Jason Bourne. Running Bear and Little White Dove escape the misery of tribal feuding to enter the land of love together, defying their tribes by sacrificing their lives, embracing each other within the swirling stream of the river that separated them. Tall thin Jones Jones saves poor sweet Sue who wouldn't hand over the keys to her family land (her soul?) Born by the river, Sam Cooke knew a change was going to come. The bad boss man in Roadhouse got what was coming to him. Who can forget a little taste of this delicious chocolate pie I made just for you?  And Delta Dawn knew to wait, even though her rose had long faded. Who can forget the advice given to Spiderman (with great power comes great responsibility), which is roughly based on the Bible verse, To whom much is given, much will be required (Luke 12:48).

I know I'm reaching, but the point is that we cannot escape - regardless of the increase in the number of "nones" in America - our religious heritage. Our religious heritage is strong and I thought it would never bow to the likes of authoritarianism, bullying, or exploitation. While it is true that Christianity has enjoyed majority status in the US, we cannot ignore the indigenous religions, as well as those that came ashore in the hearts and minds of believers who were under intense duress and treated inhumanely, those religions that were carried with people escaping oppression and violence. That is our contextualized religion. We have no "state" church. The government doesn't dictate how to be ____________ (insert religion here). May we never forget that. Big Bad John used his power to save the other miners.  It always works that way in American folklore. We, regardless of religious affiliation, stand up to bullies and none of us will take being pushed around lightly. We're not gonna take it.

And yet we have. And we do. What constitutes a bully or abuse seems to be changing. The teenager who's triggered by your ancient terminology for something that is no longer shameful seems, in some circles, to deserve getting slapped back into comatose for being - AGH! WOKE! What could be worse than woke? It seems that an accepted definition of bully is one who hurts another's feelings. Even if the hurt feelings belong to as asshole whose never been held accountable for being an asshole. What the hell? Really?

My point is simple while my thoughts and examples are not. And that provides the best foundation for what I'm thinking and want to say: Almost everything is complicated. Things change depending on the lens through which we see them, the experiences we use to understand them, and the cultural norms we consciously or unconsciously reference to evaluate them. Not to mention the prejudices and beliefs we hold for ourselves and others. There's a reason we're not called to judge, why we should be patient and kind, not pushy with our own ways. We cannot possibly understand many things sufficiently to warrant leaving our own lanes to police others. Right and wrong become harder to pin when we expand our thinking, that's not to say that some things aren't right or wrong, but again. Where are we coming from to make those assertions? It's something to think about and hopefully grow a bit (or a pair, who knows?).   

Whose Comfort Counts?

Today is Thanksgiving. 

Memories of this day often revolve around family, food, and football.

I haven't been in the United States for Thanksgiving in eleven years, so I don't really know what it's like now. And anyway, I don't really celebrate Thanksgiving, or any other holiday, for that matter, as I did before. In fact, I am usually rather sad on days that are major holidays in my homeland, but I do have memories, and memories are for remembering and traditions must be made anew.  Grow, grow, GROW! ...as we used to say.

My grandmother loved to sneak gizzards in the dressing. My cousins and I would always ask her not to put them in there, but to no avail. She would feign ignorance,  "What? Well, honey, I don't know about that - I didn't think there were any in there" and she'd quietly giggle and it became something of a joke. Nowadays it might not be so funny, as accommodating people's requests is akin to acknowledging both their right to exist and their beliefs.

That being said, some of the most memorable Thanksgivings were those during my high school years, especially one in particular when addressing ugliness, sexism, and racism at the table led to a lively exchange, which is forever etched in my mind. We were coming into our own as young people and we were not complaisant. While I miss my Grandmother's cooking and I miss seeing my cousins, I don't miss tense road trips with my angry father or the heated arguments that would inevitably scorch the Thanksgiving table. As I got older, I was in more control about where and with whom I would spend this special day. My Thanksgiving memories as an adult are much sweeter, happier, and embraceable. I was blessed to have experienced Thanksgiving with new family relations, friends from different parts of the country, and people whose families were too far away for them to meet. Thanksgiving had truly become a time to be thankful.   

***

I am an animal lover and that informs my eating decisions. Period. That being said, while living in another country, I'm not always in the control seat for menu offerings. Travelers are often advised that as guests, we should eat what is offered to us. Anything else would be considered rude, but at what point is it acceptable to consider your own comfort (and beliefs) when it comes to food?

This post won't answer that question - or any others. In fact the older I get the more I realize how little I know and hell, even if I did know something at one time, it surely doesn't mean the question is the same. Flexibility is key and so is a healthy dose of introspection. 

Where I live, due to religious beliefs, a great majority of the population neither drinks alcohol nor eats pork. As you can imagine, the lack of pork has never really been an issue for me, but at times it's been a little disheartening not to be able to find a cold beer when the mood hits. That being said, for many Indonesian Christians I've known over the years, the feeling seems to be that since there are no religious prohibitions for us regarding food, we (as I am a follower of Christ) are not only free to eat whatever we want, but that we should. I imagine this thinking stems from the scripture 1 Timothy 4: 4-5 (NIV)

4 For everything God created is good, and nothing is to be rejected
 if it is received with thanksgiving,
5 because it is consecrated by the word of God and prayer.

When I see online (in social media or news stories) that people are uncomfortable, stressed, or even a little irritated about accommodating the food requirements or preferences of guests sharing the Thanksgiving table, I naturally reflect on my years here. I think about the people who know that I don't want to eat meat or foods from animals and how graciously they have treated me. I think of the people that know and haven't cared, expecting me to eat what they serve since there's no "real" reason for me not to eat meat or products from animals. I reflect on my years in the service industry where I learned that sharing a meal with friends means a whole lot more than just eating. And maybe most of all, I think of what a privilege it is to prepare food for loved ones. Of what a blessing it is to be together, to laugh, to be happy.

I think about how eating is such a public thing, yet taps our inner most being - where grace can so easily turn to malice and sharing can shift towards judgment. Where eating dogs and cats is volleyed around just to get a reaction - from someone who lives in a house with cats AND a dog. 

Thanksgiving is a lovely time to gather and be thankful. Sharing a meal is a meaningful way to show love and friendship, but from where I sit, peace begins on a plate. If that offends you, may you find comfort. And may we all learn how to love one another, giving thanks that we can make choices with a spirit of compassion for all. If we choose ;)

Feathers and Fur

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all
Emily Dickinson

Perhaps I should have listened to my superstitious gut. I should not have put the collage of photos on Facebook yesterday. Yes, he was getting better (I thought) and it was safe to share his journey.

I have learned over the years that often when it seems like they're getting better, it's more like a last ditch effort to survive. This morning when I went to check on him as I have for the past week and a half, he was almost stiff, eyes closed, as if he had passed in his sleep. Thank goodness for small comforts. 

Sometimes I say that I'm all cried out. I have cried so much over many lost lives, many unfair, unjust, and just plain sad things that I wonder if I have anything left in my heart at all; perpetual triggers and endless chances to grow through disappointment.

Hope is what carries me through the tough times. Faith teaches me how to access it, it's the branch for the little bird to sit on. Love is in the fluffy fur of every creature I touch and it's the spring of all that is good and worthy. 

Rest well, little one.

13 So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three;

but the greatest of these is love.

1 Corinthians 13:13

God does not require us to achieve any of the good tasks that humanity must pursue.

What God requires of us is that we never stop trying.

Bayard Ruskin

53 Percent, Revisited in the Light of 55 Percent

Soon after the 2016 election, I wrote 99% of what follows. Last night I listened to an interview with Malcolm Gladwell who shared that he was happy to think in front of others with the ability to learn and grow together. In that spirit I am sharing this older post, especially in light of the apparent reality that more white women voted for Trump in 2020 than in 2016. I'm working hard to make sense of this, but at the same time, if race is indeed learned and is a social construct, this bubble dwelling hermit changed majors long ago. 

                                                                                *****

I read that 53% of white women (white like me?) voted for Donald Trump. I've seen varying numbers; the lowest being 42% and the highest is 53%. It's not my intention to shame them (us?) - women are human beings and have the right - always - to do as they (we) see fit. Secondly, I don't see hand-wringing or softness on either side. We are ALL on a mission and we all feel "right".

That being said, I was completely befuddled as to how so many women could vote for someone who has obviously disrespected and cheated on (arguably) each of his three wives (at least he divorced and didn't try to justify cheating while remaining married - that's an all-too-common reality for another post), as well as said that he could "grab a woman's p---- because he can" - or something to that effect - and no, to me it doesn't matter when he said it: such a nasty attitude doesn't just "go away."

Have these women never been grabbed? Groped? Forced to have sex against their will? Propositioned for sex by men in positions of authority? Have they been lied to or cheated on? Are they, like me, still holding a grudge against Hillary for not kicking Bill to the curb or, at least, for the back-handed slut-shaming of those who choose to "stand by |their| men"?

I believe in the rights of women, but identity politics plays no part in my belief. I've taken heat for not showing compassion for those who choose a different way of being female. I will not stand up for a woman who abuses her children or spouse, who plays a position of weakness to manipulate or to gain benefits for her own selfish ends. Being catty or bitchy is not a part of what it means to be a woman. It's a part of being human and there's no better proof than to look at all the catty, bitchy men who troll and yell. I am a feminist, but certainly not of the "Female First" camp, but rather a feminist fortified by humanism. In this day in age in America, the need for women to play small no longer exists, so don't be surprised that I can understand why women wouldn't choose to support Hillary

BUT

not supporting Hillary does not default into support for Trump - or did it? I cannot understand how they would vote for Donald Trump. And today I wonder why and how.

As often as we have found ourselves straddling an imaginary boundary between good girl/bad girl, sex object or virgin, warrior or princess, I guess I thought those days were pretty much over. It's clear they're not.

Many years ago, I was having lunch with my dear Grandmother and her sister, my dear aunt. This was in 1995 when Shannon Faulkner and a handful of other women sought entry into the prestigious Corps of Cadets at the Citadel, famed military academy in South Carolina.

When I brought up the case - thinking it would be yet another opportunity to further develop our strong bonds - their faces immediately changed into scary, angry monsters "I hope they get raped -  every single one of them! I hope they get raped!" These two cultured Southern women descended into a tirade that would make the most dramatic soap opera diva jealous. Nobody could carry on like those two sisters and I just had to provoke it by wrongly thinking that we might be on the same page!

Even to this day that memory haunts me. How in the world...what were they thinking? I thought for sure, as strong as they were, that they would support an opportunity for young women with the will and ability to fight, to fight.  I was wrong. They had a different perspective and it in no way meant that women were weak or couldn't fight, it simply meant, I suppose, that war is for men and women should know their place and stay there. Period.

I'm embarrassed, but only a bit, to admit that I channeled their righteous indignation when I learned of the women supporting Trump. "How could they? I hope they get raped!" I caught myself and backpedaled. I'm not that person, but I would be lying if I said that the thought  - and the feeling - didn't briefly rage through my mind and body.

We should not be expected to be a monolithic body, but surely there are some places where we can find common ground, aren't there?

In the time since I began this post, the Women's March on Washington has transpired. And now, more than a year later, Stephanie Daniels/adult film actress, and her legal team headed by a man not afraid to speak out and sling hash, either, has filled the news. Mueller's team continues to bag game and white people all over America are calling the law on black people for...I'm going to say it..."not staying in their place." That is THE defining mentality of conservative-leaning people: know your place and stay in it. Are those 53% dutifully staying in their places? 

In reading as much as I can via the internet, as well as being able to discuss it with some friends who didn't march, I have a clearer idea of at least some of the answers to my initial query.

Some women just don't feel oppressed and they believe that other women are being unduly hysterical (now that's a loaded term, isn't it?), as well.

Maybe for some women, the belief that "our" men will protect us serves to quell any fears about the boyish boasting and potential harm from someone who, unabashedly, doesn't view women as fully human. Perhaps I'm a little jealous of such confidence. I've never known it. I can't remember being protected, but I can remember being blamed. As a woman, anything that happens to me is surely my fault. Boys have fun and girls have babies, after all.

The story of Sodom and Gomorrah, depending on your religious beliefs, either demonizes homosexuality or describes how we are to treat strangers.

For me, it not only tells how we are to treat the stranger among us, but it is a sad example of power and "playing the game". Lot offered his virgin daughters to the mob "to do with them as they will"(Genesis 19:8). I always wondered why it seemed nobody was as preoccupied with that as they were about the so-called homosexual overtones or the description of how to treat the stranger. Odder yet, is that even though Lot was willing to engage in their game of violence and power by giving his daughters, he was going to be made to suffer an even harsher fate! In other words, by speaking against the crowd, his male privilege was nil. That's what happens when anybody, male or female, speaks against power. Privilege be damned. That's one of the things that a lot of people on both sides fail to realize. Privilege only goes so far without a commitment to the game.

As I read the story again, the two virgin daughters had another role to play after they fled the city.

I don't want to dwell on that story except to say that the fate of the daughters, at first, was in the hands of the father. A fine fate that would have been, too, I imagine. Later, after they fled, by taking responsibility for themselves and for humanity, albeit in an unsavory manner, they too did what they were "supposed to do"; they continued their lineage.

I'm trying hard to understand different perspectives, especially about what it means to be a woman in this Patriarchal world that too often forces us to be pitted against each other.

I have to remember that the 53% of white women have white fathers, white brothers, white uncles, and very likely, white sons. This puts them in the unfortunate position of not only maintaining and nurturing systemic racism, but also the Patriarchy.

I'm going to disagree with the women who voted for Trump, but at the same time, I will try not to demonize, name-call, or shame them. That's a game and a system that I want no part of. I will continue to hope that we all can do what we think we need to do, what we're supposed to do, and that we'll be ready to be accountable and to change our views if necessary.

https://www.thecut.com/2020/11/many-white-women-still-voted-for-trump-in-2020.html

Snake Dreams

When I was in high school, I often dreamed about snakes. 

Snakes on the ground; I had to step over them to get to class. Snakes covering the road as I road my bike home. Happily swimming underwater in a clear, blue pool, only to emerge to see snakes slithering along the surface. A sharp bite on the top of my foot, awaking to find that I had kicked the foot of the bed to shake the serpent.




At the time, I thought the snakes symbolized my life; unable to trust people or places - scariness and danger lurking around every corner. A few of my friends, in that cutesy hyper-sexualized teenager way, laughed that they knew why I was dreaming of snakes, but I knew that wasn't the reason.



So aptly put by my daughter many years later, it seemed that the ground was always uncertain. I had no solid ground, a place of safety, on which to stand. The ground was always moving. I had never thought of that before; only of discomfort, threats, and imminent danger. No firm foundation. Hm.


The last snake dream I remember happened during a time of great change in my life. I was 21 or 22 years old. In the dream I was of being chased around my grandparent's house by a huge and ominous snake. Round and round we went - I was terrified and ran up one side and down the other, only to have that snake at my heels. Unrelenting. As I ran I remember thinking, I can run like this forever or I can kill that snake. Somehow I was able to grab what can best be described as a stone mason's hammer. I turned on the snake, grabbing it by the head and pinned it down to kill it. As soon as I had it down to deliver the death blow, before my eyes the snake transformed into my precious pet, my cat Rayne. Unable to harm my cat, I let it go, only to see it once again become the snake and pursue me with renewed vengeance. If I recall correctly, I was finally able to kill the snake, but only with the knowledge that even though it looked like my cat, it was not. As soon as the hammer dropped, the snake coiled into a shapeless mass and died.


I often dreamed of snakes.


Sometimes when I try to think of how to describe my first experiences here in Indonesia, the first description would be swimming - colors, advertisements, chaos, confusion, and buzzing motorbikes everywhere. Swimming; or treading water in a pool of snakes.

I thought I was going for a swim. I thought I knew how to swim and that was enough. I'd been a lifeguard in high school, afterall. That, however, is not enough when the pool is full of snakes.


Matthew 10:16

Pay attention, now! I am sending you out like sheep among wolves. 

So be as cunning as serpents and as innocent as doves. 

Be the Church; on Christmas and Everyday

This post was in my draft folder and in the spirit of trying to compile experiences and reflections, I've updated it for this year. I'm surprised that even after 2 years, so many topics remain relevant. Thank you for reading. May all the blessings of this holiday season be with you throughout the year!

***

As long as I can remember, Christmas has been my favorite season. Beginning with a big, gorgeous (and REAL!) tree the day after Thanksgiving, the season continued with community service, introspection and reflection, baking, church services, song, and much, much, merriment. In looking back, now from a completely different vantage, shopping was also a big part of the season, but in my family, it was never about TVs, camcorders, and new cellphones, but about the tireless effort to find just the right thing for all the right people; sometimes it was something small (a pack of gum to joke with a friend who can't seem to live without it) to the video game with the music that you swore you couldn't stand. The point of the shopping was about showing the people we care about that we remember them and love them - idiosyncrasies and all.

Christmas is, after all, about love. There are many ways to show it and the month of Christmas would be spent working to show it - in as many ways as possible.

For many of us, those ways begin in the pews. We know about Christmas because it's our faith tradition. We celebrate Christmas because it reminds us of God's gift to the world, Jesus Christ; God made flesh to live, love, and even suffer among us in human form.

I came to Indonesia as a missionary; not to proselytize, not to "plant churches", not to even really talk about my faith, but to serve.

It's been more than five years since I've worked as a missionary, but in reality, I've never stopping working towards that ultimate call to "be the Church".

It's easy to get caught up in what that means. In a place where religion is as much a part of one's identity (and even social status) as faith, it can be a challenge.

Daily I am reminded that the life of Christ, much like any of our lives, is seen through the eye of the beholder. What is "Christian" to some is arguably NOT to others. What makes the foundation of my faith may, or may not be, what fortifies the faith (or religious practices) of other Christians. Regardless, we are called to be the Body of Christ. For the past seven years I've been trying to find that place, been trying to be a part of the church of believers. I've been trying, to the best of my human ability, to follow Christ the Redeemer.

As an outsider, I'm thankful that I don't have to put  my religion on an ID card. I'm thankful for the privilege that allows me to practice my faith in the way I know as an American and not in the tracks of colonial empire. It is a privilege and I am thankful, but I'm also sad.

I'm sad that I can't engage in the traditions and conversations that predominate in my culture. I miss the opportunity to "do" things that make me feel good and hopefully help others. One year we "adopted" a family; a single mom with two or three children. That year, for the first time in my life, I had a decent job and a little disposable income. I didn't spend much - maybe $200 - but I bought what was on the list and I spent as much time on that as I would with someone I knew. The bathrobe had to be a nice one...and on sale...the other things had to be things that anyone I knew would love to have. I threw in some extra things that I loved when I was killing myself to make ends meet...a pretty pair of earrings, fragrant bath and beauty products. I had put my heart into that endeavor and it felt good. When I was struggling as a single mom, I received a little basket from a Sunday school class for Mother's Day one year. I remembered how much it meant to have pretty things for me. Of course it's a blessing to receive baby clothes and other related needs, but mommies have needs, too. It felt good to finally be able to (hopefully) return that feeling. I miss that.

One day a few years ago I was sharing some of those things with my Mom. True to form, she said "Well Charlotte - you're going to have to create new traditions". And also true to form, I tried to do what she advised.

In 2014, we began hosting an intimate Christmas gathering. The first year consisted of a small group of friends - we all had our stories and together we shared our joys and struggles. The next year we added a few more, and the next a few more, and this year, 2017, was the largest of them all, but the spirit of peace, joy, friendship, and togetherness remained.

This new tradition is a blessing for me - it's the one time of year I can "be me", with all my idiosyncrasies and silliness. Most of all, I can express my faith in a new and very real way. You see, I neglected to mention that our Christmas gathering is always an interfaith event. I have taken part in religious-but-not-my-religion gatherings for babies, marriages, housewarmings, and more, but our Christmas gathering is the one time that I can share my traditions, my joy, and my sense of love and happiness with the people I appreciate every day throughout the year.

The menu is a "fusion" of Southern American and Indonesian selections - bean soup and rice are a staple, as are rum balls and bourbon balls, but this year we added a tray of fried treats - tempeh (tempe goreng), corn fritters (dada jagung), and potato croquettes (perkadel), not to mention the famed "tape ketan hitam" (fermented black sticky rice wrapped in leaves). We have coffee and tea and special concoctions whipped up by an extremely talented friend. There is laughter and comraderie. It is the highlight of my year.

Now as I said before, I'm not in the business of proselytizing or trying to "plant" anything, but when a friend who came asked me where I was going to church the next day, I told the truth. This is my church, I said. Our Gusdurian friends jokingly call our house the Karangploso Church (Gereja Karangploso). It's a place where all are welcome in the spirit of peace, joy, and love.

So while I miss the very American aspects of a Southern Christmas season, there's much to be said for creating new traditions. I'm thankful to share love and appreciation with friends and to have this opportunity to feel peace, joy, and love abounding.

And isn't that something we all need, not only at Christmas, but everyday?

Choke

The past 7 years have been a time of exponential growth and no shortage of sadness. It is hard to be "the Other" and even harder when there's no feasible way to change it.

I have been singing in choirs since I was a small child, but had never sung alone in front of people until I arrived in Indonesia (except for one talent show in Brazil when I was 17...does that count?)

It seems to me that most non-Indonesians, especially westerners, come here because they love it or because they have a good job. If they're lucky, they come here for both reasons.

I came here because I thought I'd finally found something I could do for the rest of my life...and get paid for it: serve God. I love people, I've already served in every position in a restaurant and I've also been an Elder in my church and in the choir. I love to do for others.

Perhaps I should have stayed in the US and done for others because I have been able to do little more than choke ever since I got here. I don't teach the way they wanted me to, I'm not white enough, and I'm too liberal. Not only that, but being a white southerner who grew up with utopian ideas thanks to Sesame Street, I'm not the one to sit quietly and accept or accommodate injustice and silly games. Oh and did I mention that I won't lie and can't be expected to, no matter which culture wants to claim it as a tradition?

I stopped taking formal language classes when the schedule of my so-called "work" changed. Conversing with others is the best way to learn they say, anyway, but I quickly tired of the conflicting directions I was given, as well as the laughter. It's hard enough to manage in an extremely different environment without the added bothers. I guess I mostly stayed silent for about about 3 years; at least as far as language learning.

Finally I realized how stupid that was, plus I moved to a place that is more accepting of differences and the people I was around didn't make a sport out of making fun of others. I've been learning, but it's hard. I don't have much incentive to learn. I'm an introvert, I am not allowed to work (visa issues), and I know enough to have sufficient conversations anyway.

I recently joined a choir. After being completely disillusioned with the post-colonial church and realizing that my western whiteness makes anything worse in this context, I've been trying to find a way to worship again.

I was supposed to sing two sentences in Javanese and I choked. I forgot the entire second sentence and I squeaked though the first one. I'm embarrassed and I feel like I let the choir down.

The part I forgot? In English it would be "my life is always blessed". The part I remembered was "Ever since I've " let go and let God". Yep, that's right.

Ever since I have tried with all my might to follow Christ, speak out against injustice, and be "the light", my life has been a mess. I now know why people choose to follow the status quo. It's easier. I have never felt like more of a failure.

Is that what it's supposed to be like or am I being punished because I'm just so awful? Don't answer too quickly because I assure you, such an answer opens a veritable Pandora's box.

The long and short of it is that sometimes when you try to save your life, you lose it. I haven't gotten much past the lose part. I'm still lost and apparently, still choking on my ignorance and experiences.