Category Archives: Yeshua

Life in the Medical Wilderness

 

Image CL Francisco

Almost 2 years have passed since I last posted any personal updates—2 years of confusion, anger—and grace. Most amazingly, I do NOT have Lewy body dementia (or any other kind of dementia, for that matter): that’s the warm, beating heart of my news. I am infinitely grateful that I won’t be walking that road.

I do have a few thoughts about my experiences in the hands of physicians.

Here’s the background, in case you’re just tuning in. Early in 2019, I saw a respected neurologist, and assumed—foolishly—that he would be a man of principles, skilled in the performance of his art. Feeling anxious and off-balance from the sudden changes in my life, I reached out to him in trust. He, however, did little but look to his own divine omniscience (or personal lottery hopper, whatever) for inspiration before burdening me, a patient he’d barely met, with a capricious diagnosis of a rare and deadly disease. Following up on another doctor’s preliminary sleep study, he took perhaps 15 minutes to administer a quick mental status exam and a standard connect-the-dots psych test and then delivered his extempore diagnosis full-blown, like Athena from the brow of Zeus.

Image CL Francisco

I’m still angry, although I’m trying to let it go. After all, a physician who believes himself a god could easily have contracted his delusion by just breathing the air of our culture. As long as we hail our physicians as god-like purveyors of medical miracles, doctors who lack confidence or crave power will cloak themselves in our expectations like the great Oz in his curtains.

But I must accept some responsibility for my willingness to be misled. No one forced me to accept this man‘s diagnosis as a truth engraved on the foundation of the world. I’ve known for most of my adult life that a diagnosis is simply an opinion—as reliable,  or as dubious, as the person who offers it. That’s why we call a second diagnosis from a different doctor a “second opinion.” Still, in defense of my foolishness, I was anxious and off balance, and not thinking very objectively.

Image CL Francisco

And this is one of the huge ethical challenges of doctor-patient relationships: physicians encounter people at some of the most critical points in their lives, when they’re at their most vulnerable. We might even define patients as people experiencing diminished capacity brought on by poor health and the resultant anxiety. They come praying that a doctor will work miracles with his/her incomparable wisdom and skill. Patients are predisposed to be gullible: easy prey, in fact . . . except that doctors aren’t supposed to be predators (and most aren’t). Going to a doctor should never be a case of caveat emptor—“let the buyer beware.”

Image CL Francisco

So I’m back where I started. Angry. If I were a litigious person, I’d have sued him; however, I’m not, and I didn’t. I can only say what many others have said before me: in a more humane world, doctors would be required to experience—at least in some virtual sense—the conditions they would treat before being loosed on a world of suffering patients. That might go a long way toward eliminating a physician’s god complex.

Grace . . .

Grace intervened in late 2020, in the person of a wise and caring neurologist I happened upon during a phone conference she had with my husband. He mentioned my diagnosis in passing, and she asked to speak with me. By the time we hung up, I had an appointment to see her the next week. Two weeks after that, following a huge battery of blood and tissue tests, she confirmed her initial diagnosis of small fiber neuropathy (SFN) and started my treatment.

SFN is a complex syndrome with a staggering array of possible symptoms. I find the diagram below helpful in making sense of it:

 

There is no cure for small fiber neuropathy, but it is treatable, especially if caught early. Its progression can be slowed, and some losses may be recouped, although not completely. In my case, I’d already had two years of acute symptoms without any treatment before receiving an accurate diagnosis. Fortunately, I’ve responded well (if slowly) to therapy, particularly in areas of cognitive loss. I may never write another book, but I’ve recovered much of my vocabulary, my brain fog has lessened, and I’m remembering more of what I read. I can write letters and short essays (with the constant support of a thesaurus), and on a good day I can even edit existing manuscripts.

So, to all of you who have sent me messages of love and encouragement, I thank you! I may not have replied, but I’ve been warmed by your concern. I still don’t anticipate having much presence online, since I find writing of any kind exhausting. This post, for example, took three full days to compose, not counting getting it up online. I try to choose where my energy will be best spent. But I no longer perceive my life as a tragedy in process; I’m just aging, as every living creature does.

Image CL Francisco

I sometimes imagine these last few years as an expression of my physical uniqueness. Just as each of us has different fingerprints, and a distinct mosaic of genetic patterning, so every body slows down and wears out in ways that reflect a person’s particular life experiences and physical being. Our paths home will always take us by surprise, because no two are ever the same.

 

 

A note in closing: my 15-year-old grey tabby cat Mari, whose name I borrowed for the Yeshua’s Cats books, is dying of advanced renal disease. (The cat who inspired Yeshua’s Cat was actually named Morgan—an unlikely name for an ancient Levantine cat! So I used the name I’d given to one of the two kittens I’d adopted after Morgan’s death.)

Image: SDean@sdean.net
Image CL Francisco

Mari and I are exploring the shadowy vales of aging and illness together. We’ve become unexpectedly close as her health has deteriorated. Sometimes I’m not sure which one of us is the woman and which the cat. My husband says that Mari has been my sea anchor for most of her fifteen years, and that she’ll take pieces of me with her when she goes. I’m sure she will, but she’ll also leave pieces of herself behind. Neither of us will be the same.

Image CL Francisco

 

 

Afterthoughts

What follows is an unpublished post from June, 2020, written 1 ½ years after I was erroneously diagnosed with Lewy body dementia, and 3 months before I began treatment for small fiber neuropathy. It was intended to be the 4th in a series of posts on Lewy body dementia, but it was shuffled aside in the excitement of a possibly new diagnosis  . . .

Robin Hobb’s Memory Stone and Progressive Dementia

 

“I feel like a tree being ruthlessly pruned into a stump,” June 30, 2020

 

 

I wrote these words earlier today, as I was updating a symptom diary that I’ve been keeping for over a year now, so that I can remember how I’ve changed, and when. It took me a long time to understand and articulate that feeling, partly because I am diminished, and my awareness is narrowing. I feel life less keenly every day. I forget to care—about people and things I love. I drift, and draw in. My horizons shrink. My spirit vision darkens.

Image by CL Francisco

In an earlier post I mentioned that I forget every new book I read within a few months (books I read many years ago I still remember clearly). So when I find good books, I can enjoy them over and over again! This past Christmas my son gave me three new books: the Farseer Trilogy, Robin Hobb’s epic fantasy. I didn’t really like the first book when I started it, but since it was my son’s gift, and chosen with care, I didn’t set it aside. I’m not sure when I got hooked: maybe it was when the wolf Nighteyes entered the story. I know I was captivated by then. I bought the trilogies that continued the tale as I approached the end of each of the others. Nine thick books. And tonight I finished all nine for the third time.

Robin Hobb’s Trilogies with Fitz and the Fool

Hobb’s books haven’t been just entertainment. For me, the Farseer series (including The Tawny Man and Fitz and the Fool trilogies) is that rare thing, a story that flickers with hidden meaning, troubling and fascinating me with something just out of reach. I believe that the only way to understand a story like that it is to journey to its heart—and to mine. I’ve always done this by reading a book again and again, until a key eventually emerged to unlock the mystery. I’m not sure if forgetting the details between readings has helped or hindered me with these books, but when I closed the ninth book tonight, I finally understood.

Image CL Francisco

Hobb creates a fantasy world where some humans are gifted with an extraordinary sense she calls Skill. At the end of their lives, a very few choose to journey to a distant quarry and carve a dragon or other beast from the near-sentient stone there called Memory Stone. As they carve the stone, they release all their memories, and eventually their physical bodies, into the carved stone, hoping to bring it to a kind of life and achieve for themselves a limited immortality: their memories never really die.

Image CL Francisco

 

Image CL Francisco

The most difficult part of the dragon-carving is the carvers’ long and arduous process of yielding up the memories that make them who they are, in hopes that they have accumulated enough depth of memory to bring the stone to life. But once these carvers have given up a memory, they no longer have access to it. As their lives are poured out, they become vague and distant. They lose the love they feel for friends and family, recalling only dimly the fact of its earlier existence. They drift away from life, and from all but the current of Skill that draws them on.

I’m sure you see the parallels by now—not exact, but intriguing. I don’t know if Hobb intended to mythologize progressive dementia (or cognitive loss), but I believe she has, at least for me. What makes her telling so unexpectedly personal is her description of the effort her carvers make to invest their ever-dwindling strength and capacity into the creation of something that encompasses who they are . . . that embodies their lives’ essence.

image CL Francisco

Her images shine a light on my own days, making sense of what I have been doing in darkness and unknowing. For I also feel a compelling need to complete expressions of myself: a couple of unfinished books, paintings for my grandson’s walls, pen and ink portraits of my family, a Flickr photo site. I don’t do them as memorials, or to have my name remembered. I’ve always preferred to remain invisible, anonymous, like a cat hidden beneath the shadowy eaves of a forest. Instead, I am pouring my life into a spiritual nexus that I sense as myself, and the effort I expend contributes to its solidity.

Image CL Francisco

 

 

It’s so hard to put this into words!

 

 

British folk in times past sometimes spoke of retiring from the world in their old age to “make their souls.” That phrase feels oddly appropriate here. I am struggling to yield who I am into the will of the One, whose Being flows like a river through all that is. I am clarifying for myself who and what I am while confronting my own dissolution. I may grow vague and distant, unresponsive and hollowed out, as the life I’ve known seeps away. But by willingly releasing what I know as myself into the Creator’s vessel, I rest on the Deep of Being. I make my soul.

Image CL Francisco

 

 

 

 

How Yeshua’s Cat Began

Lately I’ve been clearing out the clutter on my computer’s hard drive (my Mac is getting on in years and  complaining about all the extra weight it’s carrying), and I came across this short essay I wrote in 2015. As far as I can tell, I never posted it anywhere. So for those of you who follow Yeshua’s Cats, here is another reflection on Mari’s beginnings . . .

Morgan, the cat from the wild woods

I remember the year I started writing The Gospel According to Yeshua’s Cat. I was working for a tiny non-profit whose prospects had just been obliterated by a catastrophic wildfire. The young cat who inspired the character of Yeshua’s cat had died as a consequence of the fire. My mother died a month after that. For months I spent my days climbing the burnt-out canyon slopes, measuring the severity of the burn in soil and trees, photographing the devastation, and assessing pockets of recovery.

After the Wildfire

In our battle against the land-owner’s determination to bring in salvage loggers (a battle we won), I dug tiny holes into the bark of every tree on our 2000 acres that still showed signs of life. The trees with healthy cambium layers I marked with green circles, exempting them from the loggers’ harvest–and, in the end, aggravating the loggers enough to cause them to back off, complaining that the profits weren’t worth their time without the living trees.

Trees with a chance of life

Even with our few hard-won victories, the stress took its toll on everyone. And no matter how hard we worked to support the land’s recovery, a non-profit foundation that relied on land-based workshops couldn’t survive on acreage that insurance companies saw as a treacherous ruin. We were forced to leave within the year.

Moving

On Easter Sunday of that last year, almost nine months after the fire, I went out walking in the blackened forest—only a few days after the kind of heavy rain that can be almost as devastating to a burned landscape as the original fire. I first visited a favorite Ponderosa pine that the fire had seared into a gleaming skeleton. Strange how the beauty of a tree endures after death; it merely changes.

But what I remember most clearly from that Easter walk was an unexpected discovery in an eroded gully cutting down the canyon slope. Its chalky soil abraded away by torrents of ash and water, a now-vertical arroyo wall had been transformed into art. Like a sudden ripple of joy in a sullen stream of melancholy music, the graceful skeleton of a tiny prehistoric horse leapt out of the bank to canter at my side. I almost didn’t see her. Dead for thousands of years, and yet somehow alive again.

Prehistoric horse

In a time when death seemed heaped upon death, the small skeleton might have been just one more death—but instead it felt like a gift, bringing with it wonder and hope. As Mari likes to say, it was a paradox.

A Burning Hope, CL Francisco

Sometime in the next few days I wrote the words, “My name is Mari, a name given to me by the man they call Yeshua ben Yosef.”

Morgan, by CL Francisco

If you count my PhD dissertation—and I do—then Yeshua’s Cat was my fourth book. I just never bothered to publish the others. Maybe I will some day, or maybe I’ll just publish with a pseudonym. Common wisdom decrees that an author shouldn’t change genres.

Postscript:

I did try using a pseudonym, but eventually I took my own name back. The Yeshua’s Cats ‘series of five books is now complete. My dissertation is available online at https://www.academia.edu/37357137/. The first of my three mysteries (This Madness of the Heart) was published a couple of years ago, and the second (Blood on Holy Ground) has just been released on Kindle. The third and last (Red Cliffs of Fall) is in the reviewers’ hands and will be will be out as soon as I can manage it. So keep an eye out!

 

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A Confusion of Shadows

(like a cauldron of bats, or a coalition of cheetahs)

 

3rd in a series of posts about the author’s experience

of Lewy body dementia

 

As an author, I never wrote from outlines or carefully crafted plots. Each book remained in flux as I wrote, balanced lightly in my mind, open to shifts in a character’s development or new paths to far horizons. Yet I always knew where I was headed and what I wanted to say. Alas, no more. Even writing a journal entry tumbles me into the wayward crosscurrents of a fraying consciousness.

 

People sometimes speak of women’s organic logic (as opposed to the linear logic of men), using words like spiraling, intuitive, archetypal. But increasingly, as I write even small posts like this one, I find myself moving through dementia’s bizarre post-logical inscape, where all patterns fade.

My efforts remind me of a befuddled spider struggling with an uncooperative web. Battered and ancient, she lurches from side to side, mumbling to herself as she lays one unlikely strand upon another. Much of her webbing falls away, its intended pattern vanishing through the gaps in her thoughts . . . words floating free of their mooring. Strands cross and re-cross at impossible angles, presenting only confusion to the reader. Yet somewhere beneath the chaos, a compassionate hand takes hold of the tangle, plaiting it into a rudimentary whole, and a pattern flickers through the ragged web—a glimpse of meaning as welcome as sunlight in the midst of storm.

I invite you to consider my web with me.

 

We all know the story of the frog sitting in a pan of gradually warming water until he quietly boils into dinner. This may be an outworn cliché, yet it  confronts us with a real peril of our human nature. Changes that creep up slowly can ghost under our radar. Only rarely do we perceive them as threats. When changes come slowly (they don’t even have to be subtle), or when the people perceiving them are unfocused and distracted, a shifting “normal” can erode into runaway catastrophe . . . Have politicians always been so venal? Has hate always been such a conspicuous part of American life? Didn’t New York winters used to be bitter cold? I can’t remember–is this the way home? Did I think to turn off the stove?

Lethargy has that kind of lethal potential for me.

Sometimes I wonder how I might’ve felt if my doctors hadn’t been familiar with LBD’s symptoms when I first had the sleep study. Would I have shrugged and dismissed my strange new life as normal aging? Would ennui have taken root in the mind fog? Putting a name on it does nothing to slow the disease, but at least it shows me what I’m facing. I possess a piece of data, a bit of knowledge, a light focused on the sly and slippery changes.

 

 

 

So what shall I do with myself as I confront this murkier-than-usual descent into the great mystery?

 

 

Dylan Thomas’ famous line, “Rage, rage, against the dying of the light,” is one option that everyone mentions sooner or later, as if such rage were a noble thing and a useful option.

But if you look at his whole poem, you’ll see that Thomas is talking about regret—regret for things his father didn’t do, for life unlived, and the rage he should feel. Yet a whisper intrudes on the poet’s advice: “Is this so different from a child’s rage at being carried off to bed too soon?”

 

So, should I rage? Or refuse regrets? I think I’ll pass on both. I can’t agree with the No regrets meme; too often it leads to complacency. I do have regrets, mostly for times when my spite made the world an uglier place. Those regrets are important to me. Without regret, I would never have confronted my unkindness, never turned away, and in some small way, Creation would be diminished. But wallowing in regret over foolish mistakes or pleasures denied corrodes the soul and makes a bitter tale for darkening days.

No, I prefer to hold in my tattering mind a passage from T.H. White’s The Once and Future King. I can still remember how it rang like a bell when I first read it in high school:

“The best thing for being sad,” replied Merlin, beginning to puff and blow, “is to learn something. That’s the only thing that never fails. You may grow old and trembling in your anatomies, you may lie awake at night listening to the disorder of your veins, you may miss your only love, you may see the world about you devastated by evil lunatics, or know your honour trampled in the sewers of baser minds. There is only one thing for it then — to learn. Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting. Learning is the only thing for you.”

 

So I learn what I can, even now. Not facts, or political scandals, or even devotional thoughts: facts and concepts soon disappear in the mist. Mostly I learn with my hands and vision—spiritual and physical—because  memory is strongest there. I still love to take photographs, although I fall asleep trying to process them. Last fall I foraged for woodland bounty to make gift wreaths. During the winter I experimented with sketching family portraits. Over the last few months I’ve been working on a series of paintings for my 2-year-old grandson’s room. The transformation from digital mock-up to painted canvas should begin any day now. Five years ago I never expected to pick up a paintbrush again.

 

I was an author, and I am no longer. I was once an artist, and now I may be again. I am a mother, a grandmother, a sister,  a wife, and a servant of cats. I was a daughter, and sometimes I remember to be an aunt. And, of course, there are things that never change: I detest hot humid weather and love the cold grace of winter trees; I have a feline heart, except for a well-hidden malamute shadow; and I’ve known since I was a preschool child that the Creator holds me in love and all Creation with me, regardless of the disasters we as humankind visit on our world.

Photo by S Dean

“I will never be further from you than your heart.”

~~The Gospel According to Yeshua’s Cat

 

** All photos not otherwise attributed were taken by CL Francisco

 

 

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For everything there is a season . . .

1st in a series of posts about the author’s experience

of Lewy body dementia

 

Autumn Tears, Autumn Prayers. CL Francisco

As the solar year hovers at the nadir of its cycle, and winter draws us into its dark night, I find myself turning to the near-impossible task of writing a professional farewell.

Last autumn I began experiencing early symptoms of what doctors soon identified as Lewy body dementia. If it sounds familiar to you, it’s probably  because both Robin Williams and Ted Turner were given the same diagnosis (sadly, Robin Williams was diagnosed only after his death). Although close to 2 million Americans suffer with this disease, until recently it remained largely unknown. The publicity these celebrity casualties have received has attracted the public eye and encouraged vital new research into Lewy body dementia.

Lewy body dementia is an acute degenerative disease with no treatment and no cure. Susan Schneider Williams, Robin Williams’ wife, called it, “the terrorist inside my husband’s brain.”  It knows nothing of mercy, only destruction. In my own case, it was diagnosed early, because of a relatively uncommon symptom that led me to a sleep lab. Since then the memory loss and verbal impoverishment have become obvious, along with many other physical symptoms. I can’t begin to imagine the agony Robin Williams and his wife experienced without any explanation for his deterioration. At least I have a framework for understanding.

I will write no more books. I don’t have the words, or the memory to hold plot lines in my mind. Just writing this post has taken a ridiculously long time and required the constant use of a thesaurus. But I’m fortunate so far: my daily life hasn’t been catastrophically altered. To a stranger’s eye, I still function like any average senior woman.

I want to thank all my readers for their love and support. It has been a privilege to be welcomed into so many homes with Yeshua’s Cats–and an astonishing gift to walk with Yeshua through a wonderland of fantasy! My books will remain available for as long as there is any interest, but I will no longer advertise them or offer promotional deals. They will endure or fade away through word of mouth. Getting through each day is challenge enough.

My art and photography are less impaired than my words, so I will post images from time to time, with short messages. The Autumn Tears image above is one of two pieces of art that I created in autumn of 2018, when the earliest symptoms were emerging (although I didn’t recognize them as symptoms). The second image (below) is a photo collage of a dream. The dream wouldn’t let me go until I’d captured this central image: a shabby and unlikely old woman in a ruinous house, holding out a glowing gift in a small battered box, while  wings hover in the background. I find myself wondering if that dream might have been an image of my life and writing in the face of the gathering shadows. If so, I am content.

In the hands of the One,

 

 

GIft. CL Francisco

 

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An Easter Photo Journal

Is Christian faith fading into its own shadow?

Her wisdom drifting in the wind like winter leaves?

Springs of once life-giving faith lie blocked with rubble.

Abandoned churches loom over urban wastelands,

the glory of stained glass a relic of our dead past.

Nothing ingenious or new here.

Hardly au courant.

Yet didn’t Israel’s God once speak though Isaiah, saying,

“Look, I am doing a new thing! Can you not see it?”

A Creator doesn’t stop creating

any more than a writer stops writing

or an artist abandons her muse.

Perhaps we’re looking in the wrong places.

This Easter I’ve chosen to look in derelict buildings,

where even decay flowers into hope

and fleeting glimpses of beauty strike fire in my soul.

Take the time to look with me.

Meditate on Easter’s presence

in the down-trodden corners of our troubled world.

 

Thursday: Day Darkens

 

Friday: Night Falls

 

Saturday: The Mourners

 

Sunday: Life Returns

 

A blessed Easter to you all!

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A Christmas Prayer

Last year about this time I posted a visual prayer in response to the what seemed to me the inhumanity and lack of compassion emerging from the newly elected American administration.
 
This year I find myself struggling against despair, but still praying. I don’t understand how we have gotten so muddled. What happened to “For God so loved the world”? Or “neither Jew nor Greek, male nor female”? “Let justice roll like a river”? or God’s desire is for us “to act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly before him”?
 
Here again is “A Christmas Prayer,” for the incomprehensibly deep divine love we celebrate at Christmas to fill all our hearts, and open our eyes to the wideness of God’s mercy, encompassing the whole of Creation.

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A Season of Hope

 

Fallen tree in the shape of a woman

 

I’ve just released my first ever YouTube video, in response to what I see as part of America’s growing crisis of compassion: the appalling attacks made by Christians and non-Christians alike on the women and men brave enough to speak out of their own pain to try to halt the silent juggernaut of sexual abuse in our culture. The video is called Women’s Abuse Through a Forest Lens: #Metoo in the Voice of Trees. You can see it here. It speaks of sexual abuse as a tree might speak of human assaults on forests.

I chose to get involved with this divisive issue because it’s where I live: I’ve carried the scars of childhood sexual abuse through most of my life . . . although I’ve never spoken of it publicly before–partly     because it’s intensely personal, and partly because of the kind of         vilification sure to be aimed at those who do speak out.

stripes

 

a bruised reed he will not break

How can it be that the old cliches still endure? She must have asked for it . . . it must be her fault . . . she tempted him . . . You know the words, although I hope you’ve never spoken them. How could people believe that human beings, male or female, would join their voices to the #metoo movement and invite such slander without cause?

 

No, the cause is there. It’s the scarlet elephant in the drawing room, the unspeakable secret, the sin shrouded in silence. It’s the enduring pain in the lives of men and women who’ve been sexually abused–pain as agonizing as any physical illness, and as destructive.

 

nothing hidden that will not be disclosed

One piece of bedrock wisdom offered to people healing from sexual abuse is to bring their memories into the light and speak them aloud, refusing to accept the shame abusers ladle out to       silence them. The voices flooding our media from #metoo are doing just that: coming into the light and speaking their truth. Why are the nation’s Christians not standing with them? “There is           nothing hidden that will not be disclosed, and nothing concealed that will not be brought out into the open . . .” Even now light is shining into a place of cruel darkness. Why do we not join our light to theirs?

I’m sure that the #metoo phenomenon has its fakes and charlatans, but  “babies” and “baths” come to mind here. More damning to me are the Christian voices that admit abuse is a reality but dismiss its importance. In their eyes we who suffer from such things are Other (lesser) humans: women, children, LGBT, non-white, poor. We don’t matter.

But even if we don’t matter to many of America’s powerful, we       matter to the One Creator. We are among “the least of these” who look to our leaders with hope, and whose well-being the living Christ counts as his own.

not a sparrow falls

 

You can see the images from Through a Forest Lens below. The video is posted on YouTube.

 

 

 

 

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An Autumn Yeshua’s Cats Break

I found myself more than usually burnt out after finishing the launch of Yeshua’s Loom, so I took an autumn break: hiking and photographing the changing forests in upstate NY. Luckily my brother Don came to visit, so we photographed the woods together!

One of my readers said that my photos looked as if I were trying to find windows into the One’s Spirit in the world. I mentioned that to Don, who said that was exactly what he did! Spending deep time with someone who’s known you all your life is incredibly nourishing. Here are some of my photos–taken by the writer at rest, with her brother. Click on individual photos to see a larger size.

The first album is from Ferncliff Nature Reserve in Duchess County:

 

The second album is from the Devil’s Peak Trail in the Indian Head Wilderness area above Woodstock:

 

This third album is from a very windy day along the Hudson River:

 

And finally, the Vanderbilt Estate on Halloween, after I took Don to the airport:

Miranda Lamden’s Mysteries and Yeshua’s Cats Together!

I’ve been thinking a lot about how This Madness of the Heart (and all the following Miranda Lamden Mysteries) fit together with my Yeshua’s Cats series–and why I feel certain the two series can coexist as books by the same author. But since my reasons are more feelings and instincts than logic, I’ve had trouble putting them into words.

So I did what I often do when I need to make sense of something: I created a piece of art (below). After all, what good is an art therapy degree if you can’t use it to clarify your own confusion? If I’m lucky, by explaining the image I’ll be opening up what lies behind it!

The Sleuth, Chi Rho, and the Cat

So, what are you looking at here?

First, I chose a Hubble image for the background: “Interacting Spiral Galaxies” . . . surely ideal for this project, since galaxies don’t often interact–anymore than churchfolk and professor-sleuths! It felt like a propitious beginning.

Hubble, Interacting Spiral Galaxies

Three interlocking circles fill the foreground. The center circle pulses with a glowing gold and green light; the Christian Chi Rho emerges from its heart.

What is the Chi Rho? Like most symbols, it has different meanings across cultures, but for me it’s a symbol used by early Christians in the first three centuries after Yeshua’s birth–before Constantine transformed it into an imperial banner (the cross didn’t emerge as a Christian symbol until after the year 500).

Chi Rho, early 3rd C catacomb

The Chi Rho gets its name from the two Greek letters that overlap to create the symbol: Chi and Rho, the first two letters of the Greek word Christos, or Christ. In the image above, the Greek letters Alpha and Omega are added. I did experiment with using a cross in the center circle, but I like the visual effect of the Chi Rho better, probably because it has “rays” like the sunburst. Anyway, the central circle is meant to be the Christian faith–not the organized religion–but the living faith of all the individuals who hold themselves to be Christian.

The circle to the right is Mari, from Yeshua’s Cat, turning aside from a path in a green forest to investigate the central circle. In her circle she represents all of the natural universe. Creation.  Everything that exists naturally, apart from the intervention of humankind. This natural order also includes human beings, since they’re part of the created universe–but not their civilizations.

The totality of the created world–as we know it on Earth–is flowing back from Mari’s search like the tail of a comet.

 

The circle on the left is where Miranda, my detective, lives. Her circle is the world of human civilization–urban, complex, multi-cultural, and often unsure exactly what they believe. Many, like Miranda, have their roots in Christianity, but have turned away from the church. Spinning out from her circle is a spiral of different world religions. But in her circle she, like Mari, has paused to examine something about the Christian faith that has caught her eye.

Both Mari and Miranda live outside the Christian fold, and they approach it from opposite directions. Mari moves from the non-human, natural environment, Miranda from a detached, urban, academic world. Still, both find themselves intrigued by the light in the center circle. Mari has the easier approach: Yeshua introduces himself by saving her life, and she joins him as a friend. But Miranda has been scarred by her Christian experience; she mistrusts the church and its agendas. As a professor, she sees all religions as examples of the human yearning toward the divine. Truth claims don’t enter the picture. She simply records what she observes, without making judgments. Her methods are catlike: she steps cautiously toward anything new, not committing herself, poised to slip back into the shadows if conflict threatens.

I knew a number of women like Miranda in my years apart from the church. Their worlds were full and rich, but they didn’t screen their experiences through a Christian worldview. Yet they were sometimes attracted by a light shining out from this tradition many of them had left behind.

. . . maybe the light shone through a person
a man like Elmus
or as comfort in the midst of  evil
perhaps through the One’s presence in some crisis of their own
or simply in prayer and meditation.

But today we live in a world where it’s increasingly difficult to say, “I believe.” The language is lost. What does it mean to believe? Who are we believing in? People who live in the secular world can’t respond to most Christian overtures–because they don’t understand the words anymore. God-talk is becoming literal non-sense to those outside the churches.

People like Miranda are who they are, just as cats are cats. Each responds to life according to their gifts . . . but for some reason those inside and outside the churches are drawing further apart.

Perhaps we might learn from the effort, and love, we put into cross-species communication with our cats (and dogs, gerbils, birds, and ferrets) . . . and look at the incomprehensible human beings around us as if they concealed inner selves as delightful, unique, and full of surprises as a cat’s. It’s not really such a stretch.

I happen to find the lives of alienated Christians intriguing, perhaps because I’ve been there myself. And if the polls are right, their numbers are growing. Their honesty is often fierce, like their determination never to be taken in again by faux-Christianity and self-serving lies. Sadly we don’t have to look far to find the lurking predators they’re avoiding. And that’s what This Madness of the Heart is about.

Miranda peers into the light of Christian faith–but she looks from a place apart. Her own experiences haven’t shown Christianity to be that promised “light to the gentiles.” So she watches, examines, records, and considers. In the meantime, I feel privileged to narrate her journey.

 

 

 

 

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