Threadbare and lovin' it

"Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby."

Recently I was invited to join the faculty of an organization called the Institute for Conscious Being. At first I thought they had the wrong number. I found myself teaching a writing course and surrounded by an incredibly brilliant group of people. Faculty members include an Episcopal priest, a Catholic nun, an Harvard-trained clinical psychologist and a New York Times best-selling author. (Sounds like the beginning of a bad joke, right? As in, "A priest, a nun and a psychologist went into a bar...")  I have to say it's a dream come true. Four years ago, I was an unemployed editor struggling with divorce and some very difficult issues. How in the world did I end up here? I believe I arrived at this very wonderful destination by owning up to my true self.

The Institute uses the principles of the Enneagram as a method for discovering one’s true spiritual self.  And no, despite it's odd-sounding name, the Enneagram has nothing to do with witchcraft or the occult and it's not a parlor game. (Read more about it here—and take the free assessment.) 

The idea behind the Enneagram is that we all are born in divine perfection and over the years, we put on all sorts of armor to shield us from the crappy things that happen to us along the way. For example, I'm six years old, and my beloved cat runs away and I'm inconsolable. Boom! Up goes armor. My dad has to work and misses my performance in the school play. Armor up! My best friend puts a preying mantis in my Snoopy lunch box then makes fun of  me while I scream my head off in the lunchroom. Armor! After my first date, I make out with the boy and then he tells everyone that I'm the worst kisser in the world. You guessed it—up goes the armor! 

These are minor offenses, of course. You can imagine (or know) what happens when really terrible things happen, when family members die, or you're abused or abandoned by a parent. The armor goes up and we learn to respond to life in a manner than seems to relieve the pain. Of course, this armor is ego. And ego is not an all-together evil thing, but often in the process of trying to protect ourselves, we buy into the ego self and set aside healthy and true aspects of our personality. Then, at some point in our lives (a-hem! often around middle age) when the old, unhealthy responses no longer bring relief—and in fact may be causing more harm—we finally look for a better way to live.

Returning to my authentic self seemed scary at first. I mean, I looked sorta cool in my armor. What if I'm just a big nerd beneath it all? And yet, only when I remove that hardened shell can I know what it means to be truly alive.

Last night, I was reminded of a beautiful story that encapsulates the concept of finding one's true self. This wisdom comes from a beloved children's book, The Velveteen Rabbit. In this passage the story's hero, the Velveteen Rabbit, is chatting with the Skin Horse, another toy/resident of the nursery where they live. Rabbit asks Horse what it means to be real.

“'Real isn't how you are made,' said the Skin Horse. 'It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.'

'Does it hurt?' asked the Rabbit. 

'Sometimes,' said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. 'When you are Real you don't mind being hurt.' 

'Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,' he asked, 'or bit by bit?' 

'It doesn't happen all at once,' said the Skin Horse. 'You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand.'” 

In her book, Daring Greatly, author and researcher Brene Brown describes this passage from Margery Williams' classic as "a beautiful reminder of how much easier it is to become real when we know we're loved." I respectfully submit the converse is also true: 

It's easier to be loved when we know we are real. 

Being real may not feel easier at first, but only when I'm my authentic, honest self am I truly lovable. Anything short of really real and you may love me, but your love will be on condition of my ability to keep up a facade. When I am 100% myself, I know I am loved unconditionally.

Maybe this is why people in mid-life (like me) tend to have identity crises. We are finally ready to get real. Certainly, at this point in my life, my hair is thinning, my eyes are getting weak (must get bifocals!), my joints creak and I'm a bit shabby, but my sharp edges have been worn smooth and I can no longer be broken quite so easily. 

Birds of the Air

At the lake this weekend we found a nest on the dock set up by a dutiful mother bird. The tangle of grass and sticks was built right on top of the receiver in a cabinet that holds the stereo system. With great care, my friends who own the lake house gently removed the nest and the four chicks inside and placed them in a cardboard box on the dock. We were told (by someone who rescues wild critters and nurses them to health) that the mother would come for them. Although we all doubted the ability or the probablity of a mother bird to swoop down and carry off her young ‘uns, we had hope that this might happen, and yet, on that first night, there was no sign of momma. 

Jason cradles one of the funny-looking chicks.

My friend Janet fed the chicks ground beef leftover from the hamburgers we grilled for dinner and we tried not to think about the fate of the babies. Already these little lives touched our lives and life of their mother and the environment in so many ways. Of course, I don’t know how these little creatures will affect us each of us, but they will and have and will continue to. (You're reading this blog, so you'll be affected too.) That’s just the way life works. 

When I say that we are all interconnected, I don’t mean in a woo-woo, supernatural, New Agey way. And I don't even mean that our fate on this planet is all bound together in a ecological manner, which I believe it is. When I say we are all interconnected, I believe it means that every life touches and influences every other life in some way great or subtle. And every great or subtle nudge moves me and you and that dude in a bow tie who's walking down 5th Avenue,* in some way and gently prompts us to look up or down or see things we haven’t seen before—or shut down and refuse to speak at all.

Nothing is wasted. Every action is essential. No life is insignificant.

Saturday passed, and there was no sign of the mother bird. Again, my dear friend poked hamburger into the gaping mouths of the hungry babies. Only two were still alive. I wondered if the effort was futile, but I loved my friend for trying. We were all saddened by the sound of the baby birds' cries. After she fed the chicks, they quieted down for the night, stomachs full. My friend worried that she did not have a dropper to give them water. Would they die of dehydration?  Fortunately, God—in the form of Nature—provided what we could not. Sunday arrived with thunder and rain showers. We watched movies inside my friend's snug house and played cards on the covered porch. The cardboard box that held the fledgelings grew damp, but at least the chicks' thirst was quenched. 

By mid-afternoon the clouds began to clear and the sun came out. The children ran outside to play and everyone followed. As my friend and I sat on the dock and talked, we heard a commotion coming from the box on the far edge of dock. I turned my head in time to see the shadow of a bird dip down into the box and then fly away. We cheered, "She's doing it! The mother is feeding them!" Sure enough the mother bird returned with her beak filled with wriggling dinner for her surviving children. Their fate was still not certain, but the babies were being cared for, this we knew—and it was a relief for many reasons.

In this world, we want to know that mommas will return to care for their young and that the weak will survive. We want to see signs of compassion in the natural order of life. If we do not see these signs in nature, what hope can we have for ourselves? I'm reminded again of that verse from Matthew 6 in the New Testament that I love so much. (Yes, I'm quoting the Bible. Get over it!)

"Look at the birds of the air, that they do not sow, nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not worth much more than they? And who of you by being worried can add a single hour to his life? ... So do not worry about tomorrow; for tomorrow will care for itself." 

* Even from my Alabama home, I rest assured that there is almost always a dude in a bow tie walking down 5th Avenue at any given time. And if not, there'll be a bow tie-wearing dude coming along soon enough.

Sum of the Parts

Sixth grade algebra isn't just about finding the variables.
(image from The Things We Say)

I love math. Yes, this card-carrying English major has a definitive  math jones. I love math's logic and black and white answers. In a world of words where meaning  shifts with context, the constancy of math is refreshingly straightforward. An answer is right or wrong. As much as I try not to judge, having one area in my life that I can rely upon to be absolutely correct or incorrect is a relief.
   This year, Jack studied the basic principles of algebra and my math-geek heart was soothed with remembrance of the thrill of discovering The Answer. (I warned you. I'm a math nerd.) I used to make excuses for my penchant for logical equations but now I realize why I love math so much. Math is cause and effect. If this, then that. Math is karma, except the Buddhist principle of karma (cause and effect) is not quite as straightforward or predictable.

   In the karmic equation, there are far more variables  but the principle is the same. My accomplishments and actions in this life are the sum of every experience I've ever had, every person I've met, every emotion I've felt, every response I've given to every emotion. Buddhism prescribes that this moment is born from the previous moment. Think about it. This moment in time (10:42:01.51) could not exist if not for the moment directly before it (10:42:01.50) and so forth.
   Sure there's debate about whether or not time is a concept/illusion created by the human mind/condition, but let's just accept for now that there is some measure of continuum. Not that time is fixed or fluid, matter or anti-matter, but strictly speaking, there is a measure that we will call time to describe the passing of the present moment.
   The present moment passes and begets the next present moment. In so far as I have knowledge, there will always be the next present moment. Just as we know numbers can continue on into infinity, we can see that present moments may continue. The only moment; however, that I have any control over is the present and fleeting one. The present quickly becomes past and thereby, illusive.
   My life consists of an unbroken chain of moments strung together like a (Buddhist) rosary without a definitive beginning or end. Therefore, the person who you know today as Brigid is the product of every moment that happened in this life—and Buddhists would include every moment that happened in my past lives too, from beginningless time. The Brigid you know today is the sum of a whole lotta parts, all of which are in constant flux. This sense of impermanence is a comfort to me because it helps me have compassion for my ego and grants me much-needed humility.
   Although I am responsible for my actions, I am not solely to blame or to praise. Knowing that I do not exist independently from the rest of the world, I am less likely to grow too proud of my accomplishments, nor too ashamed of my misdeeds. Pride and shame are self-centered responses anyway. These feelings can only keep me stuck in the past. For example, although I typed this blog entry from the thoughts that entered my head, all of these thought impulses were informed by experience I've gathered over the past decades. Nothing that I write is 100-percent free of influence. If you've spoken with me or I've experienced or read it within the last 51 years, that knowledge is woven into every word that comes out today in this blog.
   I take great comfort in this knowledge as a writer and a person. I also tread a bit more softly as I go about my work and my life. This is where my karmic equation and the laws of math differ, because even though I know that what I write, say and do will affect other people, I can never predict exactly how. One plus one will equal two, but I cannot know for certain if the answer will be positive or negative—or both. But I do know that every action yields affects on the world around me, and with this in mind I now take a little more time to consider the variables and the outcomes before I begin to cipher.

The Devil Made Me Think It

That devilish voice whispering in my ear may 
not be my enemy after all.

Self doubt can feel like the enemy. Doubt can certainly be a fearsome foe. Perhaps you never experience it. Chances are you do.

Self doubt can cause what is known in my profession as writer's block, a type of sneaking feeling that I am a no-talent sham. In other situations and occupations, self doubt causes all forms of stuckness. Doubt causes the inability to make a decision or move forward for fear that we might make a mistake. Ultimately, doubt causes us to suffer.

More than 2500 years ago a young Indian prince named Guatama Siddhartha wrestled with self doubt—and won. Siddhartha witnessed suffering in the world around him and vowed to find a way to put an end to it. Many people believe he was successful. His tale of enlightenment holds truth to how doubts arise, their value in our lives, and the way to dispel them— if we have the mind to try. Here's my interpretation. I don't believe the tale literally, of course, but it does hold a wonderful psychological perspective into the power of thought. 

On the night of his enlightenment, Siddhartha vowed to meditate until he achieved pure awareness. As night fell, Mara, a powerful demon, entered Siddhartha's consciousness and did his best to distract him from his purpose. Knowing the weaknesses of men, Mara sent his sexy daughters to dance for Siddhartha and seduce him. But the holy man maintained his concentration.

Next, Mara send an infinite army of hideous creatures to attack Siddhartha with poison arrows. But as the arrows flew through the air, the holy man saw them for what they really were. The deadly weapons turned into young sapling shoots and flower blossoms, which perfumed the air around him. 

Frustrated, Mara resorted to his last and most deadly of weapons. He crept very close and whispered in the Siddhartha's ear, "What makes you worthy of enlightenment? Do you think you're better than everyone else? I should be the Enlightened One! I am the rightful heir. Look at all my witnesses!" 

Mara's army stood beside him, attesting to his claim.  And Mara went on and on about how great he was and how Siddhartha was stupid and inept, but Siddhartha remained centered and focused on what was real and present. "You are just a fake and a phony! Why should you become enlightened?" shouted Mara. "Why are you so special? Even if you did become enlightened, no one will know and no one will ever believe you! You have no witness! You've achieved nothing! You are a nobody!"

All this time through temptation and threat of death, Siddhartha remained in deep meditation. But now, as Mara stood before him gloating, he reached forward and touched a single finger to the ground in front of him.

"The Earth is my witness," Siddhartha whispered. 

With that, the Mara disappeared and Siddhartha attained the state of full enlightenment. He became known as Shakyamuni Buddha, The Awakened One.*

But the story doesn't end here. Mara doesn't just descend into Hell and Buddha, into Heaven. Rather, Buddha and Mara continue their relationship on earth. It seems Buddha could not exist without Mara's test and Mara could not exist with the challenge of the Buddha. In his teaching entitled The Mara and Buddha—Embracing Our Suffering, Zen Master Thich Nhat Hanh relates the moral of this story.

Years later, Mara visited Buddha and asked that they trade places. Mara was tired of always being the bad guy. He didn't want to be feared and loathed anymore. You'd think Buddha would say "Be gone demon!" but he didn't. He greeted Mara as his dearest friend. He embraced Mara and listened to his problems. The Buddha explained that it wasn't all fun and glory to be the Enlightened One either.  He told Mara of all the crazy things people did in his name and how difficult it was to practice compassion and love all the time. Mara saw his point. "The best thing is for each of us is to stay in his or her own position and try to improve the situation and enjoy what we are doing," Buddha said. 

Hahn explains that it's easy for us to think of Buddha as a flower, fresh and beautiful, and compare Mara to garbage, that is unwanted and stinky, but this is a limited point of view. "All flowers become garbage," Hanh says. "Although garbage stinks ... if you know how to take care of the garbage, you will transform it back into flowers ...  Flowers and garbage are of an organic nature because both ... are living realities. Buddha and Mara are also organic, and they need each other. It is thanks to the difficulties, thanks to the temptations, that the Buddha has overcome his suffering and his ignorance and become a fully enlightened being ... That is why the people who suffer a lot now should not be discouraged. Suffering is their garbage. If they know how to take good care of their garbage they will be able to make the flowers come back to them, the flowers of peace, of joy."

Just as Buddha needs Mara, I need those negative thoughts to challenge and help me perceive the truth. Of course, sitting with my negative thoughts and not responding to them takes effort and self awareness. But ultimately, if I take good care of my garbage, I can turn my doubt into roses.

The Mother of all Mother's Day Wishes

FTD would love me if I send roses to all my mothers.

Celebrating Mother's Day reminds me of a prayer we say at the Buddhist center called the Eight Verses for Training the Mind. (For those unfamiliar with Buddhist practice, the title of this intersession says it all. I mean, what other spiritual practice asks for help training the mind? This is why I love Buddhism. Anyway, I digress ... )

My Mom, 1972

The Eight Verses compose a beautiful prayer that asks for wisdom and a shift in perspective when encountering difficult situations and—especially—when interacting with difficult people. It's the whole "my enemy is my greatest teacher" thing. You know, realizing that people who are obnoxious or mean or otherwise unpleasant are really helping me more than people who are pleasant and kind and compassionate because I have to really work hard to overcome my aversion to unpleasant assholes.

Digressing, again ...

We say this prayer and ask to transform our minds so that we can perceive the truth. The seventh verse is relevant today:

In brief, may I offer benefit and joy
To all my mothers, both directly and indirectly,
May I quietly take upon myself
All hurts and pains of my mothers.

The first hundred times or so I recited this verse, I didn't really understand it. I thought it was an analogy or metaphor. But as I learned more about Buddhist beliefs, this verse took on a  deeper meaning. I still can't claim to fully understand it, ( His Holiness the Dalai Lama provides a commentary on this pray on his website which I linked here and above,) but what I do understand now has opened up my heart to the world—at least on my less-bitchy days.

Buddhists believe everyone has been born in various forms countless times. Therefore, the theory follows that at some time or another my mindstream (or consciousness) has been embodied as your mother, your father, your sister, your brother, your cat, your dog, your hamster. And visa versa. In sum: We're all spiritually related. (And no, not like the backwoods characters in a James Dickey novel.) This may or may not be a literal relationship. No one really knows, except maybe someone like the Dalai Lama. The point is that I should revere all beings as if they gave me birth. I should not discriminate about who I love if I am to truly practice compassion. All life is precious. All men and woman are of equal value. That's equanimity, and it's tough to practice.

In a literal—but not necessarily Buddhist—sense, I should revere all my fore-mothers and recognize that their suffering is my suffering. This is what Buddhists call karma, or action, the law of cause and effect. I am indeed obliged to the woman who conceived, carried and gave birth to me as I am to the woman who gave birth to her, etc. Likewise, I am the product of all my forefathers and and their mothers and fathers. If not for my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-infinity-grandparents, I would not be here today exactly as I am. Millions of actions had to happen exactly as they happened, when they happened, in order for me to have been conceived and my mindstream to have joined this particular body.  I revere that amazing process and how incredibly miraculous life is. When I start to think about it all ... well, it's mind-blowing.

Today and every day, I pray for the benefit and joy of all my fore-mothers and I humbly (quietly) take on all their harm and suffering. In doing so, I accept that I am the sum of the parts, the product of all that has happened and that I have a part in what will happen. My actions matter—often more than I count on or know. How I respond to life does not just affect my happiness, but it affects the happiness of all those around me, and all those around them, and so on, and so on ...

So Happy Mother's Day to my dear mother in this life and all my mothers infinitum!

Eight Verses for Training of the Mind*

With the determination to accomplish the highest welfare for all sentient beings who surpass even a wish granting jewel, I will learn to hold them supremely dear.

Whenever I associate with others I will learn to think of myself as the lowest among all and respectfully hold others to be supreme from the very depths of my heart.

In all actions I will learn to search into my mind and as soon as an afflictive emotion arises, endangering myself or others, I will firmly face and avert it.

I will learn to cherish beings of bad nature, and those pressed by strong sins and suffering as if I'd found a precious treasure very difficult to find.

When others out of jealousy treat me badly, with abuse, slander and so on, I will learn to take all loss and offer the victory to them.

When one whom I've benefited with great hope unreasonably harms me very badly, I will learn to view that person as an excellent spiritual guide.

In short, I will learn to offer to everyone all hope and happiness directly and indirectly and respectfully take upon myself all harm and suffering of my mothers.

I will learn to keep all these practices undefiled by the stains of the eight worlds conceptions, and by understanding all phenomenon are like illusions, be released from the bondage of attachment to self.

*There are many translations and this is the one we say at Losel Maitri Buddhist Center.

The Great White

Two weeks ago, under a dome of thick cloud-cover, I dropped Jack at his school at 7:45 a.m. There was talk of snow, but it was expected later in the day. If the National Weather Service declares a winter storm system is moving across Alabama at 3 p.m., you figure you have most of the day to do whatever it is you do until that happens—if it happens. I don't know what the forecasters saw on their screens, but I believe they did their best to let us know what was coming.

For days we struggled with this phenomenon. The conditions created terrible hardships for thousands of people. If my child had been stuck at his school, I would have been frantic. I was grateful that he could safely walk two blocks to his dad's house and enjoy the time off—and the white stuff—with his neighborhood friends. Some people were trapped in their offices. Others could not get to work and lost income. Cars and property were damaged. Stress and anxiety levels rose chiefly because this was a situation beyond our control. And many did what we do best when we are threatened: look for someone to blame.

In record time, the blame game began. The National Weather Service and local forecasters took the first wave of criticism. Others ranted against public officials, implying they were trying to downplay the hazard, much like Mayor Vaughn in the movie Jaws when he tries to keep the economy going despite the fact that a Great White is circling the shore. When bad things happen, we want to find someone to blame. But you can't blame the weather for being exactly what it is—unpredictable—anymore than you can blame a Great White shark for eating. You can, however, try to stay out of harm's way.

This week, another winter storm threat circled and the National Weather Service reported as best they could. Officials received the information and made the decision to close schools. Yesterday it rained. The threat remained. Schools were closed for a second day. Today, it rained again.

No snow. No school. No one to blame. In the middle of the week, in the middle of February, we're home together. Jack's not sick and he's not suspended for bad behavior. We've spent the last two days watching movies and building a Minecraft world out of paper blocks. We've slept in, talked and laughed and eaten scrambled eggs and bacon at noon. I might be getting more done if the weather was sunny and the schools were open, but I will never have this day—just as it is—again and I'm going to make the most of it.

Never Give Up

If we are demoralized, sad and only complain, we’ll not solve our problems. If we only pray for a solution, we’ll not solve our problems. We need to face them, to deal with them without violence, but with confidence - and never give up. If you adopt a non-violent approach, but are also hesitant within, you’ll not succeed. You have to have confidence and keep up your efforts - in other words, never give up. —Dalai Lama

   When I was hired as editor of Epilepsy Advocate magazine almost seven years ago I knew next to nothing about epilepsy. I did have a great interest in neurology, however. My mother had been diagnosed with dementia and, although it's a very different condition, I realized the mind's function was a complex mystery that I wanted to learn more about. Thanks to the honesty, courage and confidence of a group of people who live with epilepsy, I've learned a lot—not just about the inner-workings of the brain, but about the inner workings of the heart. I've learned what it means to never give up.
   Epilepsy is a neurological malfunction of electrical circuits in the brain. Seizures may be caused due to a congenital condition or for no reason at all. That's what makes it so scary. There's no one definitive cause, and there's no absolute cure. For these reasons, despite significant advances in treatment within the past thirty years, the stigma and misunderstanding of epilepsy still exists. (Read more all about seizures their effects here.)

  Although I no longer serve as editor of Epilepsy Advocate, earlier this month I was invited to attend an epilepsy conference with a number of my friends who I had come to know through the pages of that magazine. It was work, but for me it was also a wonderful reunion. 
   Over the years, many of these remarkable people graciously shared with me details of their seizure episodes and how those seizures effect their lives and the lives of the people they love. Some were misdiagnosed as children, accused of having seizures on purpose to get attention or thought to be "slow" or otherwise less than "normal." Some suffered from such severe and frequent seizures that they could not drive or work and became isolated. The stigma of the condition often leads to bullying, discrimination and some downright ugliness. Depression is a common co-existing condition for people with epilepsy for both emotional and biochemical reasons.
    Even after an accurate diagnosis is made, finding treatment to control seizures often means trying different antiseizure medications at various doses. If a person is experiencing multiple types of seizures that happen in more than one place in the brain, it can take years to get the right combination of meds. And sometimes the medication's side effects are as bad as or worse than the seizures. Surgery is sometimes an option when drugs fail to work. And surgery means have a part of your brain removed—scary to say the least.
    My friends have been through it all, but regardless of their individual experience, as they related their epilepsy stories and their latest accomplishments, a common theme came forth: My life is not what I once thought it would be, but it is good—or maybe even better than I imagined.
   Despite experiencing what most would consider a devastating set-back, they found the good in their situations and rewrote their own stories. In other words, they made a conscious decision to accept reality and then change what they could—their perspective. They kept going, sometimes changing their tact, but never giving up.
   One Advocate dreamed of going to law school. When the stress of her prelaw workload triggered her seizures, she had to rethink her dream. Now she's in graduate school and plans to work for a non-profit. She wants to use her knowledge and experience to help others. She has no regrets. She doesn't have time for regrets. Life is too precious.
   And there's the mom who's son has had seizures all his life. In the delivery room, the doctor told her he wouldn't survive. When he literally came back to life after his breathing stopped, she was told he wouldn't walk or talk. Today, that very talkative, active boy is fourteen and hasn't had a seizure in over a year. Going through the journey of finding a treatment that controlled his seizures was not the life any mother wants for her son, but this remarkable young man shares his story wherever he goes—and his peers see him as a hero.
   There's the minister who, at age 35, suffered from an out-of-the-blue case of encephalitis that almost took his life and left him with epilepsy. He had to relearn his children's names—and how to walk and how to read. He now teaches college and is the author of several popular books that focus on acceptance and gratitude.
   And there's the single mom of three whose first tonic clonic seizure almost ended her life. She's now back in school getting yet another degree and working as a life coach.
   Epilepsy doesn't define these people. They've found ways to go about their lives making the best of what has at times been a difficult—even life threatening—situation. They are also grateful for the good days—the days without seizures, the days when they can do remarkable things like drive a car to work or play with grandchildren or study for an exam—things they couldn't do when their seizures were not under control. (Click here if you'd like read more stories about these remarkable men and women.)
    I've learned so much from these Epilepsy Advocates. They have provided me with perspective and showed me that no matter what occurs there is a way to find the good. I hate that my friends have had to suffer and see their loved ones suffer. I hate that there is no cure. But I love these people for their bravery and their gentle yet fierce passion for helping others accept their own realities. These individuals are living examples of how facing one's problems can transform lives.