Woodsgnome's New Life Journal

[woodsgnome]

This is pretty bad. Or wild or...?

It's this fiction I tell myself of being open to the new. New outlook, new this, that, other. So what? In one sense, how can I not be open 100% of the time? But I do feel like something's accelerating in my coming to grips with where I'm feeling stuck. And one of the things I'm accepting is that I might have that feeling for a long time, if not for the duration of this limited existence between birth and death called life.

Having grown up amongst people who had all the answers, I've come to regard questions as an antidote to blind certainty. I feel better that way; as I saw the dishonesty, ripe hypocrisy, and twisted minds of so many in the church crowd I got tangled up with just by being born into a FOO with similar entanglements. But the FOO didn't question, they participated--especially the m--in the hypocrisy full tilt. I'm fortunate to ever have made it away from that with any of my being intact. Some would call that last bit my sanity but I'm not sure of that or if it makes a difference.

My being is such a fragile thing, though. It scares me daily how close I can come to either edge--sensing the 'new' or succumbing to the 'old' and admitting I didn't belong and never will. I have one ace in the hole there, though--healthy cynicism. I've heard that it's not cool to be cynical, but being so allows me to see the hypocrites for who they were, and are; and makes it easier to realize that succumbing to defeatism (suicide, madness, and other forms of hopelessness) is indeed their game.

And all I ever was to them was a toy; succumbing to hopelessness gives them the smug satisfaction of knowing they were right to shame. humiliate, beat, molest, ignore, and abandon me, until I was next needed for another appearance as their personal rag doll. Stop me before I gag. It's already too late to ease the pain; sometimes it just seems to grow even more intense.

Mindless cynicism would be a bit over the top--UNLESS it involves them, as they were exemplars of the mindless life. Their own cynicism, cleverly disguised, allowed them to run roughshod over innocent youth. They may have hid behind their holy words, but once they got into their flow of rampant abuse, there was only rage and sinister hatred behind their sickly smiling, holy facades which sought to destroy me. So now I'm left with the ashes of mourning, or the choice to further destroy myself, continuing the wreckage begun by them.

I boldly tell myself I will never give up to what would give them glee. Aha--that's something new I've discovered--dignity. I'm finally finding the grit to travel into this 'new' territory feeling alright to be vulnerable, sad, melancholy, and yet somehow willing to stumble, and get up again; stumble, and get up again; stumble, and do it again. It's all I have and I will do it. There's no audience to please here; no one will applaud, or think it's remarkable; I'm utterly alone in this.

Here's the rub, though--I'm comfortable in the ashes of mourning. It's all I've ever known.  Despite the brave talk, I tend to fall back to the certainty of an anguished soul who's losing the will to go on fighting. I don't know any of the why and don't care. But I know this sad landscape as home. Do I want to leave home for the complete unknown? That seems to be the ultimate question I'm faced with. And I'm scared.

[Three Roses]

My being is such a fragile thing, though. It scares me daily how close I can come to either edge--sensing the 'new' or succumbing to the 'old' and admitting I didn't belong and never will.

Feeling this strongly today. Hugs to you woodsgnome.

[woodsgnome]

The More Things Change...stay the same...grrrr

My social life never was much, ever since I went mostly hermit following high school. And yet I did develop some good acting skills which I used to good effect in a modest career built around an improv character I portrayed quite well.

You'd think that would have aided my intense people fears following all the emotional freeze-ups of my earlier years. My character had no problem with words or people--but the reverse was true when I'd revert to 'normal' afterwards. So there's this split--or was, so I've had hopes of overcoming it.

Recently asked to organize an informal discussion group, I set up a speaker I knew of and headed out for the evening. And plummeted from then on, to where I felt like a bumbling idiot by night's end. And it wasn't me who was the focus, I was just another audience member. And self-conscious as in mega hyper-vigilant.

Used to be, when acting, I was in control all the way through; it was definitely a 'performance' as my natural self was the frozen persona who'd rather get away from people than be a part of a group. It's a phenomena American comedian Maria Bamford has noted as well, how her on-stage controlled but hilarious character can revert to an insecure self-conscious individual after a show who just wants to get away from people.

I've had years of that sort of Jekyll/Hyde experience. But it's a strain to be that way. Wanting to change, I've worked hard with my therapist to get a handle on this. "Just be, people love you as you are" she gently reminds me. That might be so but it also scares me. So yet again, last night--another crash through the floorboards of insecurity. I don't hate myself over it--just feel sad and deflated, again. And trying to resist my inner talk of don't even try anymore.

[woodsgnome]

When the heart opens...I'm ready to listen. I wasn't always ready, though. Still learning how.

Contradictions bother me, but without them I wouldn't even have made it into adulthood without having fallen victim to the suicide option. I didn't feel wanted, cared for, or loved (the latter word I never heard when it wasn't contradicted by the actions of those using it).

Baffled, battered, humiliated, molested, and abandoned--isn't this contradictory to what life is supposed to be like? Any signs of hope or even curiosity on my part were quickly smashed. It's a wonder--and for sure a contradiction--that I survived to tell the tale. Unfortunately, the tales are of the sort too familiar to people on OOTS.

They also happen to be the tales one has learned not to be too open about. Those who haven't been abused in these ways have no reference point. Even if they exhibit empathy, one is left with the impression they're only doing it out of a sense of pity, either for what you do tell them, or just as confirmation of the oddness they say they've noticed about you (after the fact of hearing what you have shared--a piece of your woundedness, but to them a mere curiosity). It's then easy for them to assign you to the off-kilter, if not the reject pile. In other words, better be careful--don't get close--he's an oddball.

Then the damned-if-you-do/damned-if-you-don't syndrome kicks in. Tell others, face the difficulty of explaining the inexplicable (e.g. the multiple assaults at the hands of both women and men in a religious school on top of what happened in the FOO). So the only  option is to just hold everything inside. Then you accept the lesser of evils, it seems; easier not to tell (and feel better) than to hold in (and feel trapped). Wanting the comfort of acceptance and validation gets blown up by the fear of rejection. In my case, I just draw further inward. It's not even frustrating so much as it is draining--knowing what's at the core of this heartache but not daring to share it.

Enter the contradictory next step, to perfectionism. If I just get this right, the thinking went, I'll feel okay. I think I'll feel okay, anyway--how would I truly know, though? I'd never  been treated as okay when young and it was beaten in that no, I really wasn't okay, and never will be. Still the hope lingers that if I find the perfect way...it's gotta be here, some place; the world can't be as bad as this. I see others and I notice, even resent, that there seems to be that elusive love ingredient in their lives. But, true to my training, I go on feeling not okay--I don't know any different and it's guaranteed I can't get there, don't deserve it, etc.

I tell myself, another contradiction--that, after all, I don't really need people, at all. Any relationship beyond the surface was always the sure route to more rejection. But there's still this glimmer that wants that; contradiction for sure. I sense something haywire with this push-pull around people. Something--who knows what--inside says you actually do need others. I try and it just seems so difficult outside of my bubble. Retreat sets in--yet more contradiction. Worry takes over--when will I learn to do this right? There are no teachers when you live in the safety of not risking to look (besides not knowing what or where to look).

So the contradictions repeat themselves and grow bigger even as I sink further into discouragement. Then I realize that maybe there isn't a right/wrong to any of this. Maybe I can stop blaming myself for all those times I felt alone and stranded (including right now!). If it's a contradiction, what does my heart tell me?

Elsewhere I felt drawn to write about that--how the heart means more to me than the mind. The latter is sort of a pointer but I don't have to accept its conclusions. Even the heart, though--do I want to assign a status to the heart, that it's always right? How dumb is that--if I let the mind take over the question, but don't surrender to the heart? Contradictory, yet again.

Sometimes I resist feeling good. Like--can love really pertain to me? Surely there's a catch, goes the thinking, and I'll be let down again. But not including the heart means I'm letting my self--the entire package--down. And then I shut down; and the mind seems happy, even though the full "I" doesn't.

A few weeks back I was returning from a therapy session, hoping for a sign that I'm alright, that everything is okay, that I'll still work it out; and then...a magnificent bald eagle appeared. And the message was so clear; the heart resonated, the mind said wait a minute, don't go supernatural on me. Well, mind, you did your best, alright; but these tears tell me the heart knows that eagle's appearance was no contradiction, or happenstance. I may be a skeptic, but this time I left the heart open. And if I keep it open, even the contradictions won't drive me back to the need for the perfect answer.

As of now, the heart knows the what/where/how of what I needed that day, and these times that have followed. It's so funny, and contradictory. It's like the old tale of the ancient gods who were trying to decide where, after creating humanity, to store all the wisdom they knew humans were needing. They also knew that humans were gullible, though; so better not make wisdom too obvious.

One deity figured hey, if we find a star, maybe we could store wisdom there? Another pointed out all the other hiding spots, even on earth but still difficult to find. Until one came up with the idea of putting wisdom deep within each person's heart. They'll never think of finding wisdom there, but it'll mean more if they do.

I was called a dreamer for liking stories like that once (and punished for liking them--they contradicted the GAWD stories I was supposed to believe instead). Well, guess what--I'm still a dreamer, and it's more logical (if contradictory, of course) than not, so it's where I'm at now...leaving the heart's lantern door open, and noticing how the candle inside is finding the courage to keep burning, stronger even (contradictory) than before. Tipped the other way, maybe even those pesky contradictions that have so bothered me will be burned away.

The heart needs its room, and I think I now know where to look for the wisdom I've always sought 'out there'.

[radical]

Hi Woodsgnome,

I want to share something that is making a big impact on my healing.  I was thinking about the idea of self-nurture of being my own best friend, - sounds like a good idea, but how?  I thought how I'd always been good at being a friend to others, but didn't really know how to be a friend to myself.  So here's what I've found allows me to be loving and kind to myself:

I write, as I've always done, expressing all the parts of myself as honestly as I'm able.  Then, I respond as a best friend to myself. I start off  with something like "My dear friend Radical......"  I address myself by name and imagine the kindest, most helpful, heartfelt, responses I can give, as a loving friend who believes in me.  I reassure, suggest possiblities, encourage, love. So my writing is now a dialogue. Sometimes I just leave messages to my friend, sometimes other writing prevails.

I'm finding this healing, as I said, but know that it certainly won't be helpful for everyone. 

Sending love and warm wishes

[woodsgnome]

Radical, your reflection on what you're doing per pouring on the self-love as a friend to yourself was something I sorely needed to hear; desperately is the better word.

***Unfortunate TRIGGERS next 4 paragraphs***

I had a nightmare tonight; not unusual (when I do sleep at all), but this one was a bit vicious. It's coming on autumn here in the northern hemisphere, a time when schools resume. And hence a very melancholic if not horrific time for me, a time when I need my guard up. So upon waking, I recalled--self-love; self-compassion...go there. There's no school now, no one there to hurt me anymore. Not that the FOO, especially the m, was much better, but school meant added fears.

That fear came early, actually on the first day of kindergarten. It was then that the female teacher hauled me to a bathroom, did things I won't name (didn't have a name for them then, won't honour her actions that way now), then dragged me out  into a hallway and left me there, screaming in terror. People in other rooms had to have heard me; no one came...no one. Little did I know how often that would recur in the future, and in subsequent grades. Welcome to school; yeah, right.

Eventually my f caught on as to why I might resist so strongly the school resumptions each year, and during grade 4 took me, against the school's wishes, to an outside child psychiatrist/therapist (the school--a religious outfit--didn't even have anyone called a counselor).

My visits to that beautiful gentleman were some of the best times ever and where I felt like a human, where I was encouraged and more important--allowed to be me, a beautiful child who just needed love. But after he declared I was 'normal', I was sent back to the school anyway. All the parents wanted was that decree of normalcy. Child protection laws being what they were then (barbaric), i guess my gentleman helper had no say, and I had to leave what had been my only refuge.

***End of TRIGGERS***

Alright, I didn't mean to venture that far into these slimy memories but I use them as preface to the kinds of things that form part of the mind-storms that often torment me this time of year. Tonight was not that different, but I'm awake now, and recalling your words on self-love...I needed them tonight, they felt wonderful, and I intend to cultivate self-loving/compassion to a higher level from now on.

Thanks for that, Radical, as in ten times over thanks...I often lack motivation, but knowing that you've turned a corner this way encourages me to do the same. I've tried, lamely, to incorporate self-nurturing but it seems to not take hold to the extent I want it to; it's like I fear success--I suppose it's the old 'I'm not worth it' feeling yet again.

All I wanted to say; just know that I appreciate your sharing what you've been up to on that score...so happy to know it's helping you; it's deserved, always was, no matter when it finally comes. I hope you can keep going in the direction of being there for you, even when no one else ever truly was. It's allowed, as you point out. Allowed!

                                   

                                 

[radical]

Woodsgnome,
Only too glad that the idea of self-love and compassion found you at the right time.
What is nurtured and loved, thrives.  It is so hard when we weren't given that nurture when we needed them most.  My heart hurt  reading of you screaming in terror and no-one coming.

I can't do emoticons on this machine, but imagine a big hug from me.

[woodsgnome]

Normal. Everyone seems to want that. Sometimes desperately. But what is it? Is it even consistent? And who sets the parameters? And why is it so bad to not be normal--who decided that?

These are questions that have rattled around in my mind's cobwebs for a long time. Everybody's urged to want a normalcy that's totally elusive when I try to break it down. So maybe I'm just coping by saying this? Kind of hoping I'm right but still fearful of not being normal?

I know that what I was told was normal as a kid had no bearing on what was happening around me. Indeed to be normal seemed more frightening than something to emulate. Take love, for instance. While I could discern a general meaning from what was said about it, I didn't feel loved, don't recall seeing it modelled for me, and it just seemed like some empty, or at best vague, value floating around; reserved for some place called heaven that no one had ever seen, only speculated about. I came to decide that for me love wasn't part of my normal, perhaps never would be (althought I hoped for a while).

For many years I was proud not to be considerred normal, given those circumstances. But it's more like I just have a different normalcy. Maybe that's the twist--what's it like if this, that,or the other didn't happen?

I can see the other normal--I still tear up when I see genuine love being expressed; and it still feels foreign, not normal--or not my normal anyway. My tears are a mix of regret and joy, I guess...except the joy is always for the others. Which is alright, but old. I wonder what it would have been like...I probably idealize it all the more, having never experienced it firsthand.

If love even happened to and for me, would I even recognize it? Some have tried, I know that; but couldn't get through to where I felt it, or didn't run from it as if it was a trick. My normal is that good things like love are found over there, not here. Oh, I know, love is supposedly from within, too, but what's it like for another to love me. But when my normal is that it's abnormal for me to receive love, I shut it out as a pipe dream, I guess.

So when i grasp at normal, I still come up empty. This mad journey with cptsd seems to require lots of creative ways to deal with the normal out there, and the normal in here. When that ends, is there a new normal?  I'm beginning to have doubts, so maybe it's time to stop worrying about finding it and just living. Change will happen; I'll just never be normal in the sense I once thought. That leaves me lonely, but still me. And sad--my one consistent normal.

[Three Roses]

Normal is just a setting on your dryer. ~Patsy Clairmont

[woodsgnome]

It seems like I'm at war with myself, per usual. Or perhaps it's just the inner critic stopping by for a visit? One of my big projects of late has been dealing with ye olde IC. I even wrote a post somewhere on OOTS referring to befriending the old tart, thanking him/her/it for services rendered, and how it's not necessary for ye olde IC to run my life anymore--I've grown enough to have control now.

Looking around, I see I'm the adult in the room now, and I'm supposed to be here. It's still a tad scary to admit to being an adult and/or in charge, but IC seems relieved to be free. Maybe these doubts of late are just the IC's way of challenging my willingness to live without its presence.

The scenario that's really bothering me, though, is familiar. Having done so much inner work, I still have this hesitation about calling any of it recovery. It's like true recovery would be so new, I'm actually afraid to call it that. And how would I recognize it anyway? I'm sure that as soon as I'd claim something so lofty as recovery or healing, it would be taken from me, wrenched out of my hands. Not worthy of it.

I expect failure--or I convince myself to be ready for it, and con myself into thinking that's clever. I've tried labeling it re-framing, and have to say that's helped to get a different perspective. Still I'm overwhelmed--there's so much and it gets to where I question what or if progress is real, because something else seems to pop up to reinforce the doubts. I suppose that's normal for many. More coping--ye gads I'm tired of coping.

And then I stop and realize--if I'm in new territory, whatever recovery is won't necessarily be obvious, with a big arrow pointing to the 'living happily ever after land'. Here's where the re-framing is handy. Yet it also only reconfirms my suspicion that see, I can't/won't ever make it, and I resent that I have to work so hard to find alternate ways to feel alright about myself. Perhaps I don't even want it--it's too scary. Other 'normal' people don't have to be so hyper-aroused and careful. The perfectionist streak runs close to the surface, and I'm afraid of messing up.

I guess a part of this is knowing that even if the 'happy ever after' card came up, it has to include grief, as I don't sense an end to that. It's not that I'd miss it; but it seems impossible to stop grieving. Tears seem always at the ready, held in reserve. It's not the sort of grief that echoes all the old pain, but wants to clean the system, like a waterfall clearing the river. That's what my tears portend--that ultimate, thundering release.

And here I go, into the language of ambivalence again. I guess the ultimate acceptance might indeed include ambiguity; and never that sure end point, when I pull the curtain back and see recovery first-hand.

Pull the curtain? Did this old actor just say that?

Maybe that's how it really works in my life? So I picture a stage performance. If it's a matter of pulling the curtain back, and I'm onstage too...there's a next act? That symbolism I can relate to, and it makes me feel better. So yes, I can be on the edge of profound grief, stuck in my confusion, and somehow also it was/is a part of whatever the recovery script is, and that it's ending.

And recovery was always there, behind that thin curtain, awaiting the next act, the new performance. Wherever it goes--the ultimate improvised act morphed into reality.

I ended my last journal posting by wondering: "This mad journey with cptsd seems to require lots of creative ways to deal with the normal out there, and the normal in here. When that ends, is there a new normal?"

I think I've just answered myself. 

[sanmagic7]

i'm smiling right now at your last statement.  i think you have, too.

i love that you found an analogy for all this that you can relate to.   the curtain falls several times during a play depending on how many acts there are.  we get thru one and get ready for the next.  take a little break in between, maybe.  sometimes we're our own director, sometimes we follow direction.  it depends, doesn't it.

we also often go from play to play, changing the dynamic of the part we're playing, the work we're doing.  we have input in order to see which way a scene plays best.  we rehearse in order to feel more comfortable in our role. 

in real life, i think a lot of this works as well.  i play a different role when i'm with my daughter than with my friends than with a lover, etc.  not that i'm being fake, but each role calls for different perspectives, different actions, and different dynamics.

so it is with our role in recovery.  we recover in our own best way, rehearsing at times for what might become a changed part, destroying parts of a script that don't serve the story we are creating anymore, or even missing our mark at times.  all of it is part of recovery, tho, just different facets of it.  i would say that you are definitely in recovery, finding your way thru the director's notes.

i don't know if any of this makes sense, but it was such a wonderful analogy, i just kinda ran with it.  if this is off the mark, wg, just, please, ignore it.  but thanks for letting me wander thru your world for a bit.  warm, loving hug of recovery to you,

[woodsgnome]

Sanmagic7, the only answer for your wondering "if any of this makes sense" is: you are spot-on, and I love it; it's exactly the discovery I ran into as I was writing that last bit. One reason it hits me that way stems from my former life working in improv theatre. Improv is of course scriptless and that's exactly what this recovery play seems like.

In fact, it's becoming clearer to me that there is no road to a single destination called recovery. And we all need to build our own recovery road from scratch. It  can seem endlessly frustrating, but then we lift the next act's curtain, and there it is--recovery in all its raw newness like we never anticipated. It's both scary and promising. I've been down all the scary ones, so I think I know which way I want to travel.

Thanks for your insights, Sanmagic7 

[sanmagic7]

whew!  i was really nervous that i was just sounding silly.  you make so much sense about a scriptless recovery.  i think that is spot on in itself.  that, in essence, is what makes it so personal, isn't it.  we're getting there, wg.     

[woodsgnome]

Disclaimer--this runs long but it's a journal, not a give/go sort of posting. I try not to be wordy, but also feel a need to fully express what I have to say that's important to my inner being. In the nature of journals, it's a self-conversation with the understanding that others may be able to relate.

----------------------------------------------------------------

Everybody prays, right? No, I used to insist, covering my ears and cupping my mouth, doing anything to avoid those awful petitions to an angry deity from the hypocrites I knew too well as a youth imprisoned in religous schools. Now though, I've come around to regarding prayer as a wish, not a petition or laundry list of things to the mad dude in the sky.

So here I am, writing about prayer? I mean, some of my worst abuses--sexual, emotional, physical--came at the hands of people calling themselves holy, or best buddies with gawd, or just know-it-all adults who never tamed the spirit I'm finding within me. What's that all about, and how on earth did it survive being attacked by those monstrous adults hiding behind their sacred garb?

But prayer? Wasn't that their deepest disguise? They even prayed before molesting me. I mean, praising a deity to help teach me a 'lesson'; in fact the only lesson I ever came away with was to tremble in fear at the prospect of living another day.

Everything became snagged in fear, starting with the deity but including all the people I call the gawdawfuls, those in my FOO who played the same games--primarily the m, and more; to where I just feared people, period--the saddest being what I did to myself, from fearing that I was  the sinner they told me I was; to hating myself and wanting to end such a miserable life; even trying to disfigure myself to make me less appealing to them ("you're just so cute and cuddly").

A year ago this began to change. It's a mystery still, what the turnaround moment was. Some credit has to go to a wise therapist who pointed out some things I might not have considered by myself. One suggestion was that she saw in me someone who had survived with a strong spiritual essence intact that exceeded that of the abusers. When it was threatened as a child, it went underground, to what can only be called the heart (wordless really, but heart remains the best metaphor).

Before that even, I'd found an online group (OOTS) where other people described that they, too, had somehow survived treatment that makes one lament for humanity. But there they, we, were...on various places in our journeys, often blind with rage about what happened, but behind it all is something that could only be called love, peeking out of a rough landscape; and growing in beauty out of bleakness.

Love--the very word I've always had the hardest time understanding, but expressed openly in the lives of people sharing their struggles while trying to make sense of what can't be made sensible. This is honest love, emerging through rage, grief, and self-hatred. All of which is raw material for these new beings we're striving to become. Raw material ready to be transformed to something better; but we don't know how to bring it out yet.

Alright, so along with all of this I took another look at this spiritual essence my T assures me was my strong suit. Not because of any overt signs, she observed, but more of how I expressed certain attitudes that could only be called spiritual (not the optimal word, but in this realm precise descriptive words are elusive). Minus the doctrinal overlays of religious belief systems, but 'spiritual' nonetheless. No creeds or beliefs to gum up the works, I guess. Leading to my own view that all life is all spiritual, no matter the belief systems people hide in (my abusers loved their disguise as holy ones).

My T even gave me pointers to some materials she'd found helpful to encourage me to see what existed, beyond the lies of that horrid youth spent amongst the gawdawfuls, as I still call those people (at least when I'm being polite  !!!). Working from a base of skepticism, I'm beginning to see what can best be described as an inter-spiritual, mystical view in lieu of the often syrupy categories of spirituality. In other words--I can find good stuff buried in various approaches  blending indigenous Native views, Christian takes, Buddhist and Hindu variants, and Islamic mystic groups such as the Sufis. In the end, there's heartfelt messages in each regardless of the outward belief distortions that are common.

I've discovered (although I always suspected as much) there's more commonality and oneness tying them together than meets the eye (but can't hide from the heart). The mystical sense of union (vs. separation) with the divine characterize these inner approaches. They provide me with a gentler view, in stark contrast to the strident chest-pumping self-righteous sorts selling themselves as the purest or only way to a deity who I'd come to despise, given what religious/holy people did to me in the very name of the being they called god.

Yet here I am, of late even devising prayers, which I've come to understand in a different light than was once the case. I'm starting to unlearn those old shrieks to the mad deity in the sky, and come to regard prayer as just another inner discussion. And one that fits better than those with the inner critic--who I since realize is actually the remnant of the gawdawfuls shouting at me about how bad I was, etc.

I even took a stab at devising a prayer:

UNLOCKING THE HEART

May my heart open
to reconsider the past
only as an old movie...
...as a faded, crackly background to today's script.
May the locks fly off the doors of my heart
making more room for the Mystery to write the new script.

[DecimalRocket]

Hey woodsgnome, I love how you're able to find a healthier way of seeing spirituality despite your abuse.

I remember seeing a blog called Ancient Wisdom Project that feautured similar ideas. It had a man who went and researched several religions and philosophies — and to live its beneficial teachings in his everyday life. He didn't need to believe in the supernatural parts of them but some of the advice they allow in life can apply to anyone of any religious upbringing. I found this idea pretty revolutionary and it supported me in healing.

I remember a story of a person who stopped believing in God in a forum I've seen before. When she was young, her parents often prayed whenever an ambulance came by to pray for that person's healing. Even when she stopped believing, she still prayed. Why? Because while she didn't believe it would create any difference to the person or the world, it would create a change in her. To wish more for others and someday being able to change others with that motivation too.

In a way, I guess prayers can be like a wish. A way to thank life. A way to allow hope. A way to emphasize a desire in yourself so you can be more motivated for it.

Hope you enjoy your prayer, w.g.