Franklin Taggart's Unconventional Life Blog

A young boy loved stones, and had a burgeoning collection. On hikes with his dad he would fill his pockets and backpack until they were brimming with rocks of every shape and size. He loved collecting rocks so much that he asked his mother to sew him a special outfit just for rock collecting. He asked her to make him a pair of pants with six pockets on each leg, and a shirt with four pockets on each sleeve and three on each side of his buttons. When his mother had finished her sewing, he immediately put on his new togs and ran to the door, slamming it in haste. He sped to the trail behind their house, and began to find every rock that he could, slipping them one by one into each of his many pockets. When all of his pockets were completely filled, he opened his back pack and began to stuff it, too. Gradually his load became heavy to the point that he had to stumble beneath the weight. He decided to take the shortcut home, so that he would be able to take his new additions for his collec

For their wedding, a couple decided to ignore the environmental concerns of the day, and have their guests release helium balloons as the couple was leaving in their limousine for the delights of their honeymoon. Each balloon was tied to a small bag of rice that weighted it just enough to keep from following it's natural inclination to rise and float away. The rice was thrown toward the couple as they left the church, as tradition dictates, and then all of the guests released their balloons as the limo departed. They each then went their own way and left the church. One lone balloon was left behind. Naturally it strained against the weight of the rice bag, but to no avail. The weight was too heavy, and the helium was beginning to lose its buoyancy as the balloon began to sag. Just then a small bird flew into the church driveway, and it spied the small bag of rice. Being hungry, it began to peck at the rice bag, repeatedly working its beak into the small lace package until finally o

Trauma. The relationship ends, the baby dies, the firing happens, the illness takes over, the collectors call, the accidents happen, the abuse, crime, and calamity all take their toll. The nervous system goes into hyper-protective mode, senses heighten, adrenaline courses through the body, focus narrows, and for the time being, my defenses are up. Strangely enough, the pain doesn't arrive until later. When the dust has settled, and I'm left alone to process what has happened, then the pain comes. My mind is flooded with thinking - thinking about the loss, thinking about an unknown future, thinking about who's to blame, thinking about revenge, thinking about how I can manipulate the Universe, thinking about putting a gun to my own head. All this thinking keeps the pain alive, and feeds it. Behavior becomes impulsive. I yell at my kid, I curse at my wife, I become self righteous, I power up, I justify my actions because I'm in pain. My compulsions ultimately become futile

In conflict, I take on one of three roles: Victim, Rescuer, or Persecutor. In Victim mode, I fixate on the injustice, the wrongdoing, the trigger; pointing my finger at the persecutor, avoiding responsibility for the emotional state that my own fixation is creating. In Rescuer mode, I step in to  help, overstepping my boundaries, and taking on responsibility for feelings that aren't mine, trying to fix. In Persecutor mode, I shift into anger; blaming, raging, powering up; heaping shame and contempt upon the Victim. As the drama unfolds, I dance from role to role, and as I dance the conflict grows, the pain that I'm attempting to avoid grows, and the elephant in my room shits all over the floor. All of it, every role, all the pain, all the drama are products of my own perceptions. They don't exist in an objective reality. They are purely constructs of my own mind. As long as I'm in the drama, there is no relief. Like the old movie War Games, where the hacker and the comp

I believe that that core concern of our time is not political or religious at its root. I believe we are in the midst of a worldwide crisis of consciousness. If we look back over the relatively short history of humans on Earth, our recorded history is particularly minute. We've only been able to keep track of things for about 5000 years, but paleontologists are finding indications of the presence of humans that spans back into the hundreds of thousands of years, possibly even longer. Every generation learns more about our existence than the one that preceded it. Where 5000 years ago, myths and stories were used to relate histories and worldviews, now we have a much more complex understanding of where we've come from, where we've been, and where we're going. Even so, there are a large number of humans who are clinging to a worldview that doesn't take into account much that we've learned over the past 2000 years. In the course of my own lifetime I've experienc

The day I started first grade my Dad took me to my favorite store in the town where we lived, Scott's. Scott's was owned and run by a cousin of his, Scott Taggart. Scott's was a stationery store, but that wasn't all they had. The candy counter was world famous, or at least I thought it should be. The store clerk, Libby would fill up a small bag of whatever treats you wanted...Swedish fish, pixie sticks, cherry coins, Sixlets, and my favorite, Smarties. A quarter bought a bag full. But the reason for this trip wasn't the candy counter. The purpose of this excursion was to purchase something that continues to be one of my favorite things to shop for, school supplies. This first time is still etched in my memory because it was the first time I'd ever needed school supplies of my own. In preschool and kindergarten if you needed paper or something to color or paint with, the teacher had a pile in her tall cabinet by the rest room door. This time I was getting my

A couple of months ago I took my aging Dad to the DMV office to get a new state ID. He uses a walker now, and I'd gone to the door to hold it open for him. He was still quite a way from the door, and another man was coming up the walk at the same time. I motioned for the fellow to come on in since Dad was moving slowly. So the man went ahead and went to the desk where you get your number before going to the waiting area. He received his number and sat down. Dad made it to the number station, and I went to find a couple of seats, knowing that he usually wants to sit close to the counter. I found two seats together at the end of a back row of seats directly in front of him. The row was too narrow for the walker to fit through, but Dad started to push his way through, shoving chairs aside as he went. I had pointed out to him that since this was the back row, there was plenty of space behind the chairs to walk without obstacles, but he insisted on pushing through the narrow aisle.