These first two months of virtual redux have moved slowly. Glancing back at August 1, it's hardly there, lost in a bleary haze...
Propelled by wiki-inquiry and a backward look at a lifetime of stunted growth, the pensive journey forward into 50-year-old-ness is plight filled. Who wants to be transparent enough to admit that middle age has arrived before people skills? Who wants to live with the certainty that, though Celebrate Recovery lifted the veil of shame from a lifetime of anger and pride, I have only a few remaining years to recover from the losses? Twenty? Thirty? How stark life appears when viewed through that lens.
Thus, I took an online query on an Asperger site and found I'm only two points away from being autistic. Clever, huh? To diagnose away my problems is to avoid responsibility for them!
That explains why I'm perseverating over zygoteness. There's something about wrapping one's identity around being but a morula. 16 cells. The zygote's last stand. Morula: Latin for mulberry --that tree they cut down in front of the girls' kindergarten classroom. That tree from which silk worms will only eat. It is small, useful, cute, unassuming, and, like the silk worm, has no idea what it's about to become, nor the usefulness for which it was created.
At (eight to) ten weeks, however, the morula has expanded to "fetus," that implanted little figure that NARAL and Planned Parenthood preach is a mere blob of tissue, despite the presence of heartbeat (21 DAYS, wiki.heart development) and brain waves. It's settled, then. Into a purpose, every morula must grow; let go its grip on the door frame and allow God's hand usher in the life He's planned.
WikiOde to the precious early stage brain (recall chords of Snow Patrol, Up To Now...): "The ventral half of the neural plate is controlled by the notochord, which acts as the 'organiser'. The dorsal half is controlled by the ectoderm plate which flanks the neural plate on either side.
The "retard" the siblings made fun of in subsequent years was every bit as precious in God's sight as Little Albert. The fragile-X children of Brian Doerksen are every bit as precious as the most brillant Oxford don...
And with that thought, I turn to D#2's Dell and play Creation Calls on YouTube for the Nth time. Thank you, Mr. Doerksen, for reminding me of God's perfect mind, hand, heart, plan.
Everything He's made is good.
(Another progeny-ward P.S. - OS: Ponder, please, the Sonic Hedgehogness* of your calling. Be a musician. (SHH!) You're a mere !noggin molecule! now, but lodged to become more; much more. Or not. Just let go the proud doorframe. Let's see.)
Epilog
(That? No, that was not the prophesy. Here's the prophetic element: YOUR LOFTY WORDS DID NOT MEET YOUR ACTIONS, after feeling forced to move away from your neighborhood of 24 years, because a home for the disabled crashed your party by moving in next dorr...doer...Doerkson... DOOR. Suddenly all the unreconciled angst, bitter self pity and unresolved anger over everybody's failures coalesced into dramatic tears every time you so much as looked out the window at the new "facility" next door, or heard the angst ridden cries of the victims living within, as they were fed, sunned, or diapered on the kettle druuuum of a wood deck they installed between your houses. I sought counseling. She whom I paid $125 per hour to enlighten me as to WHY I couldn't stop crying, said to move, and then to try and figure it all out. To my great shame, we did. And my entire universe collapsed. . .)
Propelled by wiki-inquiry and a backward look at a lifetime of stunted growth, the pensive journey forward into 50-year-old-ness is plight filled. Who wants to be transparent enough to admit that middle age has arrived before people skills? Who wants to live with the certainty that, though Celebrate Recovery lifted the veil of shame from a lifetime of anger and pride, I have only a few remaining years to recover from the losses? Twenty? Thirty? How stark life appears when viewed through that lens.
Thus, I took an online query on an Asperger site and found I'm only two points away from being autistic. Clever, huh? To diagnose away my problems is to avoid responsibility for them!
That explains why I'm perseverating over zygoteness. There's something about wrapping one's identity around being but a morula. 16 cells. The zygote's last stand. Morula: Latin for mulberry --that tree they cut down in front of the girls' kindergarten classroom. That tree from which silk worms will only eat. It is small, useful, cute, unassuming, and, like the silk worm, has no idea what it's about to become, nor the usefulness for which it was created.
At (eight to) ten weeks, however, the morula has expanded to "fetus," that implanted little figure that NARAL and Planned Parenthood preach is a mere blob of tissue, despite the presence of heartbeat (21 DAYS, wiki.heart development) and brain waves. It's settled, then. Into a purpose, every morula must grow; let go its grip on the door frame and allow God's hand usher in the life He's planned.
WikiOde to the precious early stage brain (recall chords of Snow Patrol, Up To Now...): "The ventral half of the neural plate is controlled by the notochord, which acts as the 'organiser'. The dorsal half is controlled by the ectoderm plate which flanks the neural plate on either side.
Ectoderm follows a default pathway to become neural tissue. Evidence for this comes from single, cultured cells of ectoderm which go on to form neural tissue. This is postulated to be because of a lack of BMPs, which are blocked by the organiser. The organiser may produce molecules such as follistatin, noggin and chordin which inhibit BMPs.
The ventral neural tube is patterned by Sonic Hedgehog (Shh) [yes, you read that right. It really is called that]* from the notochord, which acts as the inducing tissue. The Shh inducer causes differentiation of the floor plate. Shh-null tissue fails to generate all cell types in the ventral tube, suggesting Shh is necessary for its induction. The hypothesised mechanism suggests that Shh binds patched, relieving patched inhibition of smoothened, leading to activation of glia transcription factors..."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
BEFORE four-year-old Ellie was found floating face down in Tulloch Lake during one of her family's post-waterski siestas, I am sure her neural plates were differentiated in the most Einsteinian fashion (with hair like mine, she certainly looked the part); but AFTERWARDS, not so much: all that O2 deprivation bundled the synapses in a confused mass of anti-algebraic debility.
OH the inhumanity! Or, not.
The "retard" the siblings made fun of in subsequent years was every bit as precious in God's sight as Little Albert. The fragile-X children of Brian Doerksen are every bit as precious as the most brillant Oxford don...
And with that thought, I turn to D#2's Dell and play Creation Calls on YouTube for the Nth time. Thank you, Mr. Doerksen, for reminding me of God's perfect mind, hand, heart, plan.
Everything He's made is good.
(Another progeny-ward P.S. - OS: Ponder, please, the Sonic Hedgehogness* of your calling. Be a musician. (SHH!) You're a mere !noggin molecule! now, but lodged to become more; much more. Or not. Just let go the proud doorframe. Let's see.)
Epilog
(That? No, that was not the prophesy. Here's the prophetic element: YOUR LOFTY WORDS DID NOT MEET YOUR ACTIONS, after feeling forced to move away from your neighborhood of 24 years, because a home for the disabled crashed your party by moving in next dorr...doer...Doerkson... DOOR. Suddenly all the unreconciled angst, bitter self pity and unresolved anger over everybody's failures coalesced into dramatic tears every time you so much as looked out the window at the new "facility" next door, or heard the angst ridden cries of the victims living within, as they were fed, sunned, or diapered on the kettle druuuum of a wood deck they installed between your houses. I sought counseling. She whom I paid $125 per hour to enlighten me as to WHY I couldn't stop crying, said to move, and then to try and figure it all out. To my great shame, we did. And my entire universe collapsed. . .)
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