tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83089215467454810482024-03-13T08:09:40.629-07:00Chalice SparkChasing the truth through this wild life, and finding that the most true things are the ones we trip over as we go by!Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger468125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8308921546745481048.post-44804640348524273672016-11-11T08:34:00.001-08:002016-11-11T08:41:51.455-08:00Stage Two: AngerI came here to dump my vitriol on the page; to rage and rant and blame and punish.<br />
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But I'm not going to.<br />
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I was interrupted by a Facebook message with an idea that might just help people who are hurting. And maybe I can be a part of it.<br />
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And then I was interrupted by my mom asking about our family week all together over Thanksgiving with dogs and young adults and mashed potatoes all under one roof.<br />
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And then the wind that had been blowing my sails stilled. I remembered. People. Love. Hope.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bKziYrQSr3k/WCXyuBpVniI/AAAAAAAADGk/0HWtcsIMOFstzwgaWF5i1IR_3nCbhhP4ACK4B/s1600/sails-1497839_960_720.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bKziYrQSr3k/WCXyuBpVniI/AAAAAAAADGk/0HWtcsIMOFstzwgaWF5i1IR_3nCbhhP4ACK4B/s640/sails-1497839_960_720.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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Oh, I'm still mad. But less so.<br />
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I still don't understand how anyone, any one single person who has read and believed one single line of Jesus of Nazareth could vote for #DonTheCon. They have done so much damage. They did. Not party elites who didn't reach out to the whoever or those who pulled the party too far left or those who voted one way and then abandoned all reason this time.<br />
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This election outcome is certainly NOT fault of white women who are themselves the victims of oppression and marginalization and if you don't believe me, try me, the 50 year-old woman who has worked in the employment industry. Try me. I dare you. This is not our fault.<br />
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Here's the thing; the people who I trusted to have some common decency and morals did this. I am furious. And I am ready to fight.<br />
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The next time a Trumper sneers at my mixed race family or mutters under their breath at us, I am going to confront them with a finger in their face and a phone recording the whole thing.<br />
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If my son in the midwest is the victim of a hate crime I'm coming in with media blazing to show those hate filled "nice" midwesterners for who they really are. Fake Christians holding a fake moral ground and willing to believe the con of someone they should have smelled coming a thousand miles away. Shame on them. Look what they have done. Look at our people who are now emboldened to perpetrate hate crimes and hate speech against one another. Shame. This is what their vote has wrought.<br />
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OK. I'm still angry.<br />
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But less so. Less so. I'm remembering new babies who need a warm circle in which to grow. And old ladies who just want to know their life's work means something. And cozy afternoons with family because in the end, that is what we all want.<br />
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May it be so. May it please be so.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8308921546745481048.post-49413340290394047282016-11-01T09:01:00.000-07:002016-11-01T09:01:20.154-07:00Golden JubileeIt began on October 20th. My oldest son turned 25.<br />
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Next spring I turn 50.<br />
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Then my husband and I celebrate our 30th wedding anniversary.<br />
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The jubilee year then closes with my youngest son turning 21 at the end of the coming summer.<br />
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A big year, a huge year. A year pregnant with possibilities, or for my overthinking anxiety-depressed way of being in this world, a year that is hollering "danger, danger! incoming ordinance!" or something like that.<br />
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But I'll tell you, something this fraught election year has taught me is that you don't have to stay down when life knocks you down. Or you know, hit the dirt before life even has a chance to knock you down.<br />
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Hillary Rodham Clinton began her senate career at just about this stage of life. OK, she was maybe a little more successful on the achievement scene than I've been so far. But still. She got knocked down and blasted out of the water, and held underwater and rolled off a jeep as it careened down mountains and well, she was not going to take any of it with her mouth filled with dirt. She gets back up and starts again, over and over and over.<br />
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If she can, so can I.<br />
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Here's my "spit the dirt out and start marching toward the next good thing" plan:<br />
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<ul>
<li>I'm going to transcribe every scrap of idiocy I've ever written into one big document and pay attention while the drivel flows through my fingers. For decades I've been writing in journals and on big yellow pads and in composition books; dozens and dozens of writing classes worth of words with prompts and exercises and half a dozen books I've started and almost never finished that produced something with ink and paper. I'm interested to hear what I wrote.<br /></li>
<li>At the same time I'm going to cover a decade in a month and try to recall everything I can about myself during that decade: what did I dream about, where did I spend my time, who were my heroes, what scared me. That means November is 0-10, December is 11-20, January is 21-30, February 31-40 and March is 41-50. My birthday is in May so it gives me time to write a summary or an action plan or get hit by a car somewhere in there or something. This scares me to death. But I am curious to see who I was because maybe that will help me know who I am. I'm not likely to share much of this, but who knows? Maybe.<br /></li>
<li>At some point in this process I am going to start a new blog/website/social media thing of some kind. Not to monetize my writing and other work, but to just be out in the world in a way that I like to be. I miss the old blog world when we all had those few blogs we read every day and we kept tabs on each other aside from the blog. We've moved on from that world, but I do still have things to say and I want to do that in a place that doesn't feel like I'm going backwards. I had hoped to have that piece ready by today, but then life happened. So it will happen later. Maybe. </li>
</ul>
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There it is. My golden jubilee year, complete with accountability post to be sure I don't forget what I meant to do.<br />
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May I learn just who I am and what it is I mean to do here with this life, or what's left of it.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tFBtT3S_Ny4/WBi8KX6oBbI/AAAAAAAADFg/0on8rbTrMUAlYGpWmAtIr99kz_6-LDuGACK4B/s1600/Jubilee%2B%25281%2529.png" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tFBtT3S_Ny4/WBi8KX6oBbI/AAAAAAAADFg/0on8rbTrMUAlYGpWmAtIr99kz_6-LDuGACK4B/s640/Jubilee%2B%25281%2529.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8308921546745481048.post-20050092756594226412016-10-20T22:55:00.002-07:002016-10-22T00:32:33.918-07:00The UnintendedI was raised to believe that people are inherently good. Not that their actions are always good or even their intentions, but that deep down people were at their core meant to be good to one another, to their surroundings, to everything.<br />
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I grew up in a Unitarian Universalist church before the <a href="http://www.uua.org/beliefs/what-we-believe/principles" target="_blank">guiding </a>principles were adopted, but what I absorbed while painting the basement bathrooms in our little fellowship and by watching the lives of the people of the church was that people had inherent worth and dignity. Worth simply for existing, for being put together by the elements of the earth and sky and water, and dignity because they traveled this earth as humans. </div>
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This what I taught my own children and many other children, too, as they grew up in the UU church; that all were inherently worthy. </div>
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As I witness Donald Trump bluster over all decent American core values there are times I have to tune out the stories, close social media and look away from some exchanges. My <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/culture/culture-desk/the-power-of-yesallwomen" target="_blank">#YesAllWomen</a> story isn't as bad as some, not as bad as many, really. But as I am away from regular life at a work gathering, I have a little space to think. For some people, is the message that "all are worthy, people are good" a hindrance to the ability to say "nope, this is not OK, I'm out?"</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Imhnsi3AG_A/WAmts4khgLI/AAAAAAAADEQ/xp_DEoHc1N8bigJc5uMNKK8ErmEZGnUtwCK4B/s1600/Water%2Bgirl.png" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Imhnsi3AG_A/WAmts4khgLI/AAAAAAAADEQ/xp_DEoHc1N8bigJc5uMNKK8ErmEZGnUtwCK4B/s320/Water%2Bgirl.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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Maybe it's only me, maybe the Midwestern "oh well, I never mean to bother" ethic that's pounded in our brains even before our soft spot closes makes us vulnerable to people with dark motives. Maybe I'm just making it up, overblowing it, over thinking it. Just being sensitive. </div>
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Or maybe not. Maybe teaching our children to say "oh hell, no" and get out is a great skill. Maybe giving tools to identify toxic people and techniques that are used to control and take advantage of people is a good idea.</div>
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Maybe a simple message isn't enough. Maybe it's not even all that good.</div>
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Maybe what I was taught, and what I then taught isn't enough. </div>
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Maybe there is a better way. </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8308921546745481048.post-51969870613709242522016-10-13T22:06:00.000-07:002016-10-20T23:00:33.057-07:00So We May BeginOne page, One day. Move on.<br />
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Today is cooler and my chair is a little wet from the dew. The prayer flags flow gently back and forth. <br />
I sit alone, here, but my ancestors are before me. My sister women around me. My animal friends padding around, sniffing and growling at the leaves that skitter off the patio and the thought that there might be a cat across the way. <br />
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I can hear a squirrel a few trees over who is unhappy, chirrping and clucking, likely because the dogs are perched on this little patio with me. Even here in the middle of the metropolitan desert, nature dominates. There is dirt and many bugs and stray leaves. We smell the earth and feel the fingers of the sun and the silky breath of the breeze on our cheeks. I lift my chin to catch it.<br />
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We are here. We are here. We are here.<br />
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You are here. You are here. <br />
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You are here<br />
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and so we may begin.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kbjCWhxRcf0/WAmuzcq-JtI/AAAAAAAADEY/ZdtnCGyI6RoxkkG5JLzJJ3Mjyr2Ks1cLQCK4B/s1600/IMG_1060.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kbjCWhxRcf0/WAmuzcq-JtI/AAAAAAAADEY/ZdtnCGyI6RoxkkG5JLzJJ3Mjyr2Ks1cLQCK4B/s640/IMG_1060.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8308921546745481048.post-51800383204943101752016-09-10T20:03:00.001-07:002016-09-10T20:03:11.432-07:00Maybe in SeptemberMaybe today was a trying day.<br />
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Maybe your work spins around a September start-up and this week was when things got <i>real</i> real.<br />
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Maybe today, being Suicide Prevention Day, poked and pulled at you in good ways or hard ways or good ways that are hard because maybe you're a survivor or live with depression in your life in some way. Maybe you read accounts of people deciding to choose to live and you thought "ha, you ain't see nothing, baby." And maybe you felt instantly guilty, because who are we to know? Who are we to ever really know?<br />
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Maybe you're about to leap into a life change; heading to school, getting married, having a baby, getting a divorce, moving to hospice. Or maybe this is happening to someone you love. Maybe, it could be even harder, it is not happening this time.<br />
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Maybe this Irish Blessing will let your soul rest for just a moment, just rest, not rest and then do something. Just rest.<br />
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One time years and years ago a friend shared this blessing that is a song with me during a scary time, and it helped me. Maybe it is helping me, here again, on this September Saturday. Maybe you, too.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/I6PQRXXn9ko" width="560"></iframe>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8308921546745481048.post-85366044075714713592016-09-07T16:41:00.000-07:002016-09-08T05:58:37.954-07:00All I Ever Wanted<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_e7aHXFk3aU/V9Ck4tNXOTI/AAAAAAAADB4/lQ2UfjnkcEoesULIujy8Iz2qzSx51IFxwCK4B/s1600/Untitled%2Bdesign%2B%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="354" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_e7aHXFk3aU/V9Ck4tNXOTI/AAAAAAAADB4/lQ2UfjnkcEoesULIujy8Iz2qzSx51IFxwCK4B/s640/Untitled%2Bdesign%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Because mothering is all I ever wanted from life.<br />
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Because being a mother and building a family and paying close close attention to every detail along the way was my work.<br />
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My life's work.<br />
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Because that phase of my life is really long since over and when no offspring live at home, now, in just over a week, it's really done. Or, well, it is not over but is completely transformed in a whole manner that leaves no anchor to that former life, at all, in any way.<br />
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And because of that, I think, because all of who I am and ever was is really now completely over, I am bereft.<br />
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I watch the "first day of 3rd grade" and "too angsty to let me take a picture of the first day of 8th grade" posts go by on social media. Those days were so long ago for me. But I loved them.<br />
I still love them.<br />
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The way I remember it, I was one of those people who noticed at the time that I loved the busy days at home with kids. We were lucky enough to homeschool for a good portion of that time, so the days had a longer rhythm that ebbed and flowed more like the seasons than frenetic days. We read books and spent long days exploring that were in fact simply interesting days spent together following creeks to learn about salmon or taking in a midday play.<br />
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It was all I wanted. And I am so grateful.<br />
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But here's the thing. Women are taught to become things. We learn to become a mother or become a whatever-our-career-is-person, We learn to become a wife and become an activist and become an advocate. And then, sometimes, those things go away. Then, what are we?<br />
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That's been my question. What am I?<br />
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I had to un-follow some people on social media because their "next thing" is so beautiful and whole and they have origami folded themselves into a sleek crane who is going to seminary or trekking off on an adventure of self-discovery. Please. I have no money for grad school or a trek of discovering what comes next. We have ginormous college bills for those brilliant children because we didn't save when we were becoming parents at 12 or whatever so, no, I don't want to watch you uproot your comfortable life and cram it into this new amazing thing. Well, I do, but it makes me dark and all self-hatey. So, I stopped.<br />
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Here lies my challenge. Figure out life. No financial investment possible. But there are hours in the day. I have job that I like. No other responsibilities, really. Job, a very busy husband, some time with my adult children when I can. Two badly behaved dogs. And this question:<br />
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What to do with my remaining years? And just who the hell am I supposed to be?<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8308921546745481048.post-34261834527285727642016-09-04T22:37:00.003-07:002016-09-04T22:49:20.725-07:00How is it With Your Soul Today? <div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ooCkYsHOg3A/V80E_iX0JpI/AAAAAAAADBQ/di5y5BOOMY8cLvUFSnGVvQxNlRQvjcZQgCK4B/s1600/Broken.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ooCkYsHOg3A/V80E_iX0JpI/AAAAAAAADBQ/di5y5BOOMY8cLvUFSnGVvQxNlRQvjcZQgCK4B/s320/Broken.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And so, how are you today?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Not what arrived in your mailbox or where did you go for lunch. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I don't want to hear about the backlog at work or what happened in the car wash. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The new kitten's antics are delightful, I am sure. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">But that's not what I want to know, dear one. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The fourth visit from the refrigerator repair person must be exasperating, of course. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And the plans with your cousins to see the fallen heartthrob's eternal show in Vegas would be a wonderful story. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I am sure. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">But that is still not what I want to know, dear one. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">My heart wonders, and it wants to know, my love. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">How is it with your soul, today?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Is the long forgotten dream peering from behind the list of things to do, asking for another chance?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Does longing throb in your fingertips to make or create or do?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">What about grief, is that what I see? Glistening from the crease near your eye?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Is that twitch of your toe an untraveled trail, waiting for your steps?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Because I wonder, my dear, </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">how is it with your soul today? </span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8308921546745481048.post-2179817722923071382016-08-13T21:54:00.000-07:002016-08-13T22:07:27.748-07:00Rocked in a Rocking Chair I do this thing that I am pretty sure no one else does.<br />
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When there is something wrong in my life, I truly believe that if I can just figure it out that I can move beyond it. I believe if I do everything right, then I can cure my malady. As in: if I just eat the green leafy vegetables and not the gluten, dairy, meat, nightshades, boxed, canned, or processed food then all symptoms will disappear, and I will lose 10 pounds, look 10 years younger and also gain 20 IQ points. And become spiritually enlightened. And never get another parking ticket. </div>
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It also works for my mindset. If I can just choose my attitude, laugh on demand, recite daily affirmations and fake it until I make it then all of the afflictions of my mind and oh sure why not, my body, too, will evaporate. </div>
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I am sure that these things are true for many people. They are probably true for you. You probably have great stories about curing yourself of something horrible with just a flip of your wrist. Awesome. Fabulous. Great that you can mend yourself and not get poked by the needle. </div>
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Me? Yeah. Not so much. I just try so hard and then harder and then more and then when it doesn't work, when I am still depressed or in pain or unable to process big emotional rents in my life tickety-boo, all set, well, I just find that I just--melt. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-POM5IMnSP-g/V6_we7NO80I/AAAAAAAAC_s/qdiqd-EqqYsWNOytaa44-TsFUHmOMZXkACK4B/s1600/candle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-POM5IMnSP-g/V6_we7NO80I/AAAAAAAAC_s/qdiqd-EqqYsWNOytaa44-TsFUHmOMZXkACK4B/s320/candle.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Anne Principe, <a href="http://divignthinking.weebly.com/spiritual-graphics.html" target="_blank">Divign Thinking </a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Somehow this belief that I can fix things, that I must fix things or I will get another big freakin' black "X" on my score card is sewn deep into my soul. I must be happy, whole and able to skip up and down steps with not a twinge of pain or I am simply not DOING it right. It being everything.</div>
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But maybe, I am doing it right. Or right enough to have it not be all my FAULT. Maybe generations of mental health troubles in my family history could be a sign that for me, depression is something that is beyond "choose your attitude." And maybe pain in my joints and crushing fatigue isn't going to be cured by being free of everything in my diet but blueberries and brown rice--maybe there is something, you know, wrong. Maybe there's not, maybe I'm just not TRYING enough, but you know, maybe there is. Maybe. </div>
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I have told my beloveds for years and years that they must take care of themselves like they'd care for a dear friend. This week I decided that there is a higher standard. I think we need to take care of ourselves like we would take care of a four-year-old, and not a four-year-old that we can give back, not a visiting kid who you might feed Froot Loops and take swimming all day long with no nap and only Doritos for food. </div>
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No, this is a higher standard. We need to take care of ourselves like we'd care for a deeply loved four-year-old that we have to keep. That means getting enough sleep every night on clean sheets with soft blankets, and healthy snacks both morning and afternoon. We need playtime and arts and crafts with long naps taken curled around a floppy dog. We need to get taken to the movies and out for ice cream but not too much and no movies that will scare us so much that we can't sleep. We need to be rocked in rocking chairs and read excellent stories--even if that means now we have to do our own rocking and reading, that's OK. We need to treat ourselves as if we actually cared, as if we actually loved us. </div>
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Or, I mean, I do. </div>
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I'm sure you've got it all together and can sew in a zipper that fixes up your broken heart without missing a single, organic, freshly juiced kale fueled morning work out. </div>
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Or, you know, maybe not. </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8308921546745481048.post-66084635734040216082016-08-12T19:10:00.002-07:002016-08-12T19:10:44.062-07:00Every Atom and LoveI have a meditation practice. It's horrible. I have a horrible meditation practice. It does not seem to matter how many books I read or classes I take or malas I hold. It's terrible.<br />
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I feel like I have to say to my practice, "It's not you, it's me. Totally me." </div>
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So here I was this morning, sitting, meditating. Of course I had read social media, you know, before, because that's just the shiny draw that social media is. There I saw a post from Marianne Williamson with a charge to go spread love BEFORE you go into the world so it paves your path or something really wonderful like that. </div>
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I sat and did what I've come to call "the gratitude meditation." I notice and give gratitude. </div>
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"Grateful for leaves. Grateful for breeze. Grateful for sun in the leaves. Grateful for the solar panels next door." Seriously. I said I was terrible at this. </div>
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And then I thought about sending love, like Marianne said. What if I did that instead? What if I sent love to my dear ones and beyond, that might be good. It might be better than noticing the solar panels, anyway. </div>
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So I thought about my beloveds; my dear husband and his ever stressful job. My three young adult sons and the spinning transitions: buying a house, crossing the country for grad school, heading away from home for the first time very, very soon--whoosh. Sending big love, paving a path. </div>
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Then I thought about family and dear friends; some sitting by the bedside of critically ill family, some getting married, lots of love smeared across space and time. Whoosh. </div>
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And then to the people of this world; our leaders, our ever marginalized. May love lift each person and let them know that they are valued, treasured, worthy. </div>
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But then, I went to the people who believe that a tyrannical leader is their answer. Love, send them love to know that that's not the way. Love love love. </div>
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Oh but no. My eyes opened and my heart stopped. No. Nope no no. I can't send love to that person who has stood above others. That person who says that he alone can fix this world. No. I can't. </div>
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What? Why? Who says I need to love Donald Trump? I don't think anyone, anyone really loves that person. There is no way. He is unworthy. He has fomented such hate that I truly believe that he is not redeemable. </div>
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So, nope. I can't. </div>
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OK. Moving on. Love the animals, love the oceans. Love the planets and the stars and the ever expanding universe. </div>
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But wait. Do I really believe that every person has worth? Do I? Who am *I**? What is my bottom line. </div>
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OK, OK, OK. Wait. I think, maybe, I can. I can love the atoms in that person's body. The atoms that were created when stars exploded. I can love the hydrogen and the carbon. I can love those basic little parts that are just exactly like the atoms in my body; in the bodies of my beloveds. </div>
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That, I can love. </div>
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Pave the world with love. </div>
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Because really, what other choice do we have. </div>
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Pave the whole world, every bit of it, with love. </div>
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Amen. </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8308921546745481048.post-27231421721659303152016-08-11T16:51:00.000-07:002016-08-11T16:51:45.907-07:00With Open EyesLast night I was driving to a lovely little library out in suburban Orange County. It's like a cross between a plantation and a mansion with grounds that host weddings and big parties. As I exited the insanity that is the 405 during SoCal rush hour, I saw a sign for the University of California, Irvine.<br />
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"Hmmm" I thought, "I should take a class at UCI, it's really so close."<br />
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Sure. Good idea, right? Take a class.<br />
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Except that I AM taking a class at UCI. My second in a series. I had even done a big round of schoolwork earlier in the day, posting on the discussion board and reading two chapters of the textbook.<br />
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As I pulled into parking lot I parked back in the spots that are not green or signed with anything. I don't really understand the 22 minute parking zones with the green curbs (22 minutes? really?) in California but I don't need anymore parking tickets.<br />
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I had parked in this spot before, the last time I'd come to a meeting at what I keep calling the Katy Perry library because I can't for the life of me remember the actual name. But this time, as I got out, I found myself looking for an easy cross to the parking lot and a path that had no steps to get to the front door. Four months ago I'd crossed this same lot. Then, it was without a thought.<br />
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Good health is priceless. But sometimes less-than-good-health sneaks up on you. Maybe you don't notice until you stand at the top of a flight of stairs, hesitant to take the first step because you know it it is going to hurt. Maybe you are tired all the time, but you've been busy. Maybe you don't want to notice.<br />
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I have noticed. My rheumatologist rocks and I see her for a three-month follow-up next week. But the little meeting at the Katy Perry library was a wake-up call. I need to start, at least for now, making accommodations.<br />
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Grocery delivery, someone else to deep clean at least once a month. More sleep.<br />
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And, most difficult of all, open eyes.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8308921546745481048.post-28385093122730792302016-03-09T21:11:00.002-08:002016-03-09T21:12:02.176-08:00May I Wear a PathIt all started yesterday with International Women's Day; I was thinking about the women who have come before me, both the heroes and the humble. I wondered, what on earth does my life have to do with <a href="http://uudb.org/articles/margaretfuller.html" target="_blank">Margaret Fuller</a> and her 19th century intellectual powerhouse of a life?<br />
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Nothing. Nope. Not really. I certainly did not suffer from life-long migraines due to being over educated as a child, in fact my intellect was judged to be below standard for the gifted program in my working class elementary school. No tears shed there, if they'd had a spirit filled dreamers gifted class, I'd have been the queen.<br />
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We all follow paths worn by the many steps of those who traveled before we pass by. We all shape our lives after those who have come before either knowingly or not. The question is, then, who am I following? Who made this path?<br />
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The answer came today during my <a href="http://www.questformeaning.org/programs/learning-center/whispering-winds-writing-to-explore-your-inner-wisdom/" target="_blank">writing class at church</a>. We were writing on the topic of "Brokenness". The pattern goes that we read a poem and then write a bit and then share if we want to. I'm not even sure who said what, but I began to think about my great grandmother and how the story goes. She was a teenager in Norway when her sister decided to sail for the United States. Apparently letters were coming back from an aunt that things were so wonderful and so fabulous. If Marta would join her sister Severina then Mrs Johnson, the aunt (or cousin? the story twists in my mind) would pay her fare and she could work it off over time. The story goes that the work would be in the house, in the kitchen and while Marta didn't want to go, her family and her sister, and probably if I understand my DNA correctly, her Scandinavian guilt pushed her to sail.<br />
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Of course, the work wasn't in the kitchen, it wasn't in the house. It was in the fields; the sweltering tall prairie fields of South Dakota. And there was no early release. She worked for seven years. Now we would call her an indentured servant. One who had to work off her passage for so many years and then was free. But this ancestor woman of mine was never really free. Her whole life, so the story goes, she wanted to go home. She wanted to smell the wet, green air of Norway. She wanted to climb the hills and smell the sea on every breeze.<br />
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But, like all of us, life happened. She married a nice German man; a musician. She had two daughters and then years and years later had a son. She never let her daughters into the kitchen to cook a thing and was never, so the story goes, a very warm mother. Then, on May 4th, 1951, while visiting her daughter, my grandmother, she died.<br />
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This is the path I feel beneath my feet. Here are my ancestor women who nursed their babies and rocked them to sleep. The path of the my grandmothers grandmothers who lived as best they could and gave their children the best they could manage. The thousands of dinners set on the table, and hundreds of celebrations of holidays. The cooking and cleaning and managing and making do. I feel those dear ones in my body. They worked so hard and felt such loss. We have had so much leaving and loss on this path. We still do. You and me. Here in this world, we love and live and while maybe our plowing is different now, we still are working so so hard to do the very best we can.<br />
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And yet, and yet, I am able to have a bank account and credit and a college degree and I can vote. I have legal rights to my children beyond and outside my marriage (OK, OK, my children are grown men, but go with me here) and for goodness sake I married a man outside my religion and my race! I have a different life.<br />
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My path follows the dear worn way of my fore-mothers and it goes so much further. It's almost like I have a secret jetpack that allows me to walk and walk and then when faced with a cliff I don't have to soldier on as best I can. I have a new path, but not really. I have the "leap" button on the path, maybe that's it. I have more powers.<br />
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We have learned so much. The women I am drawn to honor are the ones who lived the daily life of getting by and getting on. Some of my other women ancestors were not simple women, but troubled and complicated. Their love for their children is hard to see in the stories told. I carry those paths in my cells, too.<br />
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So today, with my writing friends in my writing class I wrote the story of how my great grandmother might have felt. How this was not what she'd planned, how she never wanted to come to the great plains and always, always, always missed home. She pined. I wrote about the ripples of that life-long misery.<br />
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Women who are not my ancestors still pine, still get stuck, still become trapped in situations which are not fair nor just. Today. All over. Even where things should be better. And, of course they should be better every where.<br />
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Let me honor Marta and her sisters and our cousins everywhere. May my feet wear a path worthy of those who may follow.<br />
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May it be so.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8308921546745481048.post-57765144212220366142015-04-13T23:26:00.000-07:002015-04-13T23:26:13.464-07:00When the Light WinsHere's the thing about depression. You don't really know that you are deep in until someone points it out. Or validates it. Or notices.<br />
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At least that's how it was for me.<br />
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Today while I was working I hit a road block that had me questioning just why oh why I do the crazy work that I do when I realized something pretty big. A few months ago this very thing would have meant that my work day was over. Road blocks set me spinning into a "no go" zone which meant I might as well give up for the day. Usually it also stopped all practical work; no house work, productive errand or really, anything else would happen. Maybe I'd climb between my cozy flannel sheets and sleep or maybe just curl up on the couch and stay there.<br />
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Someone asked me a few months ago how I could tell the difference between the grief of losing my dad and depression. I didn't have much of an answer at the time--my brain was still in a fog, but the question stuck with me. Now, some distance out, I know the precise difference--in fact it is more of a Venn diagram with no intersection at all. Two different animals completely, with maybe a river or even an ocean separating them.<br />
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Grief is sadness, loss, regret for missed opportunities and a longing for things that will never be again.<br />
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Depression is hopelessness, feeling numb about everyday things (oh my God I have to choose what to eat? What to wear? Really?) and wishing the pain of living would just be over.<br />
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That spin art of depression can take a person to some dark, dark places. For me it also hurt, I mean physically. My joints ached like I had some horrible inflammatory disease. But, the strangest symptom I experienced was an almost completely atonal voice. I think I am usually pretty expressive--but at the height of the depression it bored even me to listen to myself speak. I guess really, everything was flat: voice, energy, will to live.<br />
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I'm sure losing my dad contributed to my depression in some ways as did a whole lot of other events in my life. It's not been a good year. Or years. But some of this is about the way I think and the way I've been thinking all my life. Negative, or well, horrible and abusive self-talk can pile up a bit over the decades. It's kind of like laundry--the pile grows and grows until pretty soon you've got nothing left to wear. No place to hide.<br />
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For me I came to a point when something happened that one distant part of me recognized as just not OK. It was just too far, and if I squinted a little I could see that maybe I was actually worth at least a smidge more. That's when I finally called the therapist a friend recommended. It was hard to get that diagnosis--the validation that no, it actually was not OK. I was not fine. And not everyone feels this way. Not just depression, but severe. Like--really severe depression with a couple of co-diagnoses for good measure. It was an earthquake of the soul.<br />
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Bad stuff. Bad news.<br />
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But no. Actually, no. It was not bad news. It was good news. It was really good news because therapy with a good therapist begins to rewire the thoughts and feelings and reality that we all build for ourselves. For me Cognitive Behavioral Therapy is a good fit, and it has mended some of my very broken places, at least a little. Still, though, I have done some damage in my life that I'm not sure can be repaired. Folks think I'm maybe just not very organized or that I have terrible follow through. I see it and hear it in the daily interactions. And while my memory is much better I still have a hard time remembering details. Hell, I'm always bad at details and have developed elaborate systems to track them in my normal life. But this depression was brutal on my ability to recall, well, anything.<br />
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In truth and hindsight I should have taken a few weeks or maybe months off from work. But in the deep depths it's hard to know what you need. Impossible, even. It never occurred to me to ask.<br />
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So, here I am. Hitting road blocks and actually navigating around them. Getting better. Being better.<br />
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That is good news. Victory really. I am rebuilding my life. Finding joy and hope. Mental health trouble is so wildly stigmatized in our world, yes still, that I deeply fear even talking about it because, well, because of job searches and personal and professional reputation and being judged for what happened to me as being my new normal when it is absolutely not. But to hide is to be ashamed of the depression. And that gives it power.<br />
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That is not OK. No more power for the pull of the dark side. No more. It's over. The light won and the truth is I know that if not right this minute, that pretty soon I'm gonna be OK. For real. Whole and holy and good. And that is a good thing, a very good thing indeed.<br />
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Amen.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8308921546745481048.post-81363456750975245692014-11-18T09:21:00.002-08:002014-11-18T09:21:15.173-08:00WaitingMy dad is entering the final stage of his life. No one has said that to me, but I know it's true.<br />
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He's not even really himself anymore, and hasn't been for a while. He's back in the hospital, and I'm not sure he's gonna make it home again. Maybe. H<br />
e's been surprising us for almost two years. But somehow this time is different.<br />
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Yes, I'm sad. Not sad for the letting go because at this point there's not a hell of a lot of dignity or meaning for him or for those who love him. Except, of course, doing everything possible so he's comfortable and cared for. I'm more than a thousand miles away, so there's not much real world I can do to take care of him. But I don't want to just be sad. I want to remember.<br />
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So, I'm kind of gliding through this day and it's tasks and holding memories. Like mixing homemade root beer in a vat so deep I was up to my elbow stirring with a long wooden paddle- I must have been about five. And the stories he told by sons about each individual lure in his tackle box. And the way he loved our crazy dog who ran away every chance she got. And his love of being busy and just having things to do, even if it was just going to the dollar store and having coffee at the local meeting spot.<br />
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I'm not sure what comes next. But it feels like waiting right now. And I'm OK with that. I'll wait. I'll wait.<br />
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Amen.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8308921546745481048.post-36539609068624136702014-10-08T23:26:00.004-07:002014-10-08T23:27:13.961-07:00Through the Dark Places<div class="MsoNormal">
My weeks are peppered with meetings meetings meetings, all
kinds of meetings. Working with the Church of the Larger Fellowship is the most
fun I have ever had in an actual job, but if you were to attend all the
meetings, it is likely there would be hardly a moment for actually <i>doing</i> anything. We have Theological Reflection
or “TR” for short, the “planning all things to all people” meeting which is
somehow named the “Big Hairy Meeting” but spelled “Harry” so in my mind I just
think “oh, this week we have Harry” and it’s not so scary. There is Adult Faith
Development and a monthly regular old staff meeting which is not really about
all things to all people but kind of is. And then there are the twice weekly worship
meetings. Wow. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Honestly, it’s lovely. <o:p></o:p></div>
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A few weeks back our fearless leader, Rev. Meg Riley, was
talking about dealing with children and difficult topics at one of these
meetings and she said this: “Do we accompany our children as they go to dark
places?” <o:p></o:p></div>
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She was not talking about caves. Or nighttime hikes. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Rev. Meg was talking about helping our children face the
dark parts of life—and how those things sometimes come blasting at our children
full bore. We can throw our hands out, leap to place our bodies in the path of
whatever is happening to our beloved child. And yet sometimes—sometimes there
is not one damn thing that we can do to protect that precious being.<o:p></o:p></div>
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They are going to hurt. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Our racist world is going to filter in beyond the enclave we
have tried to build. Illness will visit. Family strife: divorce, disease,
poverty will find us and by way of us it will find our children. They will
experience mental illness, and the hate of dictators and the terror of global
warming and its inevitable results. And they will experience the mundane,
regular hurts which are not so dramatic but we all know still hurt like hell. Life
hurts sometimes. As much as we may try to stop it and prevent it and fix it and
hide it, life sometimes just hurts. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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And so, do we accompany our children when these things
happen? Do we? And if so, then HOW do we accompany them?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Can we witness and allow our beloved children their own
experience, not invalidating but allowing them to experience pain and loss and
devastation? Can we? Can you? I struggle with wanting to fix it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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FIX IT! <o:p></o:p></div>
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No pain, no suffering, no loss. But then of course what
happens is that their experience is not validated. They do not feel the healing
power of witness. They are left alone on the platform at the train station
while I board the “happy train” and completely ditch them. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Well, crap. That’s not a good thing. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And so I try again. Luckily, or horribly, life provides
unending chances to navigate pain and loss. So you have ample opportunities to
forgive yourself and begin again in love. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Or, well—you go on and do whatever you have to do. I’ll
speak for myself. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I have ample opportunities to forgive myself and begin again
in love. I will do what I can to accompany my children as they go to dark
places. I never want them to be alone there. They need to know that people will
love us and walk with us through the most awful of times. We are not alone.
They are not alone. I call and text and skype and try to see them in person,
but my kids are adults—all grown. It’s not as easy as when they were little and
at home and I could sit next to them or bake just the right treat or invite the
perfect movie night. Nope. It’s different. And not one bit less important. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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I found myself scribbling notes during that particular
meeting with Rev. Meg and a bunch of other brilliant CLF folks. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I do not want children; mine or yours or ours or theirs to
ever walk through the dark places unaccompanied. May it be so that there is
always a treasured adult who says, what…..monsters? Demons? Scary stuff? OK, we
got this. Let’s go. Bring it!<o:p></o:p></div>
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And may it be so that sometimes, sometimes….. I will be that
adult. Whether they be my own adult
kids, my congregation, my neighbor or some random kid I see who just
needs a smile. May it be so. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Amen. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8308921546745481048.post-37815873123098771292014-08-28T22:57:00.001-07:002014-08-28T23:02:12.361-07:00The Good, the Hard and Peeling Potatoes<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.44444465637207px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;">I am visiting my parents in Minnesota, but not just for fun. My dad had two strokes in the last week. I had to come, even though my mother called me after I booked the flight and emphatically explained that they were FINE, that all was well. I came. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.44444465637207px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.44444465637207px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;">He spent a couple of days in the hospital, but he's home now and trying to sort out this new normal. I have destroyed the clean kitchen here in my childhood home repeatedly, cooking way too much food. He tries to eat the tons of food. And he tries not to get frustrated when we cajole him to get rid of catalogs from 1983, but he also shows me the look-book from his Army basic training in 1953 and tells stories about the people he was with in the photos. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.44444465637207px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.44444465637207px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;">It's good. And it's hard. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.44444465637207px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.44444465637207px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;">I find myself folding laundry, peeling potatoes and washing dishes set to music in my head. Actually not just any music. Most of what plays along as the soundtrack to my emotional shoreline of waves washing in and waves washing out are hymns. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.44444465637207px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.44444465637207px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;">I grew up in a small Unitarian Universalist Fellowship--the hymns I remember from being a kid are "Morning Has Broken" and.....well, yeah. That's all I remember. We probably sang others. But I don't remember them. As a young adult I came back to get married and then to have my children dedicated and then to just come back to church. That's when I started to build this library in my heart of hymns that would rise up at just the moment I needed them. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.44444465637207px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.44444465637207px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;">The first time I remember this happening I had three young children and we were all at my parents' house, I think we were doing yard work. I remember walking through the back yard with an arm full of tree branches and hearing in my head "I must answer yes to life" over and over again. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.44444465637207px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.44444465637207px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;">Hey, it was a tough time! Then the verse came to me, it's kind of a plodding hymn in some ways, but it's perfect for working to: </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.44444465637207px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.44444465637207px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;"><i>Just as long as I have breath, I must answer, "Yes" to life; </i></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.44444465637207px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;"><i>though with pain I made my way, still with hope I meet each day. </i></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.44444465637207px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;"><i>If they ask what I did well, tell them I said, "Yes." to life</i></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14.44444465637207px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.44444465637207px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;">The hymns came more </span><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;">frequently</span><span style="font-size: 14.44444465637207px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;"> as the years went by. If you sing a hymn a few times a year it soaks into the resource library of your soul. Of course I have "Spirit of Life" which calls the spirit of love to come and sit with me during times of hopelessness and loss.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.44444465637207px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.44444465637207px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;">"Sing in the heart, all the stirrings of compassion."</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.44444465637207px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.44444465637207px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;">The somg most present for me today is one we heard in our <a href="http://www.questformeaning.org/reflecting/worship" target="_blank">Q4M</a> worship this week <a href="http://www.megbarnhouse.com/?section=music-27" target="_blank">"All Will Be Well"</a> by the Rev. Meg Barnhouse and while it's not in any of our hymnals (yet!) , it is one of the best songs for keeping on keeping on when things are hard. I have plucked my way through the chorus of this on my guitar, teaching it to groups of children and adults--and they have told me that it helps. It helps. It does. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.44444465637207px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.44444465637207px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;"><i>All will be well, all will be well all manner of things--will be well. </i></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;">No, those aren't Meg Barnhouse's words exactly, they're from <a href="http://justus.anglican.org/resources/bio/154.html" target="_blank">Dame Julien of Norwich</a>. But Meg set them to this tune with a beautiful haunting melody and a cadence that matches walking. Or peeling potatoes. And then she wrote verses to explain them. It really does help.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;">So that's what I did today. I peeled potatoes, and made a way too big batch of homemade beef stew, even though I've been a vegetarian for 15 years, no I didn't eat it, but my dad did. My loved ones here in Minnesota did. As I worked the hymns of my faith bubbled up and walked with me. They bolstered my strength and centered my soul and said:</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;"><i>"baby girl. you are holy" </i></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;">and reminded me: </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;"><i><br /></i></span></span>
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;"><i>"though these sheltering walls are thin, may they be strong to keep hate out, and hold love in."</i></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;">May it be so for me and you and my dad and my mom and my family and your family and every single broken and lovely person on this planet. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;"><i><br /></i></span></span>
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;">Amen. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.46666717529297px;">Big, fat, rockin' holy AMEN! </span></span><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8308921546745481048.post-9131002975671257092014-08-18T23:15:00.000-07:002014-08-18T23:15:42.043-07:00Mothering and Letting GoI have been a mother for almost exactly half of my life. You could argue that even though I'd been out of my parent's house for six years and married for four that I was just barely an adult when that dear first child was born. My husband and I lived in an awful little apartment kitty-corner from where we'd gone to high school. Just before our son was born, my husband painted part of the apartment building in barter for our rent.<br />
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But none of that mattered. I was young, we were broke, there was a terrible recession and few jobs, our families thought we were nuts for bringing a child into this mess, and it was all meaningless because I was a mother. A MOTHER!<br />
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This feels like a lifetime ago. Now, that little baby who lived with us across from our high school is an adult man, and a fine one at that. He's grown and gone but close enough to be dragged home to help with the yard work which he hates but does anyway because, well, he's a fine man!<br />
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The next baby came along almost exactly three years after the first, and he lives most of the year in New York going to college now, at least when he's not adventuring or researching in distant lands. He's gone for months and months at a time. I can see his face on web chat, but I don't get to eat lunch or watch movies with him for absolute eons at a time.<br />
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The last baby came along two years later. He's still at home, for now anyway, but turns 18 one week from today. He's headed into what passes for the second year of high school in this house--a second year of community college and if all goes well, he's headed for either a great BFA in musical theater after high school or maybe he'll just launch into a career. If I could choose it would be school. But this has been the biggest lesson of mothering.<br />
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Often I do not get to choose.<br />
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Often I am sitting on my hands, or biting my tongue or just smiling and waiting as these damn children go off and create lives of their own.<br />
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They choose girlfriends and schools and cars and jobs on their own!<br />
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Sometimes they even go to the doctor and book haircuts and good lord-- buy SHOES without me.<br />
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There was a time that I made all of these things happen for my boys. I even had say over the food that appeared before them and the clothes they had to choose from to wear every day.<br />
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And this is just how it should be. I am happy. I love my boys like a deep wide river that powers over every boulder and cliff it meets. Today I saw this photo and thought "there's my heart!"<br />
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But look at them! They are grown! They need me, yes. But what they really need is for me to have a full and interesting life and to leave them the hell alone!<br />
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We are in the season of leaving. College semesters begin, summer fun and travel are ending, we're settling into a low-key time of school and work getting back to our simple lives. That handsome boy on the right leaves on Friday and I will not lay my eyes on his physical being until Christmas. Christmas, people! I am devastated. And not.<br />
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It's a funny thing, the work of a mother is to make herself completely unnecessary to the daily lives of her children. And while yes, I think I may be succeeding in this, letting go of my children is the hardest thing I have ever had to do. The task at hand is to rip your heart out, and duct tape it to your child as they march off to their future lives and then smile and princess-wave to all those who are watching....And I have to do it three times.<br />
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If I were not a professional church lady I would say out loud "F*CK!! THIS IS HARD!"<br />
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Oh, well, I guess I just said it.<br />
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It may be the hardest thing I have ever had to do. But I would not have traded it for anything in the world. Not one thing. Not a million things. I have been blessed with this sacred role. I am a mother. A mother.<br />
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Amen.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8308921546745481048.post-71021032057986658342014-08-12T15:26:00.001-07:002014-08-12T15:38:18.942-07:00Stigma--and the Phrase "Commit Suicide" People commit crimes.<br />
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People commit murder and if you want to go there, people commit adultery.<br />
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We humans are broken and we screw up and we sometimes act out the past wrongs done to us by screwing up other people--some of them people we absolutely treasure.<br />
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When we humans do really bad things we use this language. We commit crimes, we commit ills against society.<br />
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But I do not believe that people <i>commit </i>suicide. I believe that suicide is a tragedy and a horror and should never have to happen. I wish that we would cradle one another gently when times are dark and we should never be alone when depression tries to corner us and speak its lies to us about how we are unworthy and unlovable. I also know that sometimes the pain of living gets to be so much for some folks that they can't take it and they do the only thing that makes sense in the crazy twisted moment of that reality, and end their existence on earth.<br />
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I do not believe that taking your own life is some kind of a sin. I believe we are all here in this blessed and sometimes cursed life, struggling to do the best we can. And sometimes it hurts like hell. It's awful. Heartbreaking. Devastating to those left behind. But it is not worthy of what we mean when we use "committed". To say that someone has committed suicide, unless you really believe it to be a sin against god that disallows that person from a heavenly afterlife, is old, dated, inaccurate use of language that perpetuates the stigma of mental health problems.<br />
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People die by suicide. It is a horrible tragedy. But lets not make it worse by saying that our beloved brother or sister <i>committed</i> something. Language matters, what we say makes a difference and the words we choose change the meaning of what we say.<br />
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Let's all say what we really mean.<br />
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I am terribly sad that Robin Williams died by suicide. I pray that his loved ones can hold the beautiful memories of his life close as they reel from his loss. I pray that we can all try to take a little more care with one another and to learn to love ourselves--especially our broken parts.<br />
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We can take a line from Williams' character in "The Dead Poets Society":<br />
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<i style="color: #333333; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 26px;"><b>"<a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/r/robinwilli383827.html" style="color: #222222; outline: 0px; text-decoration: none;" title="view quote">No matter what anyone tells you, words and ideas can change the world.</a>"</b></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Let us use the words that we mean. Stop the stigma. And let each person on this planet know that we are all, at our very core, whole and holy and good. Love surrounds and lifts us all, even when we cannot feel it. Especially when we cannot feel it. You are so loved. You are. So loved. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Amen</i></span></div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8308921546745481048.post-62757907175431842052014-06-19T22:56:00.001-07:002014-06-19T22:56:27.680-07:00Saved--From Nothing and EverythingI'm back at my crazy temp job, saving up to do the good work I mean to do which pays not quite as well as temp work.<br />
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Why yes, yes, thank you for asking, I AM living the high life...<br />
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At work we had three crazy days of learning a new project and getting qualified to actually DO the work--days when you start with 50 people in a group and end with 15 because those are the only ones who make the qualification test.<br />
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Why yes, yes, thank you for asking, it is brutal.<br />
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Today when we came to work the groups had been shifted around in our work space because, of course, we're have much smaller groups now, and I was lucky enough to sit by one of the first people I met in this crazy job. She's a lovely woman and I just adore her. I'm so happy to share work space with her bright spirit and kick-ass attitude; super fun in our academic sweatshop.<br />
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Today I was looking at her computer screen and I admitted that I was doing something I probably shouldn't have been doing which I will not admit now because that would be wrong, wrong, wrong. She said something about how I was going to hell.<br />
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"I don't believe in hell."<br />
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OK, pause....when you work in religion you often have a difficult time telling people what you do or did for work. People assume that you are a locked down person who never has any fun and they tick back through what they've already said to you wondering if they have incriminated themselves. I never admit it on an airplane, that makes for an awful flight. In Seattle if I say "Unitarian" people often say "Oh, I love the UUs!" so it's a little better.<br />
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At this job when people ask me what field I worked in or am looking for work in, since we're all looking for work, I say "Oh, I used to be a professional church lady" which makes everyone think of Dana Carvey on SNL. It's intentional. Laugh so you don't think I'm a freak. So, at this job it's kind of how people know me-- as "church lady". Whatever. It's fine. Everyone knows I'm somehow connected with a church.<br />
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So back to the hell incident. I said, "I don't believe in hell."<br />
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"WHAT?" she said? "But you're the church lady!" It's pretty quiet at our work, and this was pretty loud. Church ladies apparently believe in hell!<br />
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No. I don't believe in hell, or the divinity of Jesus or anything much, really.<br />
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Except people. I believe in people. I believe in people who screw their lives up and then keep going, and people who love when there is no way anyone could expect them to love one more thing because life has done awful things to them, and I believe in children because children are just so good and holy and whole--always, and I believe in the devoted love of a dog and the long love of dear friends and the moment of a smile shared between strangers in brief passing and people who help when they should probably just keep going...and all of it.<br />
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I FEEL the goodness in people. I feel the powerful force of love in this world and in just about every person I meet. People do good things because we, for the most part, are whole and holy and yes.....GOOD. Of course we're also bad and evil and so, so, so broken. But usually, if we have been given a break or two, the love is what guides us. We DO good because we ARE good. Love leads us. Love actually guides us.<br />
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From what I've seen in my few decades here on this earth, if we lead with love we are never, ever, ever, wrong. Hell is a magical story spun by someone who was trying to control people.<br />
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But love, well love is kick-ass, full-on epic-- real.<br />
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Real.<br />
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Amen.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8308921546745481048.post-44826596311838776772014-06-11T22:50:00.001-07:002014-06-11T23:04:24.065-07:00It's MagicSometimes you get to do something in this life that just feels so right, you want to dance and sing and roll around on the floor in a pleasure bomb of joy!<br />
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OK, there was no rolling on the floor, but holy mother of all things good and pure and whole today was a really good day.<br />
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I got to go to my <a href="http://www.lreda.org/" target="_blank">LREDA</a> cluster meeting.<br />
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What? Why would that make someone dance and sing?<br />
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Well, have you ever been with a room full of people who would understand you with no words? Or maybe two words or three...."did you hear?" "Totally" "I know" "Amazing!"<br />
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Being a religious educator is not easy work. You often hold everything from supplying glue sticks for classrooms to counseling families through the death of a parent, and literally, every thing between. It is a profound honor and nearly impossible.<br />
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This was a room full of people who also follow this call.<br />
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I was welcomed back to this group which was my spiritual home for seven years with wide open arms. It has been two years since I have been a part of the group, but it felt like no time had passed. Yes, there was a new baby who's pregnancy and birth I'd missed, but I was the lucky one who held him as he fell asleep. And yes, some of my colleagues are gone, some in less-than-ideal circumstances and it made me very sad. But I got to see people I thought I might never see again. People whom I love. It was bliss.<br />
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If you ever doubt the importance of real, true support of people who understand your life and your soul without explanation, don't. It is profound!<br />
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As I walked to the parking lot with people whom I first met in far away states at long past events, I said "LREDA is magic! Here we are, in this spot, and it's just the same!" It was. It is!<br />
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Truth. Magic!<br />
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Amen!<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8308921546745481048.post-14527262265900831952014-05-26T21:42:00.001-07:002014-05-27T05:55:15.303-07:00Held in the Heart of LoveI have been busy.<br />
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I don't mean to be a part of the churn in our culture that glorifies busy "Oh, I'm soooo busy, can't even find time to blah blah blah!"<br />
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But it's true. </div>
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I have been, and I am. </div>
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I'm trying to squirrel away some cash so I can do my dream job for a while. So, I am hustling nuts just about as fast as I can, or well, no nuts. I'm scoring student essays from standardized tests. It is forty million times more difficult than you think it is. Really. It is. </div>
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I can't say much of course, because of confidentiality agreements. But the last few days I've been working lots of overtime, trying to finish a big project on time. Or less late. Or something. I've worked straight through from Mother's Day with no days off, usually 9, 10 and even 12 hour days. </div>
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I am happy for the work and the chance to bring in some money. My goodness I work with some amazing people. But I'm starting to get tired, and maybe a little raw. </div>
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We sometimes get a little peek into the lives of the students who write these essays. As you can imagine, the essays can be charming, heart warming and even funny--our quiet office is occasionally punctuated with a burst of giggles from a scorer, all in good cheer. </div>
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But there are some papers that just bring me to my knees. Some young people deal with so much more than they should have to. It breaks my heart open. There are processes to get help to the kids, it's all handled well. But still, there it is. </div>
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Yesterday after reading a heart breaker, I had to take a moment and step out in the fresh air. How can our society just chug on along when our children are all just really not OK. Really, now. How? I stood and watched the wet Seattle afternoon, the bright green spring leaves shook raindrops to the ground as the sun broke through the clouds, the fresh spring air promising growth, life and hope. Maybe hope, anyway. </div>
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But the papers are there, and they need to be scored. It's my job to score them. So I headed back in and sat down at my desk.Somehow, I needed something, a marker to at least note to myself that I hear these kids, I see them, I care. And I do not for one moment think that the way our world works is OK at all, in particular when it comes to our children. </div>
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I wrote a version of the affirmation we use in the <a href="http://www.clfuu.org/" target="_blank">Church of the Larger Fellowship</a>'s services after our shared joys and sorrows on a sticky note and stuck it to the travel tumbler that sits on my desk all day. My prayer. My hope. My deepest wish for every being or at the very least for every single child: </div>
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"May all be held in the heart of love."</div>
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It is, right now, my deepest prayer. </div>
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May we work like hell to make it so. </div>
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Amen. </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8308921546745481048.post-26409070142469723392014-05-07T17:16:00.002-07:002014-05-07T17:16:51.013-07:00 Sunshine on Grateful DaysThe sun is out!<br />
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The birds are singing!<br />
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The flowers are in bloom --yes, yes, yes, they're flowering weeds and bolted kale, but who cares!<br />
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And, my son is coming home from his first year at school!<br />
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I've done the kid-away-at-college gig before. But this one didn't just go to UW here in Seattle. This one went to school in Syracuse. Know how many planes it takes to get to Syracuse? Two. It takes two planes, you have to connect. It's far, far, far away. Three time zones.<br />
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But now school is over and he's coming home and he'll be here for, well, he'll be here for chunks of the summer between his field studies. I am happy, so so happy!<br />
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This year has been a tough one for me. In July my oldest son moved a few hours away for his first career job after college. And then the middle son moved to Syracuse for college at SUNY ESF, which has turned out to be the perfect school for him. It's good but it's awful.<br />
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Then there was the job search. I had so much trouble finding the right job. (Which I did by the way, I start at <a href="http://myemail.constantcontact.com/New-Faces-Coming-to-the-CLF-.html?soid=1110781876086&aid=Te66xtEeKck" target="_blank">CLF</a> this August and we're going to to amazing things with our ministry to families!) That search just about took the wind out of my sales for good-- I was ready to just work at the local gas station.....well, maybe not the gas station but I was pretty convinced that the right job no longer existed. None of those are terrible things, really. But, my dad is living strong with two kind of stage four cancer, which is always stuck in my throat. That's tough. And my husband hates his job. That's tough, too. Somehow, it all added up.<br />
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So this year, for a very lucky person, I felt like crap. A lot. I missed my two oldest kids, and smothered the poor youngest kid with too much mothering.<br />
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I tried to throw myself into volunteering, but probably didn't do as well as I could have because I always felt like I was just barely keeping my head above water. Depression kinda sucks the ambition right out of you.<br />
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I really, really tried to find a job, I got close on a few that seemed like a good fit, but nothing came through. I thought all those networks I had would kick in, but no dice. Looking for work is full-time work, and it's the worst job you'll even not have. Seriously. Brutal.<br />
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It's all over now. The middlest comes home tomorrow. We rented a van and we're all going to the new whale museum on Saturday to celebrate the May birthdays and Mother's Day. I am working a fine temp job that lasts til July and then I'll start at CLF in August. My kids will be here. My dogs are always here. We even found a good dog therapist for the crazy one. Really, all is well in my world.<br />
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I am the kind of person who usually has a self-righting mechanism. I get really depressed, but I usually turn back around like those self righting bath toys and go paddling along on my grateful days.<br />
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This time took a little longer. But I'm here. Upright. And on my way.<br />
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Amen.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8308921546745481048.post-85992906762248998682014-04-28T22:07:00.001-07:002014-04-28T22:07:19.621-07:00Breaking Down Outdated Labels in our Unitarian Universalist Community I am quite certain that this is not the most efficient way to do this. But I am a little fried after two months of scoring essays written by children during their yearly standardized testing marathons.<br />
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I can't figure out who would listen to my complaint, although I'm sure someone would; someone in power with he ability to make real change the way we do things.<br />
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Why does the "blogs" tab on the <a href="http://www.uuworld.org/index.shtml" target="_blank">UU World website</a> still have a "new" label?<br />
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I started Chalice Spark in 2008 and the blog tab was labeled "new".<br />
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I think we should not replace the "new" label with an "old" label! But it can just sit there all on its own. "Blogs."<br />
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Or frankly, maybe it should say "Social Media Updates" since our very own Heather Christiansen has been doing a fabulous job of rounding-up a growing field of media sources to our weekly Interdependent Web. "Click Here", or "where all the cool kids hang out" or I don't know.....something that does not say "new".<br />
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Thank you for listening.<br />
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And all I can do is think about how my post looks very similar to some of the 4th grade essays I scored today. Except they were just a little better. I can only give it a 2.<br />
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Sorry kid, better luck next year.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8308921546745481048.post-50189440013146307882014-04-22T22:48:00.002-07:002014-04-22T22:48:17.929-07:00Kari's Friendly Earth Day SoapboxAbout 15 years ago I reached some kind of crack in the sidewalk of my life--nothing discernible happened, or at least nothing stands out in my memory. I just decided that if I really couldn't eat anything that looked like the animal it used to be, that maybe it was time to be honest with myself and just stop eating meat.<br />
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So I did. I had some leftover cocktail weenies from a New Year's party one January 1st and that was it, no more meat.<br />
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I wasn't a squeamish vegetarian, I still cooked a Thanksgiving turkey for my family and I made pork ribs and steak for my husband and sons.<br />
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I learned about the health benefits of being vegetarian, and got pretty excited about what someone at a women's retreat I attended called "eating close to the earth." Obviously, eating no animals meant no feeding, watering, transporting, processing or packaging animals.<br />
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Eventually my sons grew into teens and the two oldest--both for environmental reasons--chose to stop eating meat. My husband got the ultimatum from his doc "get your cholesterol down or you're going on medication" and with side effects like muscle weakness, he was ready to get radical to stay off the drugs.<br />
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After all these years I had come to the point where I was not cooking meat at home, and after one final turkey carcass-picking incident, I ruled all meat had to come in our house ready to consume or be prepared by other people when I was not anywhere nearby. And good lord please don't let me smell it.<br />
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I thought when my oldest son, the one we always called a carnivore, went veg that I'd never see a more surprising change. But when my husband decided to stop eating meat, I wondered if I was living in some soap opera world where an evil family had made eternal winter in our town and somehow made my husband a completely new man. But he was all in and still the same great guy, no evil Carradine plan was at work, apparently.<br />
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My meat loving husband's cholesterol dropped dramatically on a mostly plant based diet. The doc made him come back again and again for blood tests because he was radically skeptical that the levels were really down. But his levels stayed down and he stayed away from meat, well, except for oddly important meals, like when he was in Korea on an airline accident investigation and an older Korean man handed him freshly grilled beef wrapped in lettuce, and he just ate it. Some things are just, you know.... a THING.<br />
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Pretty soon I was convinced by mounting evidence from social media pictures of cute chickens and really good documentaries that I should stop eating all animal products. I read statistics about the number of gallons of water it takes to grow a cow who would give me gooey brie cheese vs. a pound of beans. There was no need to convince me about the lives of animals and their value, I have spent my life owned by a series of beloved dogs and cows are just big dogs who eat hay.<br />
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And then when Dr. Caldwell Esselstyn explained endothelial cells in "Forks Over Knives" I was sold. Two years later I'm still not hard core, I do eat some cheese when I am forced to by it's awesomeness and when there are eggs in really delicious looking cookies, I might pretend that they are some kind of fake eggs and gobble up the cookie before I come to my senses. But I don't eat grilled cheese or scrambled eggs, nothing like that. And it's good.<br />
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It's actually really good.<br />
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And it's super easy. We cook almost all of our meals, we can eat out at almost any restaurant (great goddess of all things fried, Applebee's is even harder to eat at than a steak house for even the most resourceful plant eaters) but we like to eat at home because our food is better. It's not rabbit food, it's hearty and balanced and wonderful; just tonight we had a fabulous Shepherd's Pie that would make even the toughest meat eater swoon--and then reach for seconds.<br />
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But here, today, on Earth Day, I wonder why so many people who drive hybrids, hang their laundry to dry, keep their houses cool or warm and fight passionately against climate change don't do the easiest thing of all to keep our world safe; just stop eating animals. It's a change, but it's not hard, really, it's not. You feel better, you prevent disease in your body and you do your part to help our spinning blue planet. Maybe giving up meat is too much, but I know people who have Meatless Mondays and Flexitarian Fridays! You can try a Field Roast sausage brat or meatless crumbles in spaghetti sauce--so good. And really, no lie, easy.<br />
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OK, thanks for listening. Now, I will take my soapbox, and my leftover Shepherd's Pie, and I will go home!<br />
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Happy Earth Day!<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8308921546745481048.post-23684284466295297272014-02-06T16:33:00.001-08:002014-02-06T18:29:16.578-08:00A Small TownToday I went visiting in a small town, or well, it was a kind of a small town, I guess--as close as I've come to one in a long time, anyway. It was real old-time visiting; coffee, cookies, talking about the weather. As we went from place to place it seemed like everyone knew my mother, they waved or said hello or made a bad pun, and they were all so kind and seemed happy to meet me. Well, she's been part of this place for 15 years--taking folks where they need to go and doing the things that need doing. No surprise they were nice to me.<br />
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As my dad went from place to place, he was greeted with a smile and a nod, or a wave and a "Hello there, how's your day going today?" but it didn't come only from people he knew. He was greeted by people cleaning and doctors and other older guys riding by in wheel chairs. It wasn't just my dad that was greeted this way, all the people wearing hats with their branch of service or a jacket with a logo were given a warm greeting. </div>
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I heard a man who had been working hard clearing up a gaggle of wheelchairs as the end of the day approached and more and more people were headed out into the bitter cold stop and ask a man "Which branch of service were you in? Army? During WW II? Italy, Africa, Sicily? Thanks so much for your service, you know I was in Italy, too. Did you learn any Italian? No, me either, well a little, maybe just a little." </div>
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It happened again and again. At the pharmacy. At the cafeteria. And in the oncology department. </div>
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Makes a girl have to stop and get a hold of herself. Wouldn't want the vets to see you getting emotional or anything. </div>
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That's a day in the life of the small town or what you might call a VA hospital--and chemo round number 17. </div>
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Love in action. </div>
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Amen.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8308921546745481048.post-46210399841378473662014-01-15T15:43:00.000-08:002014-01-15T15:43:06.227-08:00Greasy Mess of the SoulThe first time I heard the phrase "service is our prayer" I must have been about 16.<br />
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I was struck because even though I grew up going to a church pretty regularly, there was never a practice or teaching about how to go about living this life with any kind of foundation in faith or belifs. Many people at our little fellowship were very active in service, and truly did practice their faith in their work, volunteering and activism.<br />
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But no one said "hey, this is how you live your faith."<br />
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Eventually, I figured it out.<br />
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Now, well into solid middle-age-hood, I find that service that involves steamy kitchens, or icy construction sites or especially large pots of potatoes to peel gets me more deeply in touch with my soul than any hymn or prayer or sermon can.<br />
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Today I'm headed to the low barrier teen homeless shelter. We're making dinner. I am wearing my favorite work t-shirt and bringing cases of soda from a friend and some outgrown jeans from my sons.<br />
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With the piles of dust and dirt on my banged up my soul courtesy of this long and hope-sucking job search, I gotta say I hope that we're making the greasiest, splattering, burned-on mess ever. I can use the prayer.<br />
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Amen!<br />
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