Stars, Stripes & a Sesame Seed Bun

November 2002
I step off bus #1, remove my bike from the rack, and commence my wait for bus #2. As I guide my bike to the sidewalk, I see an amazing portrait. Two homeless men are sitting at the blue-canopied bus stop, each holding a partially eaten Big Mac. The two men have the look of so many men that you see around town this time of year… shaggy beard, ragged clothing deeply layered for warmth, knit cap, worn shoes and tattered gloves. One man has a cast on his left foot. A shopping cart stands nearby, containing a walker, a beat-up old gym bag, and a cardboard box. As I lift my gaze, I can see the huge red and gold McDonald’s sign above and behind the bus stop, with its accompanying American flag fluttering in the breeze.

Homeless men at a blue bus stop eating Big Macs under the Stars and Stripes. What a perfect representation of the times we live in. The incredible wealth of a conglomerate like McDonald’s contrasted to the incredible poverty of others in this country. The flag, our symbol of freedom, contrasted to the imprisonment of need. And as for the Big Macs – the fact that a large percentage of the most affluent country in the world subsists on a diet of white flour, dead cow and fat-soaked potato chunks is an incredible metaphor for this nation’s willingness to close its eyes to obvious problems.

Don’t get me wrong. I think McDonald’s French fries are the food of the gods. I delight in a Big Mac in a real moment of weakness. I turn up the volume on my denial about what I’m actually putting in my body, and gustily inhale “two all beef patty’s, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame bun.” For someone with no home and no food, I’m certain that a #1 Combo Meal is Heaven wrapped in a paper sack. This is not about McDonald’s. It’s about the inequities of wealth in America. It’s about the judgments people make when they see a ragtag person pushing their shopping cart down the road. And unfortunately, it’s about my own need to reprogram the judgmental thoughts that run through my mind before I rethink my automatic responses.

I’ve gotten better with time and awareness. I’ve gotten better since being inches away from homelessness myself a couple of times. I’ve become wiser with age, and less quick to judge about many things in life. But I still need work. I’m an enlightened, card carrying, bleeding heart liberal who believes the government should spend whatever it takes to help citizens in need, but even I occasionally slip back into the condemnatory and hypercritical mind-set of my youth. If it can happen to me, is there any hope for all those "just let 'em get a job" right-wingers out there?

Two homeless men sitting at a blue bus stop eating Big Macs under the Stars and Stripes. Norman Rockwell would probably have enjoyed painting the scene. Hang it next to "American Gothic." Title it "American Travesty." Enjoy your lunch, guys. It might be the last one for a long time.

Get Well, Mom

 

I wrote this in 1999 - and just came across it today, the day before Mother's Day. it just seems appropriate to share it here!

Get Well, Mom

I am a bike rider. Note that I did not call myself a "cyclist..." I am simply a bike rider with a hot-pink 26" Schwinn that I've had for eleven years. It has 5 speeds and a wide black seat to accommodate my wide sitting equipment. I bike for my physical health, but wherever I ride, I try to notice interesting or beautiful things around me. It's part of my exercise program... to collect fragments of beauty that move my spirit. Sometimes it's a view of magnificent Camelback Mountain... sometimes a billowing white cloud... sometimes a dazzling wild flower by the road. Riding through Papago Park one morning I was delighted to see a jackrabbit and several darting quail. Being aware of my surroundings and finding the hidden beauty improves my mental and spiritual health as much as the movement of my body improves my physical well being.

One of my recent discoveries is a nice older cemetery in East Phoenix, only a block from my home. It is a peaceful place with roads that wind among lush green trees, so I sometimes pass through on my daily ride. On one of my trips through the cemetery I happened to notice a grave with a decoration that said "MOM" in red and white plastic flowers. My mother died when I was only 22, and I instantly felt tears welling up in my eyes as I thought of someone else living without that most important person in their life. After a moment of reflection I continued my ride, and didn't return to the cemetery until a week later, which happened to be the day after Mother's Day. As I passed the "MOM" sign once again, I notice a stick balloon added to the grave, and as I drew closer saw the words "Get Well" printed across the front. My first reaction was to laugh. Wasn't a "Get Well" wish a bit after the fact? It just struck me as funny. But the picture kept "cycling” through my brain all day until I realized that maybe someone had picked that balloon for what was on the side I couldn't see from the road. Maybe it was a picture of a lovely flower for a mother who's passion had been gardening. Maybe the balloon had a cartoon or funny saying for a mother who had loved to laugh; a mother who might even have enjoyed the fact that laughter was my first response. In retrospect I'm sure that the "Get Well" balloon had some message for a mother who was loved. People don't bring signs and balloons to the graves of people they didn't care about. What a legacy... to leave people behind who love you enough to remember that you're gone! No "Out of Sight, Out of Mind" for this mother. I'm guessing this lady was cherished... and even though I will never know her name or her real story, my life is enriched by even the possibility of such love in a world that sometimes seems so loveless.

I don't know what you believe about life after death. I don't know what this mother believed either. But when I think about it, I find it plausible that we can find wholeness wherever our journey leads after this life. Maybe the "Get Well" balloon was not so funny after all. Maybe it was a profoundly spiritual proclamation. Keep on getting well Mom, whoever and wherever you are... and happy Mother’s Day!

365 DAYS

 

365 days roll to a grinding halt
and suddenly it is one instant past midnight...
and everything is new again.

We start with the best of intentions,
laying out our goals, our plans,
our dreams for the coming year,
our 365 chances to succeed...
or are we more likely to focus
on all the possible ways we can fail?

Maybe it’s not about success or failure.

Maybe,
just maybe,
the trying is the point,
the planning is the point,
the hope for something finer, more real,
more worthy of our amazing selves
is the point.

We aspire to perfection
but why do we lead ourselves
to such a precarious height?

Rather than getting prepared to fail,
why not meet out our dreams
with a steady, life-sized hand
and a steady, life-sized heart,
and forgive ourselves now for what we won’t do,
and praise ourselves now (like a loving parent)
for all the things we WILL do?

Does that little creature lurking on your shoulder
snicker when it hears these words?
Does it say
“What a bunch of BS – sugar coated hogwash!”
Pat it on the head and say
“Thank you for sharing.”
Then make the choice
for your joy,
for your peace,
for your enlightenment,
for the glorious one who is you.

365 days to fully embrace the wonder of you…
the beloved,
the unique, the best…
the only magnificent you there will ever be!

LAE 2016

2003 Impossible

The word impossible is not in my dictionary.

If it were,
I would probably have quit this journey a long time ago.

Sometimes the path of life is so steep and terrifying

that I fear I will come tumbling right off the face of the earth

Sometimes gravity seems to grow weaker

and I question its ability to hold me here.

Sorrow is very very heavy.

Sadness, loss, suffering… extremely burdensome.

Life tugs and tugs until I think I will fly away into space…

But I don’t… because that would be impossible

And the word impossible is not in my dictionary.

I am a survivor.

When I hit a Mt. Everest sized bump in the road,

I may fall apart for a while.

But eventually, I always regroup and move on…

whatever it takes.

I survive, no matter what.

I have done things that others thought were impossible

Because the word impossible is not in my dictionary.

I have not always felt victorious.

I have often robbed myself of my successes

and undermined my own triumphs.

But against seemingly impossible odds

I am here today,

Because the word impossible is not in my dictionary.

I have survived,

and life has changed

and I have grown.

And now, after years of living in survival mode;

after years of doing what others thought I could never do,

I am hitting a different kind of challenge…

the challenge of allowing the Good into my life.

Sometimes it actually feels like there is too much Good.

How could that possibly be?

But I have found that an abundance of Good can seem fearsome and threatening

when it is a newly discovered commodity.

A wise spiritual mentor told me that
I must gradually build a tolerance for the Good.

I must give myself time to adjust and expand.

I am developing headaches from the expansion process.

As my capacity grows, I find myself repeatedly hitting my newly extended ceiling.

SMACK!

I bonk my head and think I have hit the end of the Good.

The truth is…

It would be impossible to reach the end of the Good

Because the Good is God,

And who can find the finish line of God?

That would be impossible,

And the word impossible is not in my dictionary.

I am building a capacity for the Good in my life

If I allow it to happen, the ceiling will get higher and higher.

I will bonk my head less often

Until my faculty for accepting and opening to the Good

Extends beyond all my doubts and fears.

Amazing? Definitely!

Astounding? Absolutely!

Awe-inspiring? Without a doubt!

Impossible? Of course not…

because the word impossible is not in my dictionary!

7-29-06 Empty Nest Syndrome

Empty Nest Syndrome: a pleasant euphemism which conjures up mother birds who have gently encouraged their young fledglings to take to the air for the first time. The nest is empty… and next year mommy bird will build another one, lay her eggs, and go through the same process all over again.

Empty Nest Syndrome. We watch our children leave home one at a time, but our feelings are not always the same. With some of our children, we are more ready to have them go. They’re young adults, and it is time for them to be at least partially self-supporting. We’ll miss them, but they’ll be back. Like human boomerangs, they’ve been coming and going for a long time. Move out, move back, move out, move back. We love them, but we want to see them stand on their own. A little distance is good for everyone involved. Besides, there is still at least one bird left in the nest. It is not yet truly “empty.”

And then the last bird takes flight. For some mother’s it might be a relief, to finally have the place to themselves. Responsibilities shift. There are less demands on your time. You can do all those things you never had time to do when you were raising progeny. This is a good thing.

Not necessarily. For some of us, "Exploded Identity Syndrome" might be a better name for having our last child leave home. For decades we have been “Mom” – the one responsible for changing diapers, wiping tears, helping with English papers, cheering at baseball games, smiling through choir and band concerts, consoling through relationship trials, serving as chauffer, nurse, social secretary, teacher, wardrobe consultant, comforter and confidant. It was our job to keep them safe, to guide them into good choices, and, whenever possible, to keep them from making painful mistakes. If we ignored our responsibility it made us a “bad” mother. But then, over a relatively short period of time, our accepted role changes radically. It is no longer our job to advise, direct or suggest alternatives. That would be interfering. We are to “let go” and allow them to do whatever they choose. And what’s more, we are to release them happily, with joy in our hearts at their independence. More charitable friends and acquaintances might give us a few months to feel sad and miss that last child, to experience Empty Nest Syndrome. “She’s gone away to boot camp – I won’t be hearing her voice for months” – but a well adjusted mother accepts that this is for the best and moves on with her life, right?

I am obviously not a well adjusted mother. Having my daughter leave home and move across the country was like having my heart dug out of my chest with a sharp rock. And that was only the beginning. She would come home many times over the next few years, but each time ended with her flying away again. She married, and decided to move to a distant state. We had a lot of phone contact – I saw her several times a year – but what I knew in the depths of my wounded heart is that she would never really come home again. And as hard as I tried to accept her absence, it was like a constant stabbing pain in my gut. I tried with some success to build a new life for myself, but there was always this daughter-shaped space inside of me that ached with emptiness.

Time has passed. I’m accustomed to only seeing my daughter once or twice a year. All her possessions are gone from my house, except for a few keepsakes that I am saving to give her when she has children of her own. I talk to her on the phone 2 or 3 times a week, and we have a mother/daughter relationship that many parents would envy. But it occurred to me today that at least a part of the deep depression I battle with so often is still about her loss. She is not sick, not dying, not suffering in some horrible situation – in fact she is relatively healthy and happy, and excited to be carrying her first child in her womb. She is simply far away, and I miss her terribly. I miss her smile, her energy, her light. I miss being part of this wonderful experience she is going through now, as she prepares to be a mother herself. I will miss seeing her belly grow round – will miss being there the first time she feels her child stirring inside her. I will hear about it by phone, and might even see her at Christmas, but I will not be there for each small miracle. I am missing her life… and missing her.

I have a dear friend whose only child – a 39 year old son - passed away last year. I cannot imagine her pain. I have been with her through this loss, watched her grief, tried to support her in whatever small ways I could, and still, I cannot fathom what her experience must be like. I cannot conceive of losing one of my children in that way. When I look at her, I feel guilty for my own grief. It seems selfish to be so sad when my son and daughter are still so much a part of my life. It is a pain I find difficult to share with my friend, because it is too petty and small in comparison to her own tremendous loss. How could I possibly respond to my own life with anything less than gratitude for what I still have?

Today, when the awareness of my longstanding grief about my daughter came to me, another awareness came as well. I love my daughter deeply, and would never want my behavior to have a negative affect on her life. Allowing her absence to drag me into the pit of depression does not serve either of us. I am not improving her life by suffering so much in her absence. In fact, the contact we do have is sometimes tainted by my sadness, no matter how hard I try to hide it. She knows me too well… knows my tone of voice and my energy. Even if we dance around the subject, she knows I am unhappy, and she worries about me. She worries about me because I am so absorbed with missing her that I sometimes can’t get my head above water. How twisted is that scenario?

Empty Nest Syndrome. I am trying to accept that, like so many other things in life, it is essentially what we create it to be. I can wallow in my loss, hoping that it will somehow change and things will go back to the way they are “supposed to be.” Or I can try to accept that things already are exactly as they are “supposed to be” and get on with my life. Seems a lot easier said than done. But in truth, what other reasonable choice is there?

Going Nowhere at the Speed of Light (Written 7-06)

It seems like I have always suffered some degree of insanity. Suicide attempts, drinking, drugs, and promiscuity were the bizarre palate from which I painted the canvas of my earlier life. An extraordinary amount of pain and abuse in my childhood and young adult years manifested itself in an oppressive cloud of fear that, as I grew older, encompassed my being and left me closed off from much of the world around me. Safety came in such tiny increments and was so precious to me that I would horde up anything that gave me the slightest feeling of refuge and wrap it around me like a cocoon.    Caterpillars use the security of their cocoon to protect them as they metamorphose into beautiful butterflies. Their time in the cocoon is purposeful and time-limited, and the end product is glorious. But my cocoon was quite different. What started out as a place of safety from the assaults of life ultimately became a hideout - a thickly layered binding that protected me from everything outside, including accomplishment and joy. Eventually it became my prison as well. I was indeed protected from most outside assaults, but my incarceration did nothing for the inner attacks that I constantly inflicted on myself. My cellmates of poor self-esteem and constant self-criticism gave living an almost nightmarish quality. My freedom was gone, my life was at a standstill, and I was going nowhere at the speed of light.    In some ways I have been lucky. Over recent years wonderful people have been led into my life who truly care about what happens to me. These people have led me to therapy, awareness, education, and knowledge that have made a huge difference in my life. Today I function in the world. I take care of my body, mind and spirit in a way I never have before. I guess you could say I am as sane as I've ever been, and I've regained a good deal of my freedom. But I realize that I still run back to my cocoon at times… and maybe that's okay. Maybe we all need a safe place to run when things get rough. The thing I have to diligently watch for is that I don't get too comfortable back in that familiar space. Grace Slick said, "No matter how big or soft or warm your bed is, you still have to get out of it." That cocoon is my big soft, warm place to visit when life becomes overwhelming. Everyone should have somewhere like that; a place of safety and respite where we can regenerate before we move on. But the point is that "you still have to get out of it." You have to get your rest and then get going again. My cocoon is too well cushioned with nice safe reasons for not moving forward or taking risks ... all my wonderful excuses for playing it safe. A prolonged visit can lull me into complacency about continuing my healing journey. That may be what I want at times, but it's certainly not what I need.    I read a brilliant quote from someone named Tony Campollo that really made an impression. The quote said this: "Most of us are tiptoeing through life so we can reach death safely. We should be praying, 'If I should wake before I die.' Life can get away from you. Don't be satisfied with just pumping blood." What a potent concept! No matter what you believe about life after death, this life is our current assignment, and simply being a hemoglobin pump is not what that assignment is about. Feeling safe and secure all the time is not what it's about either. Personally, I'm tired of tiptoeing through life, looking for spooks in every dark corner. I still have a way to go before I can eradicate the ghosts of my past and the dysfunctional behaviors that used to be necessary survival skills. But depression and despair have already robbed me of too many years, and I don't intend to let these thieves continue their larceny.    Life can be an exciting and challenging adventure...or simply the ultimate terminal illness. It's our choice. We can take risks that will help us learn and grow, adding color, texture, and fullness to our lives, or we can chose to tick away our lifetimes staying safe…. and going nowhere at the speed of light!

3-7-06 Weed Killer

 

My pain is so old
and so deep
and so familiar
that is seems far more frightening to let it go
than to hold it tight.

It defines me
tells me who I am
what I should feel
how I should act.
It defines me.
Without it, who would I be?
I cannot fathom it.

So I slam my mind shut to possibilities.
and clutch my pain close to me
feed it
stroke it
shine it
nurture the hatred for those I believe caused it.
It is my trophy and my identity,
It is me.
What would I do without it?

But there is a voice in my head
that keeps nudging at my brain
deep inside, in a small dark corner
a glimmer of a thought whispering
“What if I let go?
What if I opened my fingers and let the pain slide away?
Who would I be if I was free of it?”

The pain is deep and dark
and thick with layers of time
It is a weed with dense strong roots
entangled with the essence of who I know myself to be.

The inside of me knows that there is nothing to gain
from old, worn out, used up pain
no matter how new and shiny I have tried to keep it.
It is of another place and another time
of people who are gone away
of a person I no longer am.
The process of letting go begins with this knowing.
It begins now.

Where does one shop for metaphysical weed killer?

 

3-5-06 And the Lion Shall Lie Down with the Lamb

Today peace came to me in the sound of water Rippling over river rocks And a deep sense of connection to Mother Earth As I sat on a sandy riverbank. Today peace came to me in an afternoon escape from Asphalt and automobiles Streetlights and city sites Traffic jams and radar cams Today peace came to me in the form of a majestic blue heron Poised still as a statue on a large gray stone By a rocky river in the desert. Peace came in the spreading of those magnificent dusky blue wings And a graceful lift off into a stormy gray sky. Today peace came to me in the roaring silence of wind over water Waves slapping the shore And a sliver of moon in a smoky-gray cloud-filled sky. Nature understands about peace. Peace is coexisting in the fullness of our uniqueness. It is not about homogenization Not about blending Not fading together so all is the same. Peace is human and heron Sitting by the same river Existing in the same sacred space In harmony. Nature understands about peace The Coyote has no political agenda… Does not envy the soft brown coat of the rabbit Or the soaring of the eagle. Cougars do not whisper insults behind each other’s backs The animal kingdom does not create strife and anger With their judgmental ways. Nature understands about peace. Animals do not form governments and military institutions To force their beliefs on another species. The dove does not coerce the butterfly to eat what doves eat Or live where doves live Or think what doves think Nature understands about peace Dove with butterfly with eagle Sharing space with cougar and rabbit and heron Living their lives in the moment Being who they really are. Nature understands about peace There is no comprehension of war The lion may not lie down with the lamb But neither does the lamb gather forces to kill all the lions. Today peace came to me in the form of a river A lake And a blue heron. And for a time, peace was all that existed for me Peace is all that nature knows. How our world would change if the human species could rise to the mindfulness and wisdom Of our brothers and sisters in nature. Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me.

Maybe

MAYBE… (1997)

We surrender our souls to a belief we are told as children is our truth.
We have no choices because we are ignorant and must trust implicitly.

We grow, and even if our minds begin to strain at the bit that has been forced into our mouths
We most often continue to embrace the same beliefs.

We grow some more...
struggle to see past our blinders...
sense that something is wrong...
try to define this unsettled feeling in the folds of our minds.
And because no new insights are offered we conclude that the problem is in us, not in our belief system.
The believer is wrong... never the belief.
My actions are unacceptable.
My commitment is inadequate.
My understanding is skewed, and I am condemned.

Condemnation breeds failure.
Condemnation gives permission to quit.
Condemnation never enhances faith.

I start again.
At each point I must tear down before building up...
undo before doing...
sweep away the old thoughts before moving on to the new.

At first I push away new ideas by instinct,
so life waits and then recycles the ideas past my mind once again.
This time I look before I push them away…
but I still push them away.
Life waits patiently, and then the recycled ideas pass through a 3rd time... and a 4th time...
and maybe a 5th or 6th or 7th...
depending on the stretch.
But eventually I reach out tentatively to touch them
and to assure myself that they will not bite me,
or explode, or bring down bolts of lightning on my head.
Such a long and tedious fear-laced process for ideas with such love and healing potential.
I'm so tired of fearing and fighting things my mind and heart yearn to embrace.
A God who loves and nurtures instead of judging and condemning.
Spirits who guide us lovingly and help expand our awareness.
A Spirit connection between all living beings.
I want to believe that God is in me and not someplace far away and separate.
I want to believe in angels who ride horses and sing dinosaur songs
while helping to turn my upside-down life right-side-up.

Nothing has bitten me... no explosions...
No lightning in sight.
Maybe it's okay.
Maybe I'm okay...
and "maybe" is a lot more enlightened than "absolutely not."

2-28-06 Apocalypse Shield

In the midst of all the chaos .. I draw my world in around me like a cocoon… making the space inside small and manageable and safe. I stay curled there, waiting for the end of the world… or for the right time, right sound, right silence to tell me the apocalypse has passed once again and it is safe to unwrap my shield and fly away free.

2-26-2006 I Am Cat - Hear Me Purr

(Dedicated to Miss Pris (pictured above),Tribble, Reebok, Mouse, Tiger, Dexter, Noodles, Fluffy, Wednesday, Luna, TOO (The Other One), Oreo, Arizona, Kachina, and all the other wise and wonderful felines I have known and loved!) When it comes to mindfulness, cats have it all figured out. Cats are the absolute masters of the art of being in the moment. They sleep. They eat. They ask for things they want with no hidden agenda. “Meow. Feed me. Meow. Stroke me, pet me, adore me. Meow. Let me outside – let me inside – outside please– now back inside – can I go back out now?” If you don’t give them what they want, most of them will eventually decide they really didn’t want that anyway. No big deal. “I thought I wanted to be petted, but since you’re not paying attention to me, I will grouse a bit and then go take a nap” Cats never think, “Yesterday she only petted me forty seven times so she owes me fifty three strokes today.” They rarely keep track of our owner approval rating. Cats never worry where their next meal is coming from. It will appear. They know that. Even if they don’t know that, they don’t worry… they hunt. In the moment. “I am a lion, I’m hungry, I will go find food.” Do lions think “Oh my God, what if there isn’t a gazelle that’s slow enough for me to capture and I don’t get to eat today and then tomorrow the gazelles don’t come this way and then by the end of the week I will be emaciated and my skin will get all saggy and gross … oh my God!!” I don’t think so. The members of the biological family Felidae are very good at being in their own skins, which is something many humans find difficult. Many of us don’t like our skins, because we think they’re too thin, too short, too old, too wrinkled, too sick, too tall or too fat. Maybe someone else was unkind our skins in the past, or said mean things about how our skins look… and now we hate the bodies we are in. Cats have no such problem. They love their bodies. They delight in stretching, curling up, and sprawling out with no sense of shame or embarrassment. They emit satisfied purring noises when we stroke and massage them. Cats fully enjoy and accept their physical body, and totally experience the joy of the moment! What cat do you know who hides their delight… or their disdain? Ever try to feed a cat something it didn’t like? Did Boots stand there for five minutes considering the offering, trying to decide whether to turn up his or her whiskered nose? Hardly. There is absolutely no way for make a cat do something they do not choose to do. They have their own minds – and honor their own desires. A bit narcissistic? Yes! Finicky at times? Definitely. But still, a great metaphor for the idea of knowing what we want and honoring our own right to choose for ourselves. Not only do cats not worry about the future and feel good in their bodies… and they are also honest with their feelings in the moment. As they say in psychological circles, their affect matches their emotion. Happy cat… big purr, sweet meow, rubbing sensuously against you leg. Pissy cat… arched back, low growl, hiss or that semi-yodeling caterwaul they do when they’re threatening to smear some lesser cat all over the sidewalk. Their affect equals the event… and once again, they are entirely in the moment. At one time I had eight of these mindful creatures. Now my cat collection has dwindled to 2 – a 14-year-old gray, orange and tan tortoiseshell with a beautiful checkerboard face – and her 13-year-old orange tabby daughter. Mama is a sweetheart pet by day, and a ferocious feline adversary by night. She can hold her own against cats twice her size. In 14 years of being an indoor/outdoor cat, she has never had a wound from battle. Daughter, on the other hand, is a moody little sissy who rarely ventures outside the cat door. Mom and child do not especially like each other, so they have certain rules of conduct they follow. Daughter likes to find mom minding her own business and then instigate a hissing and spitting match. Mom will not miss an opportunity to show her daughter who is really the boss. But the fur rarely flies – except the stuff that is left by a damnable natural act called “shedding.” My cats do not seem to mind any of this. If there is an opportunity to have a little mother/daughter row, they do so with whatever degree of energy they wish to expend, and then go back to doing whatever cat thing seems best to them at the time. There is no forethought or afterthought. There is no judgement about that “horrible out-of-control daughter” or that mother who isn’t nurturing enough. Why clutter your brain with such machinations when you can be eating a saucer of delectable pork entrails and chicken by-products or curling up on top of your mistresses’ new spider plant? Life it good… and if several times a year enough fur falls out to make another complete creature, what difference does it make? “Don’t Worry – Be Happy.” This is the mindful theme song of the cat. We Homo sapiens could learn a lot from the felines around us. Each minute of their day comes and goes without all the fuss and bother we place on the moments of our lives. Each day is a new opportunity for joy. Wouldn’t it be life changing if we could develop the kind of adoration for ourselves that our cat friends have? Wouldn’t it be something if we could be truly content with a warm safe place to sleep, enough food to keep our stomachs from growling, a clean litter box, and someone to cherish us unconditionally when we chose to let them? Total mindfulness – total enjoyment of the moment. What a life! It is good to be a cat. Just ask one… they’ll tell you. “Stroke me for a while – give me some of that tasty stuff in the little can – let me outside – inside – outside – can I come inside now, please? I’ll just push this stuff off the top of the dresser, throw up in your underwear drawer and then curl up on top of your favorite wool sweater. I have no problems. I am at peace. I am living in this exact moment. I am cat… hear me purr!” Dedicated to Miss Pris (pictured above),Tribble, Reebok, Mouse, Tiger, Dexter, Noodles, Wednesday, Luna, TOO (The Other One) and all the other wise and wonderful felines I have known and loved!

2-25-06 Straight and Narrow

Straight and Narrow

I grew up in a narrow-minded world. There was one right way to do life... one right religion, one right way to behave, one right way to think and live and be. There was no room for variation... no room for individuality... no room to ask questions or create possibilities. It didn't seem oppressive at the time... it seemed normal. It was my life. But there was oppression on all sides. A beautiful child with joy and expression inside her was not allowed to dance... because dancing was sinful. A beautiful child who loved fantasy was not allowed to see Sleeping Beauty... because movies were evil. A beautiful child who sought a large, joyful, loving God was instead offered a God who was petty, vindictive, vengeful and puny. A beautiful child who longed for her father's love was instead given the worst kind of betrayal... and when she tried to express the pain of that betrayal, she was allowed no voice... no voice at all.

I grew up in a narrow-minded world. Our life revolved around church meetings... Sunday morning, Sunday evening, Wednesday night. Vacation Bible School in the summer; first at home, and then at Granny's church when we went to visit. I could spout the names of all the Books of the Bible by the time I was six, and won a flight over the city in a Piper Cub for bringing the most visitors to V.B.S. Revival meetings came twice a year... or more, if the people were particularly rebellious.

Sometimes the church came to us. When I was six, our pastor was a short, round man who I suppose looked fairly innocuous to most people. But as a young, gentle-spirited child, his screaming, yelling and pulpit-pounding made me terrified to have him in my dining room. What if Pastor started yelling and screaming and pounding on the dinner table? What if he found out about the things that Daddy sometimes did to me when Mommy was gone away to the hospital? Wouldn't Pastor take one look at me and know what an evil child I was?

I grew up in a narrow-minded world. I was a good girl, doing what I was told most of the time and not making many waves. School offered escape from the pain of a sick mother and an obsessed father, and I proved to be a gifted student. I read voraciously, disappearing into the fantasy world of books at every opportunity. In those moments, I became Laura Ingles, living with Carrie, Mary, Pa and Ma in our little house in Walnut Grove. Sometimes I was Nancy Drew, whose parents never argued or yelled. I could escape with Alex on the Black Stallion or travel with young King Arthur when Merlin tuned him into a squirming fish or a soaring hawk. Books were wonderful, safe, and sometimes my only salvation. Books were also an acceptable part of my parent's narrow world. I suppose that in the late 50's and early 60's, it never occurred to Mommy and Daddy that Satan might have already gotten into the publishing business.

I grew up in a narrow-minded world. Why do so many people choose to believe that God is an oppressive monster waiting to catch us in the act of being bad? Doesn't it seem that someone as intelligent as God would understand that human beings can only be who they are? Wouldn't you think that the One who created us would have some clue as to how we would behave in a given situation? And does it make sense that when we behave exactly the way God knows we will, He then condemns us to eternal damnation for being the very humans He created us to be? Those questions never occurred to me as a child. In fact, it never occurred to me to question anything except my own worth. It was never the belief that was disputable... only the believer.

I use to be a cynic. Now I'm a realist. Someday I hope I'll advance to idealism. God is not altered just because some people attempt to make Him into something He is not. Petty Christian hypocrisy didn't drag God down to my father's level. It couldn't. It could only pull my father further and further down into an ugly, fearful, paranoid view of life. Me too, for most of my life. Because the people I trusted the most in the world were obsessed with their own abusive religious agenda, I assumed it was my duty to be similarly obsessed. But it never seemed to work for me. I was never satisfied... never content... always wondering what was wrong with me that I didn't fit in. Now I know I didn't fit because the space into which I was trying to force myself wasn't even close to my shape and size. An oppressive, mean-spirited God seemed impossible to me, and I could not make myself embrace that belief, no matter how hard I tried. But it was impossible to acknowledge this truth when I was enclosed in a casing of puritanical fundamentalism. I actually had to go a little insane and end up in a secular personal growth group in order to meet people who were not enslaved to oppressive Christian dogma. These "heathens" were more Christ-like in their beliefs and behaviors than any pastor, elder or deacon I had ever met in church. My circle of friends expanded at that point, and although the unraveling of my spiritual programming took many years, I eventually began to see that the truth could be found by asking questions... questions I was never allowed to ask before.

For thirty-seven years I was encased in fundamentalist Christianity of the worst kind. Fifteen years later, I still suffer whip-lash from all those years of dogma. I'm still confused about exactly who God is and what He (or She) wants from me. Life is not easy, and growing up in such a narrow-minded world has left many scars. But now I am a searcher, and I'm gaining awarenesses that are making life much easier to bear. As I hesitantly embrace a less vindictive and more loving God, I am better able to embrace myself with love and accept the person I was created to be. To quote an old Carpenter's song, "It's gonna take some time this time, to get myself in shape...” But I'm beginning to learn that God's love is the most powerful force in the Universe, and it is helping me to discover a world that is expansive, creative and filled with joy.

2-20-06 A Baker's Dozen

I write for
the sake of writing
pure expression
creative outlet
the sensual feel of word
upon word
the elegance of language
to provoke thought
evoke a response
impress friends
astound strangers
for insight and clarity
because my head
will explode if the noise
has no outlet.

I write
because I cannot
NOT write
because I am me.

2-19-06 Metamorphosis

Life is a metamorphosis.
We begin by inching forward, growing & feeling our way.
Parts of our path are dictated by circumstance.
Events are forced upon us.
Our cocoon may be formed
from bits & pieces of lives & beliefs that are not truly our own.
But ultimately, we decide whether that cocoon will become a prison,
or if we will summon our strength,
break through our bonds,
unfold our damp & perfect wings
and fly.

The Undissolved Bather Speaks

2-18-06   This blog used to be filled with my writings - but somewhere - over years of being ignored, it's contents disappeared. So - to start with - I am going to post past things from another blog - things that were here but "dissolved" - and once I get those things posted - I hope to start posting anew. We'll see how that goes! Here's the first blog post I ever wrote.... back in the beginning of 2006:

A while ago, my very good friend and atypical twin brother from another mother Alan told me about this online journal thing where you could write whatever is on your mind, and then display it for friends, family and total strangers to read. I wasn't sure I wanted people gawking at the inner gyrations of my psyche, which are usually the fodder for my journaling. With my usual lightning-fast decisiveness, I considered it for several months, all the while watching Alan's incredibly creative mind evolve within his blog. He is an impressive writer; far more impressive than I. He writes sonnets and all sorts of odd poetry forms, as well as essays and commentaries and on and on. Reading his blog was daunting, to say the least. But being the older twin (by 19 years... it's a long story), I could not let this young whipper-snapper outdo me. So here I am, blogging away - with no idea what I want to say or where this all will go. Not knowing who my audience might be doesn't make it any easier. I like absolutes in life. I am a great editor and proof reader. Give me somebody else's stuff in black and white and I can make it tight and eloquent and shiny like the Chrysler Building. But as a blogger, I am required to pull things out of my own experience and mental meanderings and write them down. Since I am compelled by my codependent personality to do what is required of me... I will reach up and grab things out of the air and write about them. I will do that... but not today. Today I will go to Amazon and look for The Idiot's Guide to Blogging. Maybe it will give me some pointers so I can keep up with my little brother.