We Gotta Fix This…..Now.

US-GreatSeal-Obverse

Once every four years, this country goes slightly bat-shit crazy, (or crazier than usual) and all the uglies come out into the light of day. Our citizenry, en masse,  decide to strip politically buck nekkid and parade themselves as most fit and capable to lead the rest of the thundering herd over the cliff. Someone I consider a friend decided to fly the flag of “I double-dawg dare ya’ ” on her blog post here: writerslane.blogspot.com – and the gears began to grind between my temples.  I am soooooo going to go out on a limb here, but what the hell – everyone gets at least one chance to stand in front of the diving eagle and raise the middle mousy finger of fate. To wit: Sorry, fellas. No more men in politics. You guys have have the stage for over 200 years and you have yet to accomplish anything of concrete value that has lasted with the exception of the Constitution and the Bill of Rights (or as I call it “Our Acceptable Do-Over List.”)

For the next 200 years, you must be possessed of ovaries and or the secondary sexual characteristics of the feminine persuasion in order to create, amend, consider and/or approve of any legislation whatsoever at any level within the current geo-political boundaries of the United States. Additionally, at the mere mention of your personal spiritual dogma, you will be considered ineligible for office. While we’re at it, the folks that have considered themselves as the un-taxed stanchions of religious liberty? Guess what? If you’ve made any political contributions within the past 50 years you’re going to lose your tax-free status. Yes, I suppose you could call that “Hard Core Separation of Church & State” – I prefer to call it Jeffersonian Socialism. In the old days, it was more commonly referred to as “Put Up or Shut Up.”  Yes, I hear the beginning moans of displeasure. They make a product for that now, it’s called “Depends.”

If you’ve ever presided over a group of children, refereed a herd of soccer, baseball, softball, or other team sports for young ones, or organized a birthday party for anyone under the age of 12, and are not male, you are now considered eligible for public office.  Please put on your big girl panties and report to whatever passes for a local political party’s district chairperson in your area and let’s get to work. This country’s infrastructure is in a shambles, our veteran’s needs are going unmet, we no longer have a safety net for the mentally ill, and with the dissolution of the unions our manufacturing base has likewise faded to gray.  Our educational system is mediocre even though we have access to the most powerful tools ever known to disseminate information to the populace. We can no longer rely upon a standard of ethics to guide us within the parameters of the reporting of daily events, the priorities of the Fifth Estate being handed over to profit makers instead of policy makers. There are numerous other matters that must be attended to that far exceed the vagaries of tanning salons, liquor stores and golf courses.

Once upon a time when young ladies decided to gather within their peer group, the first item attended to was appropriate footwear. This usually extended itself to the donning of “trainers” or “sneakers” or “kicks” or “tennis shoes.” Ladies, listen up. It’s time. Lace ’em up, or tie ’em up, or rip the velcro – we’ve got work to do.

 

A Letter to My 18 Year Old Self

YouTube sent out an e-mail today where in honor of International Women’s Day, they asked women to make a video letter to their younger self.  Well, I’m still on the upward climb of learning video technology, but I knew I could write that letter. Without further ado, here is the “Letter to my 18 year old self”

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chicago peace rose

 

Dear Me;

 

I’m writing you nearly two years after a life-altering event and near-death episode. Since it’s been 39 years since I made a monumental decision to join the military instead of attempting to find a way to go to college, I’m writing this so that hopefully, one day, time travel of at least video correspondence is a reality. In November of 1975, I raised my right hand, and had Mom sign an age waiver so I could gain entry into the Texas National Guard. I was so idealistic, so naive, so sure I was doing the right thing.

Yes, going into the military was a good thing; but I seriously needed someone to tell me about homesickness and familial dysfunction and alcoholism and rape. I seriously needed someone to tell me that my spirit was a beautiful, sacred thing and all those empathic impulses I’d been denying were REAL. I needed someone to help me find the beautiful Goddess in Training that I was, to find the self-confidence that the writing voice within should never have been denied over the need to simply survive. I needed the strong guidance that helped me discover I could do this on my own, that I never needed a man to make me complete. I needed someone to teach me by example that a life companion complemented who you are, not changed you to fit their reality. Further, no one had the right to raise a hand to you in rage; no one had the right to define your spirituality, confine you to their definition of Deity.

There was so much of the masterpiece of my being that was so incomplete at 18 that it should have been considered a felony for me to have been sent out into the world of the late 70’s without at least a Master Class in Reality. You are more than pumps, sandals, boots, or bare feet. You are more than jeans, cut-offs and bikini bottoms. You are more than a bra, a halter top or a t-shirt. You are more than the outside accoutrements of clothing, or style. Your spirit is as free as Jonathan Livingston Seagull, never let anyone tell you or try to convince you otherwise. In fact, do yourself a favor – don’t allow anyone who attempts to corral who you are with conventionality to stay in your life.

Education is a passport to freedom, little one. No one can steal the treasures of knowledge you hold between your ears. There is nothing shameful about being intelligent, there is only the shame later that you were never able to develop the bright promise you held. I said it before and I’ll say it again and again – if the guy you want doesn’t comprehend what you love, let him go. Someone will show up that shares your love of the stars, and the planets, and Star Trek and all things geeky. Someone will show up that is as much a hopeless romantic as you are, and if you are willing to let that special someone, they will sweep you off your feet and worship you every day of your lives together.

Don’t allow the bigotry of those around you blind you to the beauty of everyone you meet. Commit the words of Max Ehrmann’s Desiderata to heart and find a way to live/express/develop the intent of that writ every moment that you draw breath. Find a way to play every day, coloring books are not the territory of the very young, neither are finger paints or Play-Doh, or Legos, or Lincoln Logs or even rag dolls and dollhouses. Remember the fun you had in the kitchen with your grandmother, and your nannies, and learn that food is as much a palette as are words and crayons.

Last, learn to grieve as deeply as you loved. Never allow someone to tell you to “get over it.” While the great sages and wise women through the ages affirm that we are never truly separated from those we love, there are those who will share time with you as you dance on this planet that will only share the journey but briefly. They will be the beacons of Light along parts the dimly lit passages as no life is lived in sunlight alone. Never forget to appreciate the Light in your life; taking people for granted should be considered a mortal sin.

When you have children, stick to your guns and your gut. Your intuition as a mother is a far better diagnostic tool than the most schooled pediatrician, the most well-intentioned educator. You KNOW your children. Never deny yourself a moment spent with the extra cuddle, the additional kiss on the forehead, the caress of a silky head. Spending time cuddled together on the ‘mommy/daddy’ bed builds a bond that no one can ever break, and gives them memories of security and love to hold in their hearts forever. Remember that old pots and pans, worn out aprons and wooden spoons are far better toys than those that others spend a fortune on. Teaching them how to build fairy houses out of leaves and sticks encourages imagination, and planting a garden together grounds them to life itself.

Creating things of use and beauty with knitting needle, sewing needle or crochet hook, hands a legacy to all children. There’s nothing wrong with teaching the playmates of your kids how to do it either. Oh yes, one more thing, and it’s the most important. Kids are like that garden you’ll grow together. They need the sunshine, the dirt and the water. Letting them dance naked in the rain allows their spirit that freedom of expression in a memory that will get them through the tough times they will undoubtedly face.

You are an incredible person. You will meet other incredible persons and you will meet people of both great good and horrific evil. When you meet people of evil, walk away. Quickly. Do not attempt to find the good in anyone that greets you with all the ugliness that they are. Accept them as ugly and walk away. The greatest truth that is the saddest lesson you will have to learn, and it is this: Good people attract bad people like ants to a picnic. Ants have the right to be ants, but you do not have to sit there and let them hurt you. They have their place in the scheme of things, and it is up to you if you choose to share your life with anyone who willfully hurts you. Make a different choice.

Life is incredibly short. Dance. Eat with joy. Love with abandon. Appreciate the special people in your life, and allow to pass those who would cause you or yours harm. Grow a garden, love a pet, plant a tree. When it is time to go, you want to look back and laugh with love.

Hug yourself for me – and let go of any regrets – you can always start over, on any given day.

Love,

Me.

Tums & Tarantulas

tarantula

We all have demons to slay; those personal little horrors that sit quietly gnawing at the back corners of our sanity until common sense and equilibrium start leaking out of the hole in our souls. Such is grief when never properly allowed to be expressed, and if you came from a family that put the ‘fun’ in ‘dysfunctional’ you can identify with this. As such, I’ve carried 3 camels worth of sorrow for my beloved best friend. Further, I’ve never found a way to process it; so, when in the flash of an instant it came crashing back over my psyche, I was a sobbing huddled-in-sorrow mess on the floor of my office.

For me, part of the healing process comes with writing about this unique friendship and the bizarre joys of our time as roommates. It was the eighties, I’d just barely escaped the clutches of an abusive husband and Mary had lost her previous roomie (a cousin) to job changes. Fate had us looking to move closer into town from the wilds of the suburbs, and as luck would have it, a rather fashionable townhouse had opened up just down the block from where I was working.

This was both opportune and serendipitous as not only was the grocery store within walking distance, should I choose to change my current employment situation, the metro stop was fairly close as well. I was working as an assistant credit manager and deposit clerk in an upscale department store, Mary was working as the educational liaison for a chain of nursing homes. We were both fairly happy in our positions and loved the proximity to entertainment, restaurants, etc. that our new home would provide.

The townhouse had a gated courtyard and a willow tree that I happened to adore with all the romantic bliss of the ignorant. It also had a fireplace; something Mary and I both insisted upon because hot cocoa and Grade B romance movies were a passion on those long Friday nights without dates. I’d taken the upstairs bedroom and en-suite bathroom, she’d chosen the downstairs. I loved my room with its lovely bay window shaded by the willow tree, she was happy with the room downstairs and its relative quiet as I was working long hours.

For the first six months, it was bliss. We’d have lunch together in the food court of the mall attached to the store where I was working when she was in town and we’d chat, laugh, and catch up on what was going on in our lives. Her job required travel no less than 4 days a week, so our lunch dates were special to both of us. We’d also plan out menus, shopping, movies, laundry, carpet shampooing, mundane household tasks, and when we could escape to go see her folks in North Texas. Her Dad had simply ‘adopted’ me as another kid in the family and when we went to see them, I had chores just like everyone else.

Then, early one spring morning I was pouring a bowl of Corn Flakes and discovered a very nasty buddy in my bowl; in fact, several. Cockroaches had infiltrated the cereal box and were feasting on my morning munchies. I’m not squeamish, but I squealed a very loud squeal of disgust. Mary’s howl of horror was not far behind. Then, when she went to open the refrigerator, several came flying out of the rubber seal of the door. We opened the cupboard doors under the sink and discovered a cavalcade of critters under there was well. She immediately called the 24 hours maintenance line and demanded extermination services.

For the next month or so, we were in chemical warfare against the little 6 legged invaders. We bought hermetic containers for any foodstuff that usually resided in a box, changed out canisters, and basically robbed the bastards of any foodstuff we could think of. Until, they broached the last bastion of our sanity. When deprived of any foodstuff humans normally consume, they turned to the electronic and proceeded to eat the plastics and coating within our video cassette player and television. Cry HAVOC!

We were at our wit’s end, eating lunch in the food court and were discussing everything from radiation to relinquishing the place we loved so much when, this tall rangy fellow from the exotic pet store comes over to our table and introduces himself. “Hey, there ladies! My name’s Clint, and I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation and your problem and well – I think I have the solution.” Mary and I were stunned into silence with the sudden, unexpected introduction but nothing could have prepared us for Clint bringing a small terrarium with a HUGE brown tarantula in it around from behind his back and placing it right in the center of our lunch table. I immediately attempted to see how far my butt would fit in the large planter behind me and I remember Mary attempting to climb Clint like a tree in order to affect escape. Yes, there were the usual accompanying sound effects of squealing, screaming females.

Clint, in the process of prying Mary out of his hair and off of his person, remained nonplussed by our reaction and began calmly explaining that tarantulas give off a pheromone that sends roaches packing. We looked at one another; which one was going to do terrarium or rather terror-ium duty? Who was going to feed the eight-legged monster once he’d eaten every roach? How often do they pee/poo and what does cleaning up after a tarantula entail? We were not convinced that any amount of salesmanship was going to confer ownership of the spider to either of us. “Ok,” Clint sighed, “Ladies, look. I’ll loan you the tarantula for a month or two. I’ll even come over once a week to check up on him and see how he’s doing. Heck, I’ll even set the whole thing up.”

“Look,” Mary replied, “as long as you take care of that thing and neither of us have to do one thing that remotely involves removing the top of the container he lives in, we’re good. And DON’T get funny and slip in a pregnant female thinking it a joke because we WILL hunt you down!” Clint sorta turned a bit pale, but true to his word, that evening after the mall closed he came over and set up “Hairy’s” home in a corner of the galley kitchen of our townhouse.

A couple of nights later, we were curled up watching MASH and Mary looked with a funny glance at me and muted the sound on the television. “Do you hear a funny crunching noise?” She asked.

“Yeah, I do. Sorta like someone eating Frito’s.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“But, it sounds like it’s coming from the kitchen.”

“I ain’t going in there alone.”

“Me neither.”

“Come on, Roomie.”

“Oh, God! Ok.”

What we did not expect was to see something vaguely reminiscent of a 50’s science fiction thriller; Clint has set the terrarium up with a pickle jar lid of Cheerios in the corner. We’d assumed that this must be some sort of unknown treat for the tarantula, what the Hell did we know about tarantula diet? Nope, good ol’ ‘Hairy’ was crunching down on the cockroaches that nearly covered the small pile of cereal in the corner of his habitat, like a kid crunching on Cheezy Poofs. We would have screamed in horror, but the objects of our more immediate disgust were being permanently removed from our environs one juicy crunch at a time.

True to his word and ‘Hairy’s’ appetite, within six weeks the roach problem was reduced to the ‘damn near extinct’ level in the townhouse. Clint came over to take ‘Hairy” back to the pet shop, but Mary decided that as long as Clint would come over and “service” the beast we’d buy him and give him a home. Then, Clint gave us one more little trick to address the cockroach problem.

The fella was a good salesman because if he’d shown us this little trick, we might never have agreed to ‘Hairy’s’ presence. From a bag, Clint retrieved beer bottle caps. I asked, “What, we’d gonna get them drunk and toss ‘em out the door?” “Nope.” He grinned.

He placed a bottle cap next to the baseboards at the common wall between us and our neighbor’s townhouse. Then, out of his pocket he produced a roll of Tum’s antacids and he placed one in the bottle cap. “Now,” he smugly noted,” we wait.”  Within a minute or two, a cockroach came up from under the baseboards and began nibbling on the tablet. After a couple of minutes, the insect left the tablet, replete. It then began to walk across the carpet and it didn’t make it six inches before we heard a distinct “pop” and the insect jerked once and rolled over, dead. “Roaches can’t burp, ladies.” Clint calmly announced.

Mary would have fumed, but Clint was grinning such a gamine smile, she just threw her hands up in the air and for the next hour or so we were placing bottle caps with Tums tablets in them all over the townhouse. Granted, for a couple of nights the sounds of exploding roaches was a little unsettling, but we vacuumed up the conquered invaders with a sense of satisfaction that we were no longer engaging in hazardous chemical warfare, and we’d taken a homeless tarantula off the streets.

So, there you are. A little story that will forever remain in my heart about our escapades as roomies and how we simply didn’t give up the little townhouse we both so loved. Perhaps I also believe that in sharing this a wee bit of the grief that I’ve carried for 27 years has melted. Love ya’, Mur….

Behind “Home”

trail home

 

There’s been a ghost of an idea sitting on the back burner of my mind for a few days; more than just the usual ‘because’ that grants perpetuity in the writer’s mind. This niggling, this fomenting creation of firing synapses and fulminating neurons is much more than that. It’s a concept that is being borne out every day in some new way by hard science and prattled upon mercilessly by one guru or another.

In a very simple derivative, it is thus: all that we are is the summation of what is around us at any given time. We must needs be mindful of this at every moment or accept the consequences. Breaking this down into chunks or simple bits of digestible concept much like cold cereal follows. (Yes, stuff like this really DOES bubble around in my brain…maybe I should have had a bit more support in the educational realm.)

There now exists hard science that our bodies shed cells on a regular basis – we are ever in the process of becoming who we are on a regular daily, almost, cycle. Given this, stop for a moment and think. Where did your breakfast come from? Was it grown locally? Touched by the hands of a neighbor? Was it harvested by machine or by hand? Was it transported in a refrigerated truck far away from where it first saw sunlight? Did it sit in a warehouse waiting for its lot to be bid upon before moving on to a distribution center? Where does every iota of what you eat come from? Where are the hands that touched it in some form before you purchased it and brought it home to grace your oven, hotplate or microwave before it graced your plate and table? Do you know these people? Would you have them share your dinner with you? You do, you know.

Every time you eat, everything you eat has been touched by others in the process of here to there; unless of course, you grow and harvest every morsel of food you put into your mouth. So with this in mind, let’s track your day. Who grew the beans that were later harvested by another, transported by yet another, processed by an additional handful, roasted, blended and ground to be put into a container that found its way to your kitchen pantry and thus your coffee cup? Do you ever think to thank the blessed hands, hearts and minds of each person that touched the coffee you now drink? How about the hands of the laborers that went into making the coffee machine that brewed the beverage you now consume? Like it or not, we are all creations of energy; we expend it in myriad ways throughout our day, but we take it in likewise. The sum of each person’s touch is in every item of clothing we wear, every morsel of food we eat, the cars we drive. Our days, our world, our presence is literally filled to the brim with the essence of another – in fact many others.

When we allow Oligarchs and Plutarchs to rule, they seek to stifle, muffle, and silence the voices and the energies that make this energy exchange bright and joyous. Without the love of the land as expressed by a human farmer, the beauty and health of the wheat field loses something in the process of providing life-sustaining grain. Without the loving hands of those that prune, tend and harvest them, tomatoes seem to lose the vibrant flavor that dances upon our tongues and sings within the sauces and dishes that they later grace. Let us add the additional dimension of presence of place.

Many of us choose to live within an urban environment, some of choose instead to thrive well off of the beaten paths of civilization. Some of us live upon the water, and some of us have no door to close nor roof to shelter our heads. Wherever we find ourselves, we need be mindful of where we are for many reasons; the least of which was stated earlier – we change, we recycle, we regenerate our cells on a regular basis. The building blocks of who we are we must get from somewhere.

Think about this – think about it hard, for more than just the moment that you are taking to read this blog. Do you know the barista that made your coffee? Do you know the hands and heart of the person who crafted a cheese Danish for your consumption? Are you aware that the chicken that laid the egg you are eating may very well be living out her short miserable life in a 1 x 1 foot cage and force fed nutrients that do nothing more than force her to lay egg after egg?

There’s a very simple reason why home-grown tomatoes taste so good. The obvious reason is the vine picked freshness, but think of the joy and energy put into the plant with the daily watering and hand care received by the plant itself. But, you argue – I cannot raise the wheat that makes my bread, or the corn that goes into my tortillas, or the beef and fish and chicken that I consume. Maybe there’s another Truth you need to embrace and integrate. Are you within reasonable commute distance to a farm? Have you ever made an effort to get to know where your food comes from? When was the last time you kicked off your shoes and let your naked feet embrace the soil?

As a whole, we humans have forgotten our sense of tribe, our sense of unity with all things living and growing. We’ve neglected to remember our bodies crave communion with the earth our bodies are made of. We’ve forgotten the music of the winds, the waters, the hymns of feather, fur and scale. What’s even worse, we’ve convinced ourselves that wandering from place to place without discovering the “feel” of where we are is a ‘normal’ thing.

As a result, our children are numbed out with medication, we take pills to wake up, go to sleep, and keep our attentions focused on the production of mindless crap. We’ve neglected to embrace our elderly in a healthy manner and allow them to pass their stories to our young. We’ve failed to place adequate value in sound judgments that will stand the test of common sense and altruism. Further, and perhaps even more shameful, we refuse to govern ourselves beyond electing a sound bite and carefully packaged automaton whose sole purpose to exist is for the elite.

If we can, it is now past time to put our courage to the sticking place and take charge of change with both hands. If you only have one hand, make sure it’s your neighbor’s that you grab because like it or not, we’re in this together. None of us can single-handedly raise the food, shelter and transportation required of our lives; but we can remember and learn to accept as family those that can.

The “Me” generation was wrong; it is past time that “We” stand up, get over the petty issues, address the serious ones and move into our tomorrow – mindful of who we are, where we come from , and where we intend to go. At the very least, before you consume anything; eat food, pump gas, buy a piece of clothing, perhaps it would be a good thing to be mindful of the hands behind its creation – and give thanks.

At Year’s End

New Years celebration

Tomorrow is my 57th birthday. I still have no wish to “grow up” because to me, the next thing would be “growing old” and I refuse that judgment upon my person. I still believe in love, I still believe in the magic of those Unseen to affect beauty all around me, and I still believe (somewhat) in the goodness of the human race. I believe in romance; the kind that leaves you teary-eyed and breathless after a tender kiss. I believe in long-lasting relationships because the nature of love is compromise, care, comfort and consideration for one another. Oh, to be sure we all mix it up now and again to keep things fresh, funny and delightful to our beloveds.

I believe in reincarnation because I am very much a work-in-progress. It would be absurd, with all the flaws inherent in my being, to expect me to conquer them all in a single mortal lifetime. Especially if your lifetime has been foreshortened in a flash, with an unexpected crash. I believe in Wonder; because if I have forgotten what it looks like, all I have to do is find a four-year old to remind me.

When all the Ugly of this world descends upon me, all I really have to do is reach out to another. This has been the hardest lesson of all, because for years, I only interacted with others thru a narrow window of a bubble – refusing more than the scant contact of a phone call, a brief meeting in a small cubicle, the direct dryness of an e-mailed message. I wrote my stories at home, safely tucked away from the rest of the world in a 9 X 6 office, 30 miles from the nearest hub of human commerce. I liked it that way because those that deliberately looked for folks like me to harass, annoy, tease, belittle or outright bully could not reach me here; and I could illumine their souls with my limited understanding in the vain attempt to discover why they felt so compelled.

When you least expect it, Serendipity waves her magic wand and you find yourself bed-rest bound with a scary prognosis and an interminable wait for a follow-up CT scan and MRI. However, because of the Common Thread of Mercy, you also end up entertained by a lovely series of urban fantasy books. This was to be only the outside of the nesting dolls of discovery, but so little did I know.

Then, I discovered what a wonder a blog could be, and my eyes were sure to be as big as that four-year-old upon seeing fireworks from the top of a hay bale in a moonlit sky. Oh, the Universe wasn’t through with me, because then I had the joy of a writer’s retreat. Not before a near-complete meltdown, however. This little country mouse was secretly terrified of leaving her safe nest under the huge ash tree in the middle of the prairie. It took a lot of hand-holding, some serious acceptance of limitations and a warning of a bruised ego should she turn around and run back to the safety of the sun-dappled shadows, but Country Mouse not only navigated the airport and the rental car kiosk, but Chicago traffic and her own limited knowledge of getting maps to work on a smartphone.

There were some disappointments along the way as well; Google Maps is never accurate, hindsight is always better than gut-level panic, and re-think what you really need to pack before you have to schlepp it all over Creation. Learning your new limits or finding a new normal have been watch phrases for me; and in the spirit of being honest, not exactly welcome. The trade-off, because we do live in a Universe of Balance, is that I made some friends that have felt like they will and have always been a part of my heart.

The next stage of my life is a complete unknown – it’s like standing behind the curtain at an improv. You have no clue what you’re going to do, but you have a gut level feeling that you can wing it if you can just get over the fear factor. Every muscle in your body is both relaxed and tensed at the same time, your mind is racing and your breathing skips a bit along with your heart. However, there is that still, small voice telling you that “You. Got. This. You’ve had it your whole life. Now. Is. The. Time.”

To be sure, there is a wonderful happy part of me that is simply aching to share some good news. (I’m going to be published!) Of course, there is the part of me that simply wants the mess out of the house so she can sit down and finish writing some of the stories that fizzled to a whisper because of the distractions of crap she simply cannot abide! (Obsessive/compulsive, much?)

Here I sit, at the end. A sudden realization tearing my eyes; I am the only one with this voice, this perspective. Should I be too shy to sound out, the whispers of what I see will dim and face into the emptiness of Chaos, with no one to note that I even sat here at all. The fear of silence being more than the shyness of sharing a beloved’s touch on my neck, shoulders and the tentative kiss of “good morning” on a still sleeping face.

Soundtracks of a hundred movies sit in my queue, background music to a chattering brain flexing verbiage and feathered synonyms to paint the mind pictures. The window frames the sere grass overgrown for lack of a sufficiently powered mower to tackle the front acre. Naked limbs of crepe myrtle, mimosa, ash and tallow give depth to the framing, and within a golden pool of illumination, the fingers move and then still; here creation moves one phrase at a time.

Tomorrow, my heart will still waltz to an unheard tune, my eyes still looking for the miraculous, and my hands will still reach to learn that next, more difficult crochet pattern. Getting the brain to engage will always be the new challenge that the new normal has become, but I refuse to ‘grow up.’ No one ever said it that it was mandatory anyway; I prefer to grow better.

Mays the Bells of the New Year bless you and yours with their soul stirring chimes.

Gentle Hugs,

 

Rhae

The Message – Huh?

message

Its 4:40 on a Monday morning and by all rights I should be back in bed, recuperating from a gnasty sinus infection. Hat’s off to ragweed and mold; your attempt at my demise was a near miss this year. Somewhere in the night, I kicked off both socks and between my cold feet and empty tummy, the sleep cycle threw in the towel. Did I mention the softly snoring warm husband within arm’s reach? Happily for me, there are clean socks in my dresser, a bowl of cereal and enough milk to quiet the tummy for now and even a pot of coffee should I care to make it. I am blessed to have a door to shut, a fridge and a pantry with enough to eat, and clothes to cover this fragile human body. I am lovingly (perhaps) endowed with an Internet connection and the technological wherewithal to connect and even e-publish my thoughts on a blog.

If I look at this bounty in wonder, I need to also look at the threats to access being considered, if not already enacted by certain legislative and governmental bodies worldwide. Our basic human need to express ourselves in our own unique individual way is a basic freedom still denied to many for reasons selfish, pathetic and archaic. If you don’t like hate speech, you don’t have to listen. If said same speech is being broadcast, public pressure on the businesses that buy the advertising to make the broadcast possible is a good way to make your point – so is social shunning. It has worked before, and human beings are social creatures; shunning hurts.

Misrepresentation is a fancy word for lying. Americans have lost our backbone and our ethical compass when we allow what passes for news to become a bully pulpit for the “haves” pointedly ignoring or shaming the “have not’s.” Once upon a time, it was considered anathema to present any newsworthy item without the due diligence and research required for both sides of any issue. We also took pride in a work ethic that we desired to pass along to our children, along with a sense that justice was a guarantee if you were a law abiding citizen.

Some really ugly stuff has gotten in the way of what used to be Our Shining Glory – maybe it wasn’t so shiny after all. Maybe those ugly parasites of greed, racism and insecurity never really died off; they were simply buried under a mountain of white bread patriotism, force fed to us by those who were under the mistaken impression that “they knew better.” Questioning every step we make used to be a proud American tradition; this is before partisan politics made a mockery of our system of political representation.

To simply say “Shame on you, you should know better” is no longer appropriate because if you take a long, hard look at the entire matter, we no longer know better. We have become an “idiocracy” – allowing those with the least amount of foresight and wisdom to govern our daily affairs. In truth, we also allowed our government to be purchased and influenced by massive amounts of monies from multinational business concerns that simply use their influence to do what they wish and as they will in a country that made their conception and bounty possible.

So, in the nature of True American Spirit and Parenthood, I’m going to raise the flag here. Anyone remember the saying, “The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world?” Do you really want that precious life you care for, nurture and protect to grow up to be a hate-spewing, narrow minded bully? Whether born to you or adopted, that life was not presented into the world with a foreknowledge of exclusion. Those tiny hands were never intended to deliver a killing blow to another living creature save for the purposes of providing food. Those tiny feet were never intended to crush the neck of another human being in rage and anger. Let’s take this one step further. If you never intended to be a parent, why did you opt to bring that life into the world through ejaculation or conception?

Ok, I’ll admit – this was a complete crap-ton of heavy thought for what should be a happier time of the year. However, this is also a time for reflection. Each of us holds an immense amount of power within us, whether we want to admit it or not. Incredibly wise ones amongst us have acknowledged this in not so many words. Don’t think that you have to be an oligarch to change the world, it doesn’t cost a single cent to change your mind and approach a problem with a totally different response than the one you had yesterday.

The hubby and I made a conscious decision to “share the Light” this year in our own way. We purchased Yule cards with a quote we appreciated and a message we created. Little seeds of change, bread crumbs spread upon the waters of thought. It was an investment, to be sure. There is no sure way of measuring the return, and we agreed that there doesn’t have to be. The very fact that the intent was put forth, the energy spent, pretty well guarantees that there will be some movement somewhere; the Universe is not a stagnant pond. It is not the single motion that moves the boulder.

May you and yours find a way to poke a stick of positive energy, prayer, good intention towards those things that are keeping the human race from its best and highest potential. I’ll be there with you in spirit, if not in deed.

Gentle hugs.

The Home Front

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I never intended to raise a house full of girls. In fact, I think I can remember several occasions where I apologized for not giving my husband a boy to carry on his name. His answer was, “Have you SEEN my side of the family? We’re good.”

Be that as it may, just because there were females under the roof does NOT mean that there was a quiet, happy joy within the walls. Nope. No doubt there are Marine barracks full of rowdy males that were QUIETER and more sanitary than our home. From “fairy houses” of sticks, stones and mud to chickens (yes, I said CHICKENS) and the occasional kitten, there was always some sort of Chaos bubbling just under the surface of what appeared to be normalcy.

From birth, my girls were just itching to be into everything. Not a single one of them waited until their first birthday to walk, no run. At about 6 months, the urge to merge into bipedal freedom rose up along with their diapered little backsides. By 9 months of age, it was time to grab onto the curtains and cruise the furniture until “SURPRISE!” balance and locomotion made that little connection and it was time to run Mother ragged with squeals of glee and baby chuckles.

The firstborn had 3 acres and a pecan tree stump to wander over as she toddled into childhood from infancy. Not that she didn’t find enough mischief to get into; but dandelions were so much FUN to blow into her Papaw’s beautifully manicured St. Augustine lawn. A span of 8 years and then she had a sibling to join in on the domestic affairs, but Kat, the middle child, decided that living in the cupboards with the pots and pans was infinitely more enjoyable than just blowing dandelions into the manicured greens of the townhouse community we lived in.

Two years later and the last of the Celtic Warrior Queens Reincarnate came aboard just in time to celebrate with fireworks, watermelon and 100 degree temperatures in a very rural setting. We welcomed our first Great Pyrenees into our lives at the same time and of course he aided and abetted the baby’s first steps. What child could resist all that long white fur and gentle nature?

It appeared that the stage was set then, for all the antics and memorable moments to come. The move back into city life and the tiny apartment that barely managed to contain all the life within. The Yule tree that came with its own Squirrel; which didn’t reveal itself until the Dane was cutting off the 8 inches off the top to make it fit and managed to cut off the tip of his thumb when the squirrel made a panicked attempt at retreat down his body length. It gets better, the squirrel managed to find a way OUT of the apartment under the kitchen sink, but not without disturbing the bat that was sleeping/hibernating in the exit. When the sink door was opened to retrieve the dishwasher detergent, the bat fled the confines of the cabinet and all females of the household ran screaming for the relative safety of the master bedroom. This left Sir Bloody Thumb to capture the menace and expel such from the dwelling, immediately with no further assistance from the royal residents. You could almost HEAR his wish to fly free with the creature as he released it into the clear blue skies of a Texas twilight from the bat capturing shoebox.

The next move came with a backyard, an 8 foot privacy fence and a beautiful willow tree. It also came with the youngest daughters being ever-so-eager to go camping disappearing into the dark of a Yuletide Eve with a laundry bucket, their pillows, cans of food, but “No sharp knives, Mama!” The local constabulary were left with a Christmas story and had them all chuckling into their coffees the next morning as the paperwork was written and filed. There are also pictures of children wallowing in the mud of a drainage ditch where the only way their parent could discern lineage was by the blue of their eyes. Mad posse’s of children on bicycles when they weren’t at the neighborhood elementary also framed these years; as did the first of many sleepovers with children piled into heaps of air mattresses and blankets on my living room floor. This was where the practice of counting heads for pancakes began on those Sunday mornings way back when.

The next move would be marked by fields of bluebonnets accompanied by a little Welsh Corgi that had joined the household before the previous move, but now he was in his true element as the duplex bordered on a cattle holding. Retrieving Gizmo would become a household chore until a sane way of bolstering the fence line could be established.

Then, the eldest child graduated high school and was about to discover college. Time, it seemed had flown by all too quickly. True, there were two more daughters to get through the system, but this event telescoped the eventual happenings for the younger children. Once more, it was time to move. This time, into a house.

We were to lease/purchase a beautiful, two story home on what appeared to be a quiet cul de sac. Never doubt that appearances are deceiving, especially on a deal that seemed too good to be true. But, this was the house where the youngest child would set the sofa on fire with her laptop’s power brick and send her sisters screaming “FIRE” into our once quiet bedroom. This would be the home and final resting place for “Midnight- the Wonder Chicken.” This would be the home for what would become the starting set of kittens that grew into the “Crazy Cat Lady’s Starter Kit” I now know, love, feed and protect. This would be the home wherein I would watch a 20 pound Corgi ‘tree’ a 190 lb. electric meter reader up a 12 ft. oak sapling. This would also be the home that we would lose because of the shiftless, worthless lying greed of a ‘real estate investor’ and his inability to make the mortgage payments we’d been sending him for over 4 years.

I’d planted roses here, raised young girls into young ladies who attended their first proms here. Welcomed with open arms the eldest child back into the fold when a lying consort had beaten her and crushed her dreams. I planted morning glories and moonglow vines. I’d established an herb garden on the front porch, had plans to paint the bedrooms, created our first office, and managed to find a job that I could hang onto during the worst economic environment since the Great Depression. Now, with a single knock at the door and a visit from a confused Wells Fargo representative, it was going to be gone. Where was I going to shelter my daughters?

It all turned out better in the end, in its own way. Cat’s Paw Acres is not much; just 2.5 acres and a singlewide mobile home with a built on addition and a HUGE back porch, all covered by a wonderfully massive tin roof. In the past 5 years, we’ve made incredible memories here; the middle daughter’s High School graduation, but not before that fateful morning one late April afternoon when she received her acceptance letter into Cornell College. Then there was Batu, the wedding anniversary yak (an Anatolian Shepherd/Great Pyrenees puppy) who grew into a 150 lbs of lap dog. And last, the youngest daughter asking to go live with her godfather in California, thinking that he wouldn’t be as restrictive as Mom and Dad.

Before I knew it, the homestead is quiet. I can hear the winds sigh through the ash tree, the crepe myrtles, and the ligustrums. I’ve perfected the art of watching grass grow. I miss the insanity of having children underfoot. I miss waking up to piles of children between the Dane and myself. But I’m beginning to understand the term ‘golden years’ because like the golden light of autumn, while there may be some bad memories back then, they’ve faded with the light of happier times.

My Brother’s Keeper

Some time back I wrote this piece while ‘learning’ about blogging and the fact that the Evil Day Job was a soul-killer. There are so many other ways for us to ‘lose our way’ and I was awakened this morning with the inspiration that today, Veteran’s Day, of all days, was a perfect gateway to re-blog what I’d written earlier. The memory this brings forward still shakes/stuns my soul; never have I just suddenly been brought to tears by another’s plight so nakedly shown before me. The plight of America’s veterans (and I include myself in that category) is an ugly gaping, festering wound within our society. Not unlike the metaphor, if attended to properly that wound may leave a scar but the patient is still intact and functional. If allowed to fester without proper attention, it can become a deadly infection that can kill and or spread disease to another.  We were once admonished by those older and wiser than ourselves that we are “Our Brother’s Keeper.”  Let us not forget.

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He sat there on a milk crate, bundled up against the north wind on a street corner in the bright winter sunshine of a Texas February noon. At his feet was his obviously beloved Golden Retriever; the animal nestled as close to his master as he could sit, furry face turned up to watch every move, every breath.  In the hands of this man was a sign that went straight into my consciousness; a cannon blast of lettering that overwhelmed me and sank my gut with the wave of helpless compassion it generated.  “Homeless With Cancer – Anything Helps.”  One look at the gaunt, unshaven face and you knew that this was not a ruse; this was a summary judgment against our current society and the safety net that no longer exists after 40 years of political decimation. Four decades of pathetic ennui and lack of political will to rise up against the selfish self-centeredness that gained a foothold in the cocaine inflamed 80’s and continues today.

Look at the language we tolerate regarding the safety net against poverty in old age, Social Security. We allow the political language of the elitist rich who fling the term “entitlement” like it’s something as filthy as rotted flesh. We allow terminology to become watered down; made politically correct because we lack the backbone to define reality in naked terms that would expose our collective shame.  We allow the repression of Puritanical ethos to defame the natural sexuality of each person within our society such that young children are encouraged to become Lolita’s, but group shame descends upon the female that finds herself pregnant without the “blessing” of a life mate – male preferably.  There is no wholesale acceptance of the human condition in its beautiful and terrifying entirety in this country, save for the small pockets of free-thinkers who keep themselves anonymous for the sake of personal safety.  Those that made their forward-thinking and evolutionarily advanced beliefs public ages ago are being systematically decimated through government sponsored genocide.

The mentally ill in this country have had to learn to navigate the fierce jungle of intolerance to their many and varied conditions by adapting “societal masks” of acceptable terms. If your psyche is tormented by the roller coaster of a bi-polar disorder, you must swiftly amend your statement to include whatever treatment you’re trying so that you “fit in” to the landscape you find yourself traversing. If you or your body or your lifestyle doesn’t meet the expected norms, you are expected to provide a reasonable excuse as to why not. Further, if the gnawing beast of depression haunts you, rather than address the muted anger/rage that creates the problem, your employer would rather you pop a pill and get back to work.

Once upon a time, there was an uprising and a beautiful cry of “I’m not here to meet your expectations.”  There was an acceptance that what once was, was broken and needed to be replaced because it was too broken to fix.  Somewhere before the overhaul could get more than a foothold, an evil reptilian presence inserted itself and self-delusion replaced self-examination.  I’d like to think that it’s not too late. It’s not too late to take that young, very ill gentleman off the street corner – along with his dog and offer him treatment or at the least palliative care until his days upon this Earth are no more.  I’d like to think that we can re-open the mental institutions and half-way houses and encourage all who need the gentle touch of a listening soul, as well as those who need a structured oasis from the everyday Chaos the rest of us navigate, to walk through the gates.

I almost despair that we’ve forgotten how to care for our elderly, that we’ve adopted a learned indifference to the cries of the very young, and plaint that those from pre-teen to college graduate have no sense of responsibility or values. We’ve forgotten the rich values of community in favor of selfish ends. Young children crave the gentle attentions of family and elders who teach so much more than just behavioral bounds, but are isolated within artificial crèches of commercial daycare.  The length of marriages is rapidly dwindling because there are no committed couples willing to share the wisdom of compromise woven with tolerance and compassion that creates the reality of long-lasting relationships.  The elderly are expected to live out their waning days in the sad relative isolation of retirement communities.

A healthy neighborhood should be a layered structure of ages and backgrounds that weaves itself together in acceptable societal tension; young and old, married and single, teens and younger kids, all claiming with a sense of pride in belonging. Those that experience tragedy, illness, or misfortune would find a willing hand to help, wisdom to find their way out, many hands making light work of the heavy realities that Life can hand out. Education of the young and old happens best in an integrated community, because ignorance and fear are beasts best slain by truth and trust: the hands of wisdom crafting a vision of the future seen by younger eyes but guided by elder hearts.

We’ve forgotten it seems that we are our brother’s keeper. We are our sister’s handmaiden, our mother’s steady guide when her steps falter, our father’s eyes when the eyesight begins to dim. We are the gentle support of a toddler learning to walk, we are the ears of the deaf, and we are the listening heart of those who struggle emotionally.

Once pointed out, a problem should become the burden of the society it affects; a burden that can then transform into a solution that becomes second nature by those who adopt the change within their community.  This isn’t an impossible dream; this is a possible reality for those of us with the intestinal fortitude to say “Why not?” If change only occurs because the status quo is so painful that we cannot maintain it, then why haven’t we changed?

We are told by many different tales of ancient wisdom that our lives are Gifts of the Eternal, what we do with them is our gift back. Why are we so insistent on trashing this precious gift by not doing all we can to make another’s  life better? Why are we turning a deaf ear on our own? Further, will someone with a bit more resources that I, please reach out to my brother and his dog on that cold street corner? I’d be so appreciative to know that he was able to go Home in peace.

The Chrysalis Opens….

…and a new baby author is born. Well, yes and no. I’ve been writing for some time; certainly since the husband and I launched a Teaching Grove in Central Texas. This is my first foray into fiction, but the non-fiction part of me will always be sitting there – just waiting to put her two cents worth into the conversation!

What’s to come? A murder mystery that spans late childhood to late teens for a young man who finds his love and his passion only to have his love taken cruelly and his passion becomes his tool for retribution. Sea Snails in West Texas? It can happen….

After that? Hmm….so what if you were taking your breakfast tea and a member of the Shining Court smashed into the window just outside where you were seated? What if you accidentally shipped him all over the Globe to bless your friends with?

Next? Ahh…..We are only now beginning to learn the hologram within our genetic codex. What if Earth were the repository/living library for all lifeforms within our Milky Way?

This is just the beginning….and I am JAZZED! Hope to hear from all of you as these projects and others are re-born with me.

As Always,

Gentle Hugs!

Rhae