ode to my mother

My mother was not what I would call a sympathetic mother. She was not the sort to coddle and cuddle her children. She was a firm believer in the stance “What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.” And consequently, she gave us some rules for the world and set us free to explore on our own with an instruction to not scream and holler unless we were bleeding or dying. She relied heavily on the fear technique.
The instructions were simple:

1. Every man you encounter is dangerous. He will probably abduct you from a gas station or other location, and you will disappear forever. He will do horrible nameless things to you. He will kill you. You will never see us again. So you had better beware of men. She told us stories about her friend from high school who went to a gas station and was kidnapped and disappeared from the face of the earth never to be seen or heard from again. Her bones were later found on the edge of the town. There’s no telling what that man who abducted her did to her, but he probably barbecued her and served her to the sheriff. It happens. It happens ALL. THE. TIME. People in panel vans only drive them so that they can kidnap innocent children. Stay far away from them. It is for this reason, I have had an irrational fear of vans and strange men my entire life. When I was a child, I didn’t dream about monsters and creatures under my bed, I dreamt about strange men, coming through my window to kidnap me and take me to a far away place. I can tell you I never, EVER talked to a strange man as a child. Once, a man approached us to ask if we had seen his dog, and I ordered my brothers to run for the hills, and I followed. We ran from that man like he was Adolf Hiltler surrounded by SS Guards with submachine guns. Talking to men meant you would end up dead. And it wouldn’t be a pleasant death. 
2. Rule Number 2 was never climb up radio/electric towers. You know those giant towers made of metal about 3 stories high? We were never to come anywhere close to them. These towers were dangerous for two reasons: (1.) If you climbed them, you were placing yourself at risk of being hit by a bolt of lightning from anywhere in a 40 mile radius. If there was a bolt of lightning to be had, it would hit you if you were climbing one of those towers. (2.) Those towers were notoriously unstable and might send bolts of electricity down their metal legs and through your body. You would not be able to let go until you were dead. This happened to one of my mom’s brother’s friends, tragically both struck by lightning AND electrocuted by the tower at the same time. He was stuck like a magnet to the tower for a few moments, then he was blown 40 feet to the field below. He was dead. And if you climbed a tower, you would end up dead too. I never climbed a tower, in fact, just to be safe, I avoided the general vicinity of any towers I saw. And telephone poles. I figured they were almost as high and there was no reason to place myself in undue danger. 
3. Rule three was never go through storm sewer pipes or down manholes, or anywhere near street gutters. There were these huge pipes that a child could stand up straight in, that connected the creek on one side of the street to the creek on the other side of the street. These tunnels went underground and could go for miles underground, connecting storm sewers and street water runoff creeks for an entire neighborhood. My mother told us that we should not go near those, and we definitely shouldn’t go in them. She knew some boys once who went in them and a flashflood filled them up in a split second and they died. If we went in them, even on a sunny day, there was always the risk that a flash flood would ensue and we would be drowned instantly. Oddly, we were allowed to play in the runoff creek, probably because it did not enclose us in a spherical tube, and we would not die. 

Other than those three rules, we were allowed to run free as long as we came home for dinner. My brothers and I lived in a house that backed up to about 200 acres of undeveloped land owned by the city. This was a playground of massive proportions and we took advantage of it, spending our days exploring, playing, hiding, building and running away from evil men. My mom originally tried to yell when it was time for us to come home, but we never heard her. So she decided to do the next thing: buy a whistle. When it was time for us to come home, she blew the whistle and whatever we were doing, we took off in the direction of home. Our dog was usually the first to hear the whistle. Her ears perked up, she turned in the direction of home, and she ran pell-mell for the house. We followed.

The mother from my childhood was not exactly the kind of mother who was prone to messing around. She strongly believed in spanking (as did my father) and she also strongly believed in the idea that children, if they were not bleeding or dying, did NOT need to scream. I remember when I was about 6, I couldn't swim and we were at my grandparent’s lake house. I ran to the end of the dock and jumped off into the lake. Immediately, I knew I was in trouble and I was doggie paddling as fast as I could to get back to the shore, but then I panicked and started going under water. My mom didn't panic, she calmly walked to the end of the dock, stripping as she went, executed a perfect dive, reached me in seconds and pulled me to safety.

In a crisis, my mom was the one to have around. She never lost her head… until AFTER the fact. I got a stern talking to about how I almost died in that water. I believed her and as I sat coughing up water and shivering on the shore, I was repentant.

When I was nine, my brother and I were playing “king of the picnic table” in the backyard. My brother was seven, and he pushed me off the picnic table, proclaiming his victory. I landed on my right hand and heard an audible snap. Ensue hysterical screaming. My mother came out to see what the commotion was. She stopped 10 feet away, however. "I’m not coming a step closer until you hush up that screaming," she said. I hushed. She came close and felt of my arm. "It doesn't feel broken," she said, so off we went to church. I held my arm, black and blue, for the entire church meeting, my dad insisting it was fine.

At the end of the church meeting, they prayed for God’s healing to come to my arm. That healing took about 6 weeks to get there, and during those weeks my arm was surrounded by pink plaster of paris.

When I was ten, my brothers and I were playing in the woods, climbing a rock wall. Chad, the eight year old, grabbed a rock to throw off the wall we were on. His aim went vastly wrong and the rock ended up hitting me above the eye. I was bleeding profusely as I stumbled off the hill, walked determinedly home, and went inside the house: Mom? Mom, I think I’m hurt. I’m bleeding, I said as calmly as I could. She examined my eye, put me in the car and headed for the ER. Seven blue stitches later, I was headed home. I had more than my share of stitches growing up, mostly at the hands of my brothers.

But my brothers, especially Chad, were not entirely injury free. Chad had the dangerous combination of guts and intelligence. He was always dreaming up brilliant inventions with the neighborhood Jimmy Neutron Boy Genius. One of these inventions was a jet engine. It was made with a modified hair dryer, gasoline, and a lawnmower starter. It resulted in an explosion in Jimmy Neutron’s garage and a week of suspended privileges for ruining his mother’s hair dryer.

Chad was obsessed with flying machines. He thought that he should be able to modify his bike, scooter, or body so that he could fly, and generally his launch pad was our roof. He started out by stealing sheets and blankets for parachutes and wing covers. It was one scheme like this that had him on the roof with a glider made from sticks, chicken wire, sheets and two by fours. He had spent weeks designing a glider that would be launched on the first windy day. He chose the southwest corner of the house to launch his glider, which was unfortunate because it was the only corner of the house with a tree nearby. When Chad jumped off that roof with his wings of wire, he flew for about 4 feet, which was just far enough to land him directly over the tree that he fell into, hitting every branch on the way down. Chad landed on the ground below the tree hollering holy murder and holding his left arm. I came outside to see what the screaming was about and immediately returned to the house to get my mother.

My mother stopped ten feet away, telling him to hush up the screaming or she wouldn’t come a step closer. He hushed up and she took him immediately to the hospital for his own 6 weeks of casted arm. Another time, my brother set up a ladder and climbed up it to swing from the lovely wire that connected the garage to the house in order to power the garage with electricity.

Reaching the top of the ladder, Chad at the tender age of six, grabbed on with both hands and felt the lovely current coursing through his veins. My dad was nearby and knocked the ladder from under him, and caught Chad when he let go. John Mark, the youngest brother, seemed to learn from our experiences and didn’t try anything too crazy until he was out of the house. Somehow he survived his childhood without stitches, broken bones, or minor surgeries.

When I had children of my own, I was pretty sure my mom would have mellowed out and become the good grandma who bakes cookies and coddles her grandchildren. I could not have been more wrong. I came to pick up my kids a few weeks ago, who are now 8, 6, and 5, and found my mother sitting in a chair with an exhausted look on her face. My boys were passed out on the floor and my daughter was nowhere to be found.
The police came today, Mom! my daughter said excitedly when I found her.
I looked at my mom quizzically.
She smiled weakly.

Apparently my children were given free reign of the field and creek behind her apartment in central dallas fort worth. They found the manhole and had never learned the rule about death associated with manholes. The police were called by a concerned neighbor who thought that my children were not being supervised well enough in a dangerous area. My mom scoffed. It was not dangerous, and YOU should have taught them that manholes and storm sewers result in death, she said. Point taken.

being psychic - it's a tough job, but I knew I would do it all along

“Do you have a recessive blue eye gene?” It’s a question I like to ask of people who have white skin and brown eyes because it really freaks them out that I would know that and they say “Yes, yes, I do! How did you know that?” Because I’m psychic of course, I answer, and they nod, a little in awe.

Truth is, I have very strong deductive reasoning skills. Since the majority of anglo-Americans are descended from, well, Europe, and the majority of Europeans have light colored eyes and pale skin, it seems a fair assumption that a brown eyed child of a blue eyed mother is reasonably likely, especially if that child is clearly Caucasian.

I am intuitive mainly, I think, because I think intelligent people have strong deductive reasoning skills and you make comparisons between people, the way they look, the way their body language is, how their eyes shift, their mannerisms – reading people becomes a hobby for me and a challenge – figuring out about people becomes second nature and voila! I’m psychic!

Another theory I have is that people act like their names – for instance: Marks are domineering, can have anger issues, generally gravitate toward perfectionism and are cautious. While they may or may not be good decision makers, they can make decisions – small ones relatively easily and larger ones require a great attention to being thoroughly prepared: completing exhaustive research to be sure that it is the correct thing to do. Impulsiveness is not a characteristic of Marks, instead they gravitate toward knowing what to expect. Marks also tend to be good with money –I’m really not sure why on this one. They just are.

Jessicas are principled and loyal to themselves and others. It’s a strange characteristic and I see it frequently in Jessicas – because the fact is, generally people are loyal to others or they are loyal to themselves but they are rarely both at the same time. Jessicas get along well with many different types of people, because they are personable, they can reach people that some might not be able to reach and they find common ground between themselves and that person so that the other person doesn’t feel uncomfortable. Jessicas are masters of making sure everyone is comfortable in a social situation, and although they won’t go out of their way to be social, whoever they are talking to (and a lot of people talk to them) feels comfortable talking to them. Jessicas also have deeply rooted belief systems. The loyalty to themselves comes into play here because they will rarely take something as fact if it doesn’t agree with their own internal value system. While the value system may be different than a standard run of the mill value, or even different from the values of those around them, they are loyal to that system and, while they won’t actively attack someone who disagrees with their system, they are stubborn and resistant to changes to their internal belief system. Jessicas also have a way of making lesser strong personalities believe in what they say – they are guardians of values and ideals and when you talk to a Jessica who is operating as a guardian, she will not only convince you that she is right, but mostly bring you completely on board with whatever it is she is preaching to you. This is why Jessicas are excellent spokes-people and evangelists. A bitter Jessica who loses faith in her ideals will end up guarding herself tightly against assaults on her personal value system and will become unapproachable and withdrawn.

It was this sort of thing that I was saying to someone at a bar where I was drinking with my best friend. It all started with my best friend and I heading to a bar we hadn't been to before. A gay bar, as it happens. We went to check out the lesbians and to see if we were lesbian material or could at least fit in with the group of people.

We like to see who we can fit in with and how other groups work, so we headed out to Jack’s Backyard for a night of lesbian fun. Immediately upon entering the bar, we realized we had made a cardinal straight-girl mistake: we brought purses. What were we thinking? Lesbians didn’t carry purses!

“Look over there!” I whispered to Shawn. “That girl has a PURSE. It’s slung across her shoulder and neck, do you see that? It’s definitely a purse.”

"NO ITS NOT!" she whispered back “It’s a wallet with a strap!”

“Well, close enough,” I said.

 Just at that moment, a man came up to the girl, put his arm around her and kissed her. Shawn looked at me and shook her head. SHE'S NOT EVEN A LESBIAN! Jeez, we were dense.

Second mistake: we had worn makeup. Lesbians don’t wear obvious makeup. ((I was misinformed of the makeup practices of Lesbians because I got nearly all of my Lesbian knowledge from "The L Word" on HBO.))

And there were a lot of baseball caps and cargo shorts here too. We stuck out like straight girls in a lesbian bar. No one would talk to us, so I struck up a conversation with the gay guys next to me. In my experience gay guys were usually friendly, especially to straight girls. David and Michael were sitting next to us and I introduced myself.

Apparently David and Michael were having a fight of some sort and didn't want any part of my conversation, though they listened patiently while I went off about Republicans and Democrats and gay rights, and I’m pretty sure I had blabbered on incoherently for about ten minutes on topics I didn’t know anything about before Shawn jumped in with “DID YOU KNOW JONI IS PSYCHIC?”

She said it loud enough for everyone in the bar to hear it. I was in shock. I was not digging this idea, but then I had had 2 rum and diets, so I was in the mood to be accommodating. David and Michael looked duly impressed for a moment, then returned to their conversation.

My psychic abilities are a party gag, and something I pull out when I’m tired of feeling bored and having nothing to say. It is a handy trick to know when you’re in a crowded room full of people you don’t know who are staring at you with hostility.

A girl sitting two seats down from me looked at me with interest and then stuck out her hand.

"You’re psychic? Read my palm."

“What’s your name?” I said.

“Amber.”

And that’s how it started. Suddenly, I was on instant recall, trying to remember every Amber I had ever met. I started telling her everything I could think of about Ambers and also everything I thought about her personally, which was that she was damaged, cared a lot about what people thought, tried to help people, but only if it didn't interfere with her own goals. I went on and she was impressed.

David and Michael were too, and they stuck out their hands. Before the night was through, I had read twenty people’s auras or palms or whatever. I’m not sure if it was because they were drunk or because I was drunk, but they all said I was right.

That night at a lesbian bar, a psychic was born. That psychic was me. 

life, love & source - interview with Tara Wagner!

I found Tara Wagner (pronounced TAR-uh, like STAR-uh, without the S, obviously) through her amazing and insightful blog, The Organic Sister. Tara is a life coach and the creator of the Digging Deep process and the Organic Tribe. Her website, her message, and her life is about personal, inter-personal, and spiritual growth. "It's about overcoming our barriers and truly thriving - as women, as mothers, as creatives." I asked her if she would be willing to have an interview for my blog(s) and she said YES! I'm thrilled to give you her story, and I encourage you to check out her site for further inspiration. 

Joni: Tell me your story. How did you get here, what is your religious background? How did you come to the relationship with God that you have today?

Tara: I was raised in the Christian church and followed along, because it's what I knew and therefore believed by default. But it was somewhere in my early 20's that the overwhelm descended, and the frustration. I couldn't feel or sense or hear "God" when I was surrounded by the noise and the music and the words of someone else, telling me what God was saying. That's when I heard the very clear direction that it was time to leave the church. "You can't connect with Spirit here."

Resigning as wife

Year 4 of relationship. It was a rough year.

“I’m resigning as wife.” I said and handed my sweetheart a sheet of paper with the WIFE responsibilities on it. Those would be the things he refuses to do because he’s a man and I’m a woman and those things are “Women’s work.”

Besides being a full-time employee, I juggled all the responsibilities of childcare, cooking, cleaning, cleaning up after The Dog (who shall remain nameless), cleaning up after my husband, in all of his idiosyncrasies, paying all the bills, making the doctors’ appointments and school meetings, grocery shopping, performing feats of home remodeling to include calking a bathroom, texturing walls, hanging mirrors, pictures, and sheet rock, painting, hammering, nailing, screwing, taping, bedding, scraping, moving, and the list goes on. And on. And on. Why can’t he patch the nail holes? Because we don’t have the right kind of patch. If there's one phrase that sums up my husband it's this: "If I can’t do it right, I can’t do it." Me, on the other hand, I'm more of a "git 'er done!" kinda gal. However it works, I'm cool with that.

One week, he dropped a dozen eggs on the floor and broke every one of them. The logical next step in any man’s mind is to call the dog. The dog happily lapped up the eggs, the promptly went to relieve herself with explosive diarrhea all over the kids’ rooms. Diarrhea that was destined to sit on the floor for the next five days until it was “dry enough” to vacuum up. Diarrhea that has since stained my carpet forever with a greenish black tone on the beige even AFTER steam cleaning.

Approximately 2 days later, she was still sick, and vomited on the carpet right outside my door. My entire house is tile except for a few square feet in the kids rooms and in my room and the hallway. She chooses these areas to shit and puke.

This is a cute Weimaraner. Do not let that fool you.
They are noxious beasts.

Aside from that, The Dog is a 65 pound high-strung Weimaraner. She barks at everything, including (but not limited to): children, grandmas, the post man, crickets, lizards, birds, ghosts, and squirrels.

She eats everything, too – but her preferred diet consists of what she can glean from the trash cans. On more than one occasion I have come home from work to find my used sanitary products in shreds on the floor, the majority devoured by this disgusting dog. Bring on the diarrhea. 

She also loves bars of soap. You cannot leave a bar of soap unguarded, or she will get on the counter with her front paws and swallow the bar in two bites.

The Dog came with my sweetie, or I would have long since disposed of her. As it is, I tolerate her in small doses, banning her from my room and excusing her to the backyard every chance I get.

Those glowing eyes are the eyes of a demon.
Note: Aren't the kids adorable? They were so little!!

When I served my resignation as wife, my sweetie said nothing. We have had in the past conversations where I mention that "a little help around the house would be great" and he cites “women’s work” and "possession of a penis" as reasons he will not partake.

The mysterious thing about my sweetie is that, although he doesn't believe in doing the work, he DOES maintain very strong opinions about how the work should be done. For instance, leftovers should always be heated up in the oven or on the stove rather than in the microwave, because the microwave gives everyone cancer and there is no proof of anyone having cancer before microwaves.

For him, this means that his food is hot on his plate when he eats and he knows it has come out of a pan, almost as if it was cooked for the first time. For me, this means not only do I have to clean up a plastic container that was used to store the food in the fridge, but also whatever containers were used to reheat said food, AND the plate he ate it off of.

He refuses to eat off paper plates. He believes that paper plates are not only unhealthy, but they are slowly ruining the environment. I tried to plead the case that paper plates could be recycled, but he would hear nothing of it. It is glass plates or bust.

He recycles obsessively. On a typical day, I will get a pile of junk mail at my house. I throw it all in the trash. He digs it out of the trash and sorts it for recycling. Shiny paper is returned to the wastebasket. Newspaper (the BEST kind for recycling) along with paper letters and envelopes are put into the shredding/compost bin. Envelopes with plastic on them are disassembled, taking off the plastic (which goes in the trash) and placing the paper portion in the recycling/shredding for compost bin. None of this is given to the recycling company who comes by once a week to pick up recycling because he likes to save it up until he has 100 or 150 pounds, then go to my work and shred it all. Then, he brings back the shredded paper in a garbage bag, sets it in my garage for several weeks before I finally throw it all into the recycling bin for the city to pick up. This is our pattern.

He also recycles cardboard (every box must be broken down), plastic and glass. These he allows the city to pick up, except for a few “Special” items that he likes to hang onto. Primarily: Wine bottles (so he can someday make a chandelier out of them), glass spaghetti sauce containers (to use for storage of leftovers because glass is infinitely better than plastic for storage), and aluminum cans. He will save aluminum cans until he has enough cans to fill the back of his truck. He has a very big truck.

At one point, we lived in an apartment with no recycling service, and all of the recycling was saved in one of the closets. Did I mention that the apartment was tiny? He saved every piece of recycling until the closet was full. Completely full. It was a walk in closet. Slowly, I had to sneak out the recycling to the dumpster when he wasn't around. He didn't notice much.

Aluminum soda and beer cans are saved for as long as it takes to fill up the back of his truck. We currently have roughly 500 1000 cans sitting in the garage awaiting their cohorts to be taken to aluminum recycling, where he can get money for them. Yay, money! I would imagine he gets about $25 for the whole load and I ask you this: is it really worth the marital conflict to get $25 for cans?
Note: I know it sounds like we are alcoholics with 1000 beer cans in our garage, but, really, he has only recycled the cans one time in the past 6 years, so this is years and years worth of cans.

He insists on urinating in the backyard. Moreover, he insists that his urine kills “bad” grass and makes “good” grass grow. The good grass is Bermuda, which he pronounces “burrmoooduh.” The bad grass is St. Augustine, which he pronounces “san-og-us-teen”. He does this when we have company, too. He continues the good grass bad grass commentary while he is urinating and our guests are listening to the water feature newly installed behind us in the person of my husband. He encourages our guests to urinate in the backyard as well. Generally, they decline. Sometimes, they agree.

He also likes to supervise the dish washing and laundry. Laundry must be done a certain way, according to specifications. The colors must be separated and each piece inspected for possible stains. Any stains must be pre-treated for no less than twenty-four hours before commencing washing. The washer must be operated at the lowest possible temperature and water level in order to conserve energy. Washing dishes must include scrubbing each dish before washing. Oddly, a dish that The Dog has eaten off of can go directly into the dishwasher, but a bowl that had cereal and milk (with no crusty residue) must be washed thoroughly to remove germs prior to washing in the dishwasher.

Each dish must be inspected carefully upon removal from the dishwasher to insure cleanliness of said dish. Cleaning, he tells me, is something my mother never taught me how to do correctly, and he feels the need to critique my cleaning almost every time I clean ANYTHING in front of him. Which is why I do my cleaning while he is distracted with video games.

The first few times he critiqued my cleaning, I blew up at him. I don’t take criticism well, as a rule, and criticism of my family is definitely not accepted gracefully. I told him that if he wanted it cleaned differently then he should get over here and clean it himself. At this juncture, he informed of The Penis Rule.

The Penis Rule is this: If you have a penis, you don’t have to clean, but a benevolent penis possessor should instruct those poor unfortunate souls without a penis on how to properly perform any and all tasks.

Now you know.

Air Force Girl (continued)

Continued from here!

Within the first week, I was seriously regretting my decision to join the Air Force, reserves or not. The waking up at 4 am wasn't difficult. It wasn't hard to shove food down my throat and avoid eye contact, and try to remain invisible. It wasn't hard to memorize the shapes of the aircraft, or the ranks, or to learn how to salute.

The exercise was AWFUL, though. I hated every minute of it. If push-ups and sit-ups were excruciating pain, RUNNING was hell. I had to run two miles in under twenty-two minutes and every single second of that time, I hated my life.

When we were gathered to get tested for sexually transmitted diseases, or to get some sort of air injection, or possibly just to watch a propaganda film about how amazing the Armed Forces are one afternoon, standing outside of a building waiting to go in, I overheard someone talking to the flight next to us. That person was the Air Force Band Director. 

I heard him mention something about avoiding kitchen duties, and less time in physical training, and I was IN. I hoped and prayed he would come talk to our flight, and over he came a few minutes later. He asked our group if any of us had any experience in band. I had learned in my first twenty four hours in Air Force Basic Training NEVER to volunteer for anything, so what I did next surprised even me.

My hand shot up and I begged to be part of the Air Force Band, citing “life-long dream” and “long family history of musical talent” which wasn't entirely untrue. Truth be told, I had played clarinet in the marching band in high school. I had also tried playing trumpet a few times and had managed to squeak out a note or two. I had also played classical piano for about ten years. He asked what instruments I played, and my mouth started moving: “Percussion (where did THAT come from?), piano, organ, trumpet, clarinet, saxophone, bagpipes, pretty much any wind instrument, and guitar.”

I was a veritable musical prodigy! He had heard of kids like me, I bet I looked like a genius that day. I had at least SEEN these instruments being played, and touched them (with the exception of bagpipes). I was told to pack my bags and move my shit to the Band Squadron, and THAT, my friends, is how I escaped not only all kitchen duty, but also the majority of physical training.

I was given the xylophone to play (I know, the one instrument I hadn’t mentioned being an expert at), and I wasn't terrible. The rest of the six weeks flew by. One girl got kicked out of our squadron for being completely crazy. Another for smoking weed on the landing outside our window, but for the most part, we all barely passed our physicals, and played in the band as much as possible. We even marched in a parade – a FIELD TRIP, which included lunch off base and a bus ride with the Band Director, who wasn't much of a yeller.

I had strategically timed my entrance into the Air Force so that that first six weeks would include two holidays – Christmas AND Thanksgiving. They couldn't be too hard on us during the holidays, and I might get to see my family. Smart thinking, because indeed that was true! I had my first Air Force Thanksgiving at Denny’s with my mom and my boyfriend.

During basic training, I got a letter in my fifth week from my mom. Apparently my parents were splitting up, and I was devastated. I went to my Staff Sergeant, SSgt. Brothers, and explained in tears that I didn’t think I could go on.

“Well, Martin,” he said. “You can choose to let this mess up your life, or you can go on despite this upset. The truth is, shit happens, and you do what you gotta do and make the best out of it and move on. Do you want this to ruin your life, Martin?”

Me, quavering: “Noooo…..”

He nodded. “Good then, we’re on the same page. Now get out there and show them how you can go on in spite of what they did.”

I did, for six more wake-ups, until graduation day.

My Basic Training Squadron, Circa 1997 (I'm the one with the mask on)

Fortune Cookies, the Air Force, and ADD

I compulsively save fortunes from fortune cookies. Especially if it’s a good one, I will keep it for years, in a zipper pocket of my purse, taped to my computer, in the change bowl on my desk. I’m superstitious about fortunes because I have this idea that someday in the future, I’m going to get one that tells me what I’m supposed to do with my life.

I have career/school/job/religion/life ADD. Something about the status quo has never made me happy and has never felt right. Why have one career for the rest of your life, when you can try out thirty or forty? Last count, I had had thirty-eight jobs to date, yet, somehow, it doesn't feel like an accomplishment.

It always sounds like a good idea to begin with: like joining the Air Force. When I joined the Air Force, it sounded like a great idea. At nineteen, I had already recognized my issues with long-term commitment.

Growing up I couldn't decide between being a spy, a writer, a teacher, a doctor or a model. So I tried all five. ((Well, I didn't TRY doctor, I followed a doctor around and got a job at a hospital.  Nonetheless.)) At nineteen, my friends were settling into a course of study, second year into their majors, and excited about finally becoming everything they had dreamed of. I, on the other hand, was holding down my third job, one at a temp agency where I didn't have to go to the same place more than once. It was perfect for me, I have no idea why I quit.

Clearly the solution to my job-ADD was to lock myself into a six year contract with the government.  So, I joined the AF Reserves ((just to be safe)) and excitedly took my ASVAP, acing it with flying colors. My recruiter told me I could have any job in the air force including, but not limited to: Jet Engine Mechanic, Linguistics, Intelligence, Psychology, Mind Control and Prison Warden.

He warned me that most prison wardens ended up in Guantanamo Bay, though, and “frankly, that’s not really a place you want to be.” I appreciated his honesty. And I chose “Medical Laboratory Technician.” Fancy name for “puts labels on poop and pee samples, tests blood, and tries not to get any contagious diseases.” I romanticized the idea of military service in my head – after all, my family was a military family!

My grandfathers had both served in the Army, my Uncle retired from the Army, my cousin was in the Air Force, and my brothers would soon join the Marines and the Navy. It was meant to be: and not only that, it would make me a hero. I imagined the rigors of boot camp and coming out of it a dirty, sweaty Service Woman, with my uniform rumpled, but clingy, and a strand of hair that had escaped my BDU cap hanging over my left eye giving me a sexy yet amazingly strong look. I also imagined my lips had grown poutier and fuller at boot camp, and my complexion was beautiful and radiant. Something like this:

Typically, when I take on a new project, I abandon everything in single minded pursuit… that is, until I grow bored. Which happens rather quickly, it seems. Knowing that I may indeed grow tired of this idea of military valor, I joined on a Monday and signed up for the first available date for basic training.

I boarded a plane and headed for San Antonio, TX, home of the illustrious Lackland Air Force Base, where I would spend the next six weeks of my life in misery. What I failed to remember when I signed up for the Air Force was that I had a very low heat tolerance, a very low tolerance for yelling of any kind, and, oh yeah, I hated all things physically exerting.

I didn't remember this tiny detail until I was sitting in the San Antonio airport waiting for the Lackland bus to pick up all the new recruits. I considered bolting, I must say. Instead, I sat steeling my nerves for the unknown. The unknown is somewhat tempting to me, so the draw was strong enough to keep me from puking when I climbed aboard the Air Force bus. It wasn't until the bus pulled away from the airport that I realized there was no turning back. Arriving on base in my blue jeans, t-shirt, tennis shoes and my hair pulled back in a pony tail, I looked at my fellow recruits. My comrades at arms. My soon-to-be prison mates, sharing in the same torture I would endure.

Arriving at the squadron, we were greeted by a friendly sergeant who saw nothing good about our motley group and yelled at us to get our asses off the bus and line up. Did we know what “lines” were? Were we just stupid? We had to be the stupidest group he had ever seen. Then, they went through our bags. I had packed as instructed:

• Laundry soap, 
• ball-point pen (black or blue – I chose blue), 
• shampoo, deodorant, toothbrush and toothbrush tray, toothpaste, 
• notebook and paper, 
• black shoe polish, shine brush, shine cloth, 
• shower shoes, 
• soap & soap tray, 
• sanitary napkins/tampons, 
• sports bras, 
• hair bands, bobby pins, 
• underwear, 
• brush, 
• nude panty hose, 
• two towels, 
• envelopes, 
• cotton balls, 
• spray starch, 
• nail clippers, 
• razors and shaving cream, 
• white socks, 
• watch, 
• calling card, 
• and glasses (apparently you weren't allowed to wear contacts, but I would test this theory). 

My duffle bag contained no contraband ((save the pictures crammed in my Bible.)) Others were not so lucky. A young man a few feet over for me had apparently stopped at Church's Chicken on his way in to the airport. They have amazing honey in little individual packet, a fact that did not go unnoticed by the angry man in a caricature of a hat going through his bag:

“What is your name?” the training instructor yelled at the young man.

“Jeff Peters.”

“Jeff PETERS? Jeff Peters, what? Jeff Peters, you address me as sir.”

“Sir, yes sir!” the young man said hopefully.

“Do you think you’re in the ARMY, Jeff Peters? We don’t say ‘sir, yes sir’ here! We just say 'sir.' Here is a correct response, Jeff Peters: ‘my name is Jeff Peters, Sir.’ Try that, Peters.”

“My name is Jeff Peters, sir.”

“Now, Jeff Peters, I think you’re lying to me. I think your name is Winnie the Pooh. You know why? Because you got a bag full of HONEY! Now what were you thinking bringing HONEY to Basic Training, Peters? Did you think this was the hundred acre wood? Do I LOOK like Christopher Robbin to you, Peters?”

“Uh, no, sir. I got that on my way here, sir—“

“Yeah, and did you think the UNITED STATES AIR FORCE basic training was going to be the kind of place where you could sit back and lick honey off your paws, Peters?”

“Uh – “

“Did you get a list of WHAT TO BRING, Peters?”

“Yes, uh, yes, I did… Sir.”

“And was HONEY on that list, Peters? Did it say ‘socks, jock strap, and HONEY, Peters?”

“No, Sir.”

“I didn’t think so.”


It went on like this for several hours. One unfortunate girl brought homemade cookies made by a well-meaning grandma. One girl brought a book (like we would have time to read!). A couple of guys brought magazines of the auto variety, and one VERY unfortunate boy brought a pair of relatively skimpy underwear. When they finally got through with us, they sent us upstairs to collapse in exhaustion until the next flight arrived and all the lights were turned on in the dorm while those girls got yelled at.

We tried to sleep, but it was much like sleeping in a subway tunnel during the five o’clock hour. Our Training Instructor (or TI) was Staff Sargent Hamilton, a terrifying man who stood about two inches shorter than me, but yelled like no other. He took particular offense to those of us girls who were taller than he. More than once, he reduced us to tears on the first day.

To be continued...

jolee's journey

Jolee and I met through birth groups. I'm not sure either one of us could pinpoint when we met exactly, but when I met her I knew immediately that I liked her and we were kindred spirits. Her story is one that I identify with and I hope you do too!! She is a birth educator, happily married to Andy, and lives in Keller where she raises chickens (much to the chagrin of her neighbors!). Jolee and Andy have 3 boys: Ronin, Jones and Finn. (Yes, I adore those names!)

I was born, almost 40 years ago, into the Bible Belt of Texas. More specifically, I spent the majority of my youth and schooling in a small town of 600 people in West Texas in which there was a Catholic church, a Church of Christ, a Methodist church and a Baptist church – and you better belong to one. My mother, who did not grow up in that small town like my father, saw herself as none of the above, and she carted us an extra 15 miles to a larger neighboring town so that we could go to the Episcopal Church.

Most of my school friends didn't even know what that word meant, so I learned to call it “Catholic Light.” (All the same rules, but none of the mortal sin! Did you get that? No? Then you probably aren't Catholic.) My mother was active in the Episcopal church – very active. And I came to be, too. Mom volunteered for the Altar Guild, which basically meant going to a lot of trouble and ceremony, while leaving your family for large chunks of time... for funerals, weddings and general services. In other words, she seemed to be gone most of the time we were home from school.

Because I'm boring like that...

A few years ago, I wrote a memoir. Well, half a memoir. ((Because I don't actually ever finish anything I start.)) Anyway, this year I realized the inevitable. My memoir will never be edited and published because I'm just too damn lazy. So I decided that I would just publish some of it on here.

Granted, this is probably mostly unrelated to religion and my current hippie path... but it is something, and for that, you should be grateful! Ha.

Look for the first installment on Monday, and until then, I will leave you with this picture as a hint of the topic.

I am 19, I don't remember that guy's name, and this picture was taken
in the food court of a mall in Wichita Falls, TX

why I am an asshole ((or)) objectivity: the new racism

I am objective to a fault. I have this incredibly irritating ability, it seems, to see many sides of an issue at once, and actually understand where they are coming from. This ability drives people CRAZY. It makes them mad. It causes them to rant at me for hours about how my position is WRONG.

But the problem is, mostly, I don’t have a position. Mostly, I just point out the validity of the position that is in direct opposition to their own. The collective “they” don’t like this. The additional, minor, problem is that I don’t have a lot of diplomacy. I like to argue a point logically and rationally, and sometimes with great vigor and passion, but generally that point is not a part of my being.

My counterparts, who are arguing equally vigorously and equally passionately are only arguing that way because their point is integrally WHO THEY ARE. They take offense when I point out their flawed logic because they perceive it as a personal attack, when in reality, in my head it went like this:
Point, Counterpoint, Point, Counterpoint, Point, Counterpoint, SCORE. One for me.
Point, Counterpoint, weak point which is entirely a plea for emotional sympathy, firm counterpoint pointing out the weak emotionalism, dissolves to tears, SCORE. I win.

This is the game I play, and I only just realized I’ve been doing this. And THIS makes me an asshole.

awakening

I met Katelyn a few years ago on the internet where we connected over being a doula, and natural childbirth. As our friendship grew, so did the depth of our conversations. Sometimes, when you are on a path, you find others who are walking down the path you are and help you along the way. Katelyn is part of my tribe and it has given me great joy and encouragement to watch her journey. She is a mother to two beautiful girls, a wife to one amazing husband, a friend to many, a writer, and a very gifted photographer, but more than anything else, she is an explorer. Our souls recognized one another immediately when we met and she will always be a kindred spirit.Her blog about her journey is called Gypsy Moth Sol, and her beautiful photography work can be seen at Katelyn Demidow Photography.

Katelyn's Journey

"Long Exhale" by Katelyn Demidow Photography

As a child I was raised Baptist. There were moments I remember while growing up that I would feel, deeply, a connection with the earth around me. Like it had a soul, a spirit and that maybe, just maybe, if I tried hard enough, I could control it. Just a little bit.

I pushed those feelings aside, or rather, hid them far within myself. Out of fear of even questioning anything, I got baptized at a young age, feeling if I did not, I was going to hell. So I obeyed. And I went through the motions. But did not feel it in my core. I could not admit that to myself at the time. 

Coming into my twenties, I got pregnant and my relationship with this part of myself morphed. Pregnancy and childbirth really opened me up. I was confused again about what I believed. I started asking all the questions I was afraid to as a child. This made me judgmental, snarky and downright rude at times. It was the big lead up to letting go of the fear and letting my own personal truths into the light.

I am not a Christian. I had to admit that to myself first before I could go forth. There are certain aspects I simply cannot agree with but most importantly, I cannot adhere to religion itself.
I choose to be nonreligious.
I choose to be completely spiritual.

From Christianity, I choose Jesus’ example of unconditional love. I try to emulate this.
From Paganism, I choose to honor the earth and all of nature, knowing that it too, has spirits and souls within it.
I highly respect the Shamanic journey. The guidance from those before us. From nature.
From Buddhism, I love the interconnectedness between souls and the search to end ignorance in our lives.

I am still very much in the messy throws of soul work. Learning different ways to heal, to grow, to love and to help. All I know is there is something(s) bigger than us. Something connecting us to this earth and to each other. That we are a part of something divine.

There is magic all around us. That I cannot deny. 

 Peace and Love.

hands off! It's MINE!

I found myself faced with an interesting dilemma recently. Sitting on my backporch early one morning, I saw someone walking past my fence on the side near the street.They were walking slowly, peaking through the slats, bending down and walking again. It did not take me long to figure out that they were taking the pecans from my tree that had fallen on outside of my fence. No WONDER I never found any over there when I went to gather them!

When my sweetheart went over to meet the new neighbor, he found the culprit. Without shame, the man said "I've been taking and eating the pecans that fall in your yard by the sidewalk. I'll take any more pecans you have that you don't want!"

names

I have a party gag I like to do. Sometimes when I'm out and about, I play this game with strangers I meet. "Tell me your name and I'll tell you about yourself." People look at me funny, then they laugh and with raised eyebrows they tell me their name. I tell them what I know about that name. Names say a lot about a person - not always the name you were given at birth, but what you go by.

Sometimes I'm wrong. More often, I'm right. About 95% of the time I'm right. Because names are powerful things - they make us who we are.

"But that doesn't seem right, how can something so important, something that makes me who I am, be given to me by someone else? Don't I have control over my own destiny and life? How, then, can a name I had no choice about define me?"

It's a question I get a lot when I'm playing this game... I smile and shrug, usually. I don't know how it works, I just know it works. People don't like not being 100% in charge of who they are.

I believe that everyone we allow into our heart names us - they call us friend, sister, wife, mother, soul-mate, daughter... and with the name, they change us, we evolve toward who we are meant to be.

There are so many people who have named me in this life, and I am thankful for their gift. My daughters and my mothers, my sisters and brothers, my friends and soul-mates, my husband and my tribe-members. Thank you for the gift of my name.

forgiveness only goes as far as murdering a child

So I read an interesting study recently done by an American University. In the study, participants were taken into 2 separate rooms.
The Rules: There are 2 participants in each experiment. One of them must receive a good reward (such as a candy bar), one must receive a punishment of doing something undesirable (such as writing the same sentence 100 times).

One participant is given the opportunity to EITHER choose whether to assign the prize unilaterally, OR to flip a coin so that the prizes are decided fairly. The other participant would not know whether the coin was flipped or the prize was assigned unilaterally.

The majority of participants opted for flipping the coin, because it was more fair, BUT in 85% of the coin flips, the prize was awarded in the flippers favor. So it would seem that APPEARING fair is more important to the participant than actually BEING fair.

In similar blind studies, when the deciding participant was given complete privacy from the experimentors, the participant chose the reward over the punishment.

Equality and Fairness are ideals that we embrace... to a point.

Religion Census - 2010

The latest religion census has come out, measures compiled from the 2010 census.
The census accounted for 236 varieties of religious traditions from Zoroastrianism to American Baptist. They differentiated between sects of Christianity.

The results are interesting to me. In Tarrant County, several denominations lost people: The American Baptists Association went down 72.9% from the 2000 census.Ba'hai, on the other hand, gained 32% with 1 fewer congregation overall, but a gain in membership.
The Catholic church picked up 34,000 people in Tarrant County, and Mormons picked up almost 10,000. Muslims gained 25,000 followers as well.

If you're interested in this sort of thing, I encourage you to check out the data! Here's a Summary.
And here is the link for the whole report!

apple trees are strong

I had a dream. (This is a common occurrence.)

In my dream, I was near my home, in a safe place. I was driving a small vehicle – like an ATV or tractor – and I drove around to the back of my property.

Behind my home there was an apple tree blooming – the pink petals raining down on the ground, growing wild against a fence. The beauty of it broke my heart and healed it with joy.

As I looked at the ground, I saw tarantulas coming out of dark holes and for a second I was afraid – there were several of them, and I was afraid of their hairy backs and painful venom... But as I drove under the tree, the velvet petals of the flowers brushing my cheeks, I didn't fear them. They couldn’t get me here, I was safe. I may have run over some of them, and they scattered before me, knowing I was too strong for them.

I’ve found as I venture further toward my fear and vulnerability, I find unexpected strength and beauty. My growth is stunning to me, and I’m proud of the fruit that will follow the pink blooms. Apple trees are strong and wise...I hope I’m a little like my apple tree.

Source

storytelling

Image courtesy of Jill Clardy

"So I dressed myself in a sacred manner, and I went among the people who were standing around the withered tree. 

Good Thunder, who was a relative of my father and later married my mother, put his arms around me...and...he offered up a prayer for me. He said: "Father, great Spirit, behold this boy! Your ways he shall see!" 

Then be began to cry....I raised my face up to keep [the tears] back, but they came out just the same. I cried with my whole heart, and while I cried I thought of my people in despair. I thought of my vision and how it was promised me that my people would have a place on this earth where they could be happy every day. 

 I thought of them on the wrong road now, but maybe they could be brought back into the hoop again and to the good road.... I danced....By now I was crazy to kill, and I said to Protector: "Help me on my horse! Let me go over there. It is a good day to die, so I will go over there!" But Protector said: "No....Your people need you. There may be a better day to die"."

Black Elk Speaks, 1932, by John G Neihardt

Storytelling and truth are interconnected and it is with the utmost trust that I receive the tales from those who have walked a different path. Share with me your story. I will hold it gently with my heart. Ours will be a sacred space.

the end is near - a case for the zombie apocalypse

In case you were wondering, it’s pretty much fact that we’ve reached the end times. I mean, if you believe the reactionist super Conservative end-times fanatics Bible. There are 6 signs Jesus gave, 2 signs by Paul, and 5-ish (possibly 11) more signs from other prophets in the Bible for how we can recognize the end of days and impending approach of either the Rapture (if you’re in that camp) or the Tribulation (if you’re in the zombie camp).

In Matthew24:3 Jesus was asked, "Tell us, when will these things be, and what will be the sign of your coming, and of the end of the age?" Jesus told his apostles to look for the following signs prior to his second coming and the end of the age:

Home

Source

Hold on, to me as we go 

As we roll down this unfamiliar road 

And although this wave is stringing us along 

Just know you’re not alone 

Cause I’m going to make this place your home. 

Settle down, it'll all be clear 

Don't pay no mind to the demons 

They fill you with fear 

The trouble it might drag you down 

If you get lost, you can always be found 

Just know you’re not alone 

Cause I’m going to make this place your home 

Settle down, it'll all be clear 

Don't pay no mind to the demons 

They fill you with fear 

The trouble it might drag you down 

If you get lost, you can always be found 

 Just know you’re not alone 

Cause I’m going to make this place your home

"Home" by Phillip Phillips

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she's gone off the reservation...who knows what will happen now!

Source

When I started this religious journey, I wanted to connect with God. I thought my idea of God was all wrong, and I was right. In typical Joni fashion, I drew a clear roadmap with destinations and directions. In typical Joni fashion, I followed that map to the T, stopping at all my pre-determined points… until I ran out of gas/saw something shiney. The truth is, I love this project. I love religion! (gasp!!) And I love God. But what I really, truly love is hearing the stories. The stories are what ignite my passion, the stories are what move me to tears, the stories are what distracted me from my plans. I struggled for a time with the fact that the stories weren't fitting in categories, they weren’t matching my master plan, they were off the beaten path.

on polygamy ((or)) when to call it quits in a marriage

For a lifetime, it seems, I’ve been polygamous. I have been married (or not-married, but with a marriage commitment) to a man for the past 15 years, mostly. That’s roughly my entire adult life.

I’ve ALSO been in an on-again-off-again relationship with the Divine (aka God). I find that both the human marriage and the divine marriage are better when surrounded by community. I haven’t had a very difficult time finding community in my life until recently, because I shared common beliefs with others in my circle. I could go to any number of Christian churches and find a whole passel of people who believed exactly (or at least mostly) what I believed, who were also in relationship with this Divine Being.

So...it was like we were all sister-wives in a giant polygamous marriage with God.

Hindu Holidays!

It's October, and that means it's the Hindu Holiday season! Last year we had the pleasure of participating in Diwali with some Hindu friends, and it was such a treat! This morning Huff Post had an article outlining the Hindu Holiday Season that I thought I would share!


Hindu Holiday Season 2012: A Simple Guide
Posted: 10/15/2012 8:03 am by Mishri Bhatia @ Huffington Post
As Fall approaches, Hindus are gearing up for their Holiday Season, which is celebrated in October and November. Each year, India comes alive for a month filled with Hindu festivals, rituals and celebration. It's the most auspicious time of the year! Due to the various sects of Hinduism and the range of geographical and cultural traditions, Hindu Holidays are celebrated differently throughout the country.

Repost: Living with Heart

It is nearing the one-year anniversary of the loss of a wonderful person, Josh Canal. I know the flowers stop coming, the friends continue on with lives and births, the memory grows more distant, and people don't always remember. Time has a way of erasing things. But for those who knew him well, and especially those who loved him as their own - his wife, Pam, his parents, Joe & Becky, his brothers, his close friends - that loss will always be felt, and the anniversary of his loss is a gentle reminder of how empty the part of the world he filled still is.This is the original post I wrote about him.

We still miss you, Josh!

What words do you say when someone you love leaves? This past 12 months, I have had more touches with death around me than ever before. My father-in-law, my grandmother, and last weekend, my friend, Josh.

Josh was bright. When he entered a room, the lights actually burned brighter, trying to match his will and his courage.

Josh was born with a heart condition that made the doctors shake their heads and say "no" alot to him: They all said he wouldn't run, he wouldn't play sports, he wouldn't live to see adulthood or get married. Josh didn't let that stop him, though... proving doctors wrong was one of his chief joys.

I remember growing up when he would stay over at my house and play with my brothers. He and his brother Caleb were my brothers' Chad and John's best friends. The four Amigos. They were quite the muskateers. And they always annoyed the hell out of me. :)

Josh had so much will and vibrance, always laughing riotiously; as a cool pre-teen, I had no patience for their silliness...but you couldn't help but laugh along (even if you also were rolling your eyes) when they were cracking up over something.

Josh's will propelled him through boyscouts; I remember him racing cars with my brothers at the pinewood derby, and playing on the huge lot in front

Good News Monday

Shared public spaces with shared dreams and open hearts? What a beautiful world that would be.

Good News Monday!

I have fallen in love with Caroline Schmitt's photography. Since I'm subscribed to her blog, I get these amazing infusions of GOOD to make my week beautiful. I particularly liked this picture. We are indeed ALL ONE.
You can find her blog here: http://iwilltellyouthewholestory.com/2012/08/20/we-stood-steady-as-the-stars-in-the-woods-so-happy-hearted-and-the-warmth-rang-true-inside-these-bones/

We stood
Steady as the stars in the woods
So happy-hearted
And the warmth rang true inside these bones
We grow, grow, steady as the morning
We grow, grow older still
We grow, grow, happy as a new dawn
We grow, grow, older still 
We grow, grow, steady as the flowers
We grow, grow, older still 
(Ben Howard)

Good News Monday - And a Challenge

This moving story of how one woman was on a personal mission to mother the world filled my eyes with tears. How many times am I apt to criticize and point out the shortcomings of those around me instead of trying to reach their hearts? This woman is inspiring to me - she channeled her own trauma into a force for good by making a personal commitment to helping other people's kids.

 "Spare some change? Something, anything! Trying to get something to eat." My grocery store and the sidewalk outside, are always packed after work. With so many customers jammed together, it must have seemed an ideal place to beg. But with four plastic grocery bags already cutting into my hands, I wanted the walk home behind me.

Repost - Lindsey's Story

This is one of my favorite guest posts I've ever had. I love Lindsey's voice and her sense of humor! Enjoy!! ***

I am a Mormon woman, but I do not bake fresh bread each morning. My home is not always spotless. I do not always have a smile on my face or a baby in my belly. In fact, my nuclear family of only two children is not typical within my religion, but it works for me. Even though I live in Phoenix ((where the summers, I am convinced, are the exact temperature of Hell)), you will never see me wearing clothes that show 90% of my skin. In fact, you will not even see me wearing a tank top. “Modest is hottest!”

mixed marriages

Source

I read the following article online on Huffington Post and I think it addresses an interesting topic in today's society. To our parents, certainly marrying within your religion was important, when your community was the church family you saw several times a week and your neighbors, who went to the same church or the Methodist one down the street. But today, with global communities and instant connections with people across the country or around the world - is religion really as important a foundation as we make it? One interesting thing in Islam I found was that Muslim men are permitted to marry "chaste Christian or Catholic" women. In my own life, Mark, though raised Christian, self-identifies as "agnostic" and although I self-identify as "Christian", I'm not sure if I fit the Billy Graham definition. Multi-faith homes can bring challenge and trials, certainly, but also can in many ways make you more

good news MONDAY! kindness rocks

I love random (planned) kindness. Wish I would have known this was happening in Dallas!!!

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/07/25/kindness-captured-volunte_n_1699656.html

FORGIVENESS... and other ((impossible)) things

Source

One of the things that stands out to me most in Buddhism is their dedication to compassion and forgiveness. I recently watched a documentary called "10 Questions for the Dalai Lama"(it's on Netflix. You should watch it).

As I watched it, I was struck by the Dalai Lama's level of love and tolerance and forgiveness for those who had harmed him.

7 decisions... er... intentions

I love books. They often change my life. Some of my favorites are:
The Gifts of Imperfection – Brene Brown
The Alchemist – Paulo Coehlo
Here if You Need Me – Kate Braestrup
The Forty Rules of Love – Elif Shafak
And The Traveler’s Gift by Andy Andrews.

I know, Andy Andrews is a tiny bit cheesy and a lot bit conservative and “inspirational” and “motivational” and I tend to shy away from those types. ((Ok, I don’t tend to shy away. I’m decidedly motivated and inspired by those types.)) Although I haven’t liked any other of Andrews’ books, The Traveler’s Gift was the first one I read and I loved the ideas it held. Part of the book was the Seven Decisions. Because I take things from books and integrate them into my

Guest post on another Blog...

A few weeks ago, my friend Katelyn Demidow asked me if I would be interested in guest posting on her blog. I immediately agreed, then said... "About what, exactly?" Can you tell your story? About your religious journey, and looking for God? She said. Of course! I started writing the post in my head immediately, and continued it on paper a few days later. As I was writing, it was surprising to me to see how far I've come. I've talked to my friend Janie about the transformation, but there is nothing like chronicling the past 4 years to really SEE how far I've come. Besides being an AMAZING photographer (she took my not-wedding photos!), she is also a thoughtful and challenging writer! I hope you visit Katelyn's beautiful, soulful blog and check out my guest post. www.gypsymothsol.blogspot.com

Inspiration on a Tuesday - Redeemed.

Redeemed. I looked up the meaning, and redeemed means “to restore the honor, worth, or reputation of.”
Also, it means “to recover ownership of by paying a specified sum.” Not, to own by paying a specific sum, to RE-own by paying a specified sum. It’s reclaiming something that is already yours by paying for it again.

The word “redeemed” has been bogarted by Christianity in some sense, but haven’t we all been redeemed?

Good news Monday! (kleenex alert)

I'm pretty sure there's nothing more special than the love between siblings. Today, I'm thankful for my brothers, and I'm thankful for these two guys below who love each other unconditionally!!

"When I see him smiling and laughing, that means he's having a good time" 
-Connor Long, 9 years old.

For the Full Story, click here!

Fairport NY, would you please step forward??

The beautiful village of Fairport (Source)

I have a habit of obsessively reviewing my blog viewer history. 


Mostly because I want to know (without asking them) if someone has looked at the post today that may or may not have been controversial… and for which I may or may not have to later eat crow (or otherwise apologize). 


I’m interested to see regulars on my blog: Allen, TX = my friend Janie Oyakawa (whose blog I read regularly as well). Bedford, TX = either my mother in law or my friend Dawn. ((Or I might just be delusional in thinking either one of them read my blog)). Tiskilwa, IL = my BFF Angela. (Who ELSE lives in Tiskilwa, anyway!) 


So when I see people from Cairo or Budapest, I have a little fantasy in my head

needing hope

Source

Sometimes Mark makes me change the channel. The news is too gloomy, my heart is broken again for the pain I see in the world. I stare with silent tears running down my cheeks, he looks at me, then sighs and takes the remote away. “Your heart cannot break for everyone,” he says, “Let’s watch something uplifting.” 

And it’s true, my heart needs hope.

Faith Inspires

"It all goes back to Jesus. 

He spent time with folks who were marginalized."

-Rev. Sue Ringler

From the Huffington Post:

This week’s Faith Inspires highlights the work of Guardian Angels Catholic Community, an LGBT-friendly independent Catholic Church focused on social justice located in Tempe, AZ. An eight-year-old parish, Guardian Angels Catholic Community is part of the Ecumenical Catholic Communion. The ECC was formed in 2003 in Orange, CA and traces its history to the “Old Catholics,” a group of Catholics who came together in 1870 in opposition to the Pope’s declaration of infallibility. Today the ECC, which is independent of papal jurisdiction, has parishes all over the world.

A little good news on a Monday!

I love good news, and I love reading about people who are making good things happen. This article made me happy today, and I declare Mondays from here on out as "Good News Mondays". So let it be said, so let it be done. Amen! :)

 Good news Monday story of the day:

9 Nanas 

Somewhere in West Tennessee, not far from Graceland, nine women -- or "The 9 Nanas," as they prefer to be called -- gather in the darkness of night. At 4am they begin their daily routine --

Personal Post

My not-wedding was held last week - July 12, 2012.
I meet people all the time, sometimes in person, sometimes on the internet. Katelyn and I met on the internet and she lives in Southern Louisiana, so she volunteered, when I told her about my not-wedding, to come and photograph it!! Some of the pictures are on her beautiful blog, Gypsy Moth Sol.

What kind of world do you want?

Got a package full of Wishes, a Time machine, a Magic Wand, a Globe made out of Gold
No Instructions or Commandments,
Laws of Gravity or indecisions to uphold
Printed on the box I see "A.C.M.E.'s Build-a-World-to-be,"
Take a chance - Grab a piece, help me to believe it.  

16 Precepts - a prologue to Buddhism

Today I read an article on Huffington Post that reminded me to finish Buddhism on my religious journey. To be honest, I hadn't actually forgotten about the journey, I just became distracted by shiny objects (like my new pretty ring)!

Coming up in a few weeks, I will be beginning my journey as a Buddhist for 30 days, and sharing the stories of Buddhist women and men I meet along the way. Part of that journey will be observing the sixteen Bodhisattva Precepts, consisting of:

because I'm (in)consistant

As I cry over watching KONY2012, I think, where are the beautiful things? Where is the difference people like me want to make? "Humanity's greatest desire is to belong and to connect."But how are we connecting? How are we making a difference in the lives of those around us?

I love to hear people's stories. I love to learn from people's experience, to live vicariously through them... to me, hearing other people's stories is life itself. I am a writer, I am a story teller. I was put on this planet to hear, to learn, to tell. It is my calling. But it is all of our calling.

We complain because we have to pay high prices for gas. We complain because the traffic is diverted on Loop 820 and we have to sit in a line for 20 extra minutes in our air conditioned (or heated) cars. We cry because our husbands aren't loving us the "right"way.

Then one day, you pull into a gas station. A lady stands there, with her two-year-old clinging to her knees. She asks you, eyes filled with shame, if you have a couple dollars to spare for gas. She beckons at her car. You are buying cigarettes, only making a quick stop, not even getting gas yourself today because it's Thursday and everyone knows that Thursday is a bad day to buy gas. You always buy on Tuesday because the prices are lower. But her shame speaks to you. It calls to your own shame, and you feel a tug in your belly, not entirely comfortable. You ask what pump she's on. "Pump 6,"she says. You smile. I'll put gas in your car, you say, and with 3 packs of cigarettes, you buy $10 worth of gas for a lonely mother with a little child born into poverty.

Maybe I should have spent all the money on gas and kicked the cigarette habit.
Maybe I should have brought her and her daughter home with me, given them a shower and clean sheets and a hot nutritious meal.

But she was there and I was there, and I did what was in front of me. I helped who was in front of me.

Today I start a movement. I should say, I continue a movement. As I watched Kony2012, I was sad because I couldn't help those children, so far away, so untouchable by mother's arms who want to hold them an give them ice cream and let them be kids... but I can do what is here, what is in front of me.

I can hear an old man tell me about his life, his wife who passed away, his love for music and for sports. I can listen to a homeless lady who's community is stuffed bears she takes to waffle house tell me that her life wasn't always this way, and I can believe her. Today I start a journey. I will pray. I will pray that every day God brings someone to me who needs my love, my money, or my time. And I will give it. Because I can. Because I'm American, and we have our problems, but I have running water and electricity and a little more than enough to pay my bills and buy shoes. Today I will help someone, and tomorrow, too, and I will pray that God brings people to me who need me.

Will you join me?