It has been more than a year since I even thought about writing a blog entry. My writing dried up with the fear and fixation that accompany the onslaught of an illness. But I spent today thinking of something that I would like to begin to write and my blog seemed to be a good sounding board for my ideas. While those ideas gestate, the source of some of them are worth posting. I have been moved by several articles I have read in the media recently instigated by the religious right. Here are some examples:
The Beast: The Bizarre Case Against Gay Marriage
Book banning:
the raw story:
School district pulls Anne Frank’s diary over ‘vagina’ passage
The Star.com:
U.S. school bans the dictionary
The general trend toward the religious right enforcing their rigid ideals on the rest of the population in this country has frightening implications. Take the Diary of Anne Frank, for example. This was banned due to one sentence, but the overall message of Anne's diary is powerful and formative for young minds--and hearts. Children will learn about genitalia from other and multiple sources of their own accord. But where else will they experience first hand the tremendous cost of the Holocaust to all humanity better than in the vibrantly alive passages penned by this very talented and beautiful young woman? To read the last page of her journal is to feel that it has all just happened--to feel first hand the tragic loss of her life and to comprehend the cost of hate.
Hate. Yes, that's a trend that needs to be brought to an end.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Finally! My house isn't making me sick!
The heart of the house. Or, the north kitchen wall. This is also the back of the front bath.
My living room. If you can see between the drywall scraps, the whole living room was cut up two feet, treated and rewalled.
A view from the door of the master bath to the living room wall.
Ach! This is the one place I'm still a little worried about. I see dirt . . . I guess my mold remediation expert didn't want to deal with cutting around the plumbing.
It is a rather boring picture, but this is the opposite side of my kitchen where the pantry used to be.
Looking from the kitchen through to the bathroom. The new kitchen window will be a few inches higher than the old one rather than flush with the counter-top and the kitchen sink.
Just yesterday! It was the first time I have gone into my house and left symptomless! I took photographs late last week in order to document progress.
Monday, November 10, 2008
New Directions in Blogging
Mind boggling blogging!
Follow this blog!
Now, shall I join the blog roll game and obliterate my links?
I hesitate . . .
my browser crashed a month ago and I lost all my links.
All my links!
But I had my blog.
So, here is this relatively minor problem that I need to attend to. With complex instructions I have not got the patience to read. I added the Follow gadget.
It is even more critical as I've realized that some links are now obsolete and were never updated.
I feel I've been jerked into a new century.
Follow this blog!
Now, shall I join the blog roll game and obliterate my links?
I hesitate . . .
my browser crashed a month ago and I lost all my links.
All my links!
But I had my blog.
So, here is this relatively minor problem that I need to attend to. With complex instructions I have not got the patience to read. I added the Follow gadget.
It is even more critical as I've realized that some links are now obsolete and were never updated.
I feel I've been jerked into a new century.
Saturday, November 08, 2008
No NaNoWriMo:
I'm not doing it again this year, either. I miss it. My friends report their soaring word counts and the days pass and I see the dream passing away again. I hate November 3rds and 4ths more than any other days of the year when I am not doing the NaNo because at that point, I could realistically still catch up. I'm slated to have too many distractions this month. I certainly hope that excuse bears up.
Our house has been gutted to the studs and in some cases to the rafters. The plumber could not get it through his head that we needed for him to get the plumbing done before the tub came in so we could get on with other projects such as closing up the walls and ceilings and therefore the attic. The tub would have fit through the bathroom door. So for the past six weeks, nothing has happened. We bugged the plumber for the first three weeks. He came and prepared the plumbing for the tub and left. He is supposed to replumb the entire house with plastic rather than copper to prevent further leaks.
The magnificent tub--I hate it already. We had this amazing walk-in shower. I had no idea how amazing it was until we had to tear it out. It was solid cement. It could have been a safe room during a tornado. But, there was the feared black mold growing beneath it. So it had to go. My husband chipped most of it out bit by bit.
After doing all the good things a person ought to do before making a large purchase, I ordered a "home spa." I cut a check for more than I could conscience and sent it off with the expectation it would take five weeks. That would have been October 31st.
I will never order anything large from a distance again--even if it is better than anything I could buy locally. It isn't worth the worry! Now, six weeks later, the tub still has not arrived, the plumber still has not plumbed the house, the walls and ceilings are still open and it is highly likely I will not get to spend Christmas at home.
So, I didn't do the NaNoWriMo because I have my fingers crossed that I'll be laying tile and painting walls before the end of the month. If I don't, I'm going to be really angry at myself! I could have started the NaNo and, if the house just happened to progress to the point I could work, the NaNo could be put on ice. Ah, but I am an optimist turning pessimist!
Our house has been gutted to the studs and in some cases to the rafters. The plumber could not get it through his head that we needed for him to get the plumbing done before the tub came in so we could get on with other projects such as closing up the walls and ceilings and therefore the attic. The tub would have fit through the bathroom door. So for the past six weeks, nothing has happened. We bugged the plumber for the first three weeks. He came and prepared the plumbing for the tub and left. He is supposed to replumb the entire house with plastic rather than copper to prevent further leaks.
The magnificent tub--I hate it already. We had this amazing walk-in shower. I had no idea how amazing it was until we had to tear it out. It was solid cement. It could have been a safe room during a tornado. But, there was the feared black mold growing beneath it. So it had to go. My husband chipped most of it out bit by bit.
After doing all the good things a person ought to do before making a large purchase, I ordered a "home spa." I cut a check for more than I could conscience and sent it off with the expectation it would take five weeks. That would have been October 31st.
I will never order anything large from a distance again--even if it is better than anything I could buy locally. It isn't worth the worry! Now, six weeks later, the tub still has not arrived, the plumber still has not plumbed the house, the walls and ceilings are still open and it is highly likely I will not get to spend Christmas at home.
So, I didn't do the NaNoWriMo because I have my fingers crossed that I'll be laying tile and painting walls before the end of the month. If I don't, I'm going to be really angry at myself! I could have started the NaNo and, if the house just happened to progress to the point I could work, the NaNo could be put on ice. Ah, but I am an optimist turning pessimist!
Monday, October 13, 2008
Picking peppers!
They are red, hot, and the plants are loaded with them. Cayenne peppers! Louisiana Hot Sauce!
Remarkable things happen--strange things. For years I have watched hurricanes barrel ashore from my safe dry living room here in Oklahoma. I thought I watched them the way that most Americans do. I thought I felt approximately the same emotions as I saw signs whipping in the wind and debris smashing into walls, panned by camera crews as it bounced down empty rain spattered city streets. When Ike came ashore, I watched it with the same somewhat detached attitude--curious, concerned, but distant. That is, until I checked the radar in the evening just before it made landfall.
The map clearly showed the outlines of Texas and Louisiana superimposed on the radar screen. I saw the storm track where the storm was even at that moment smashing into the shores. I saw Beaumont--and something snapped. Something so long forgotten I didn't even know it was there! Orange, Cameron . . . Lake Charles! And something very much like a panic attack seized me. I was convinced that Ike would hit Beaumont square on. I was convinced that Lake Charles and my old home town of Westlake would get the brunt of it, too. I imagined the storm surge and rooftop rescues. I don't even know if I know anybody there anymore--it was so long ago--but I felt the way I'd feel if my sisters were there.
I was born in Lake Charles, Louisiana in 1955. We lived in Westlake, across the bridge. And it was there in June of 1957 that my family took refuge in the school when Hurricane Audrey hit earlier than predicted, a level 4 hurricane. Previously a footnote in the history of my life, my two-year-old mind hadn't filed memories where they would be accessed. But in that moment that I saw the track of the storm, the fear, the horror--and even strange details like familiar place names--deeply etched at some level exploded into my consciousness.
The cue that triggered a cascade of emotion was the thought of Lake Charles. Why Rita didn't trip that memory, I haven't got a clue. Maybe because we were so over the top with hurricanes that season. Or maybe it was because Galveston was a favorite holiday destination for my family and Ike was already pushing a heavy storm surge against the levees. Half in denial, my first thought was to check to see what Lake Charles was reporting. The warning had been issued that day at 2:30 pm.
Shaking as though the storm was raging outside my window, I couldn't tear myself away from the computer for the next hour. I had to Google everything and anything I could find about Hurricane Audrey on the net. I looked at old weather maps and storm surge maps, I read news reports issued then and rehashed on the 50th anniversary of the storm, I perused library collections of photo journals and looked for books at Amazon.
I noted things. Facts varied from site to site. Wind speeds in Lake Charles were claimed to have been 110 to 150 mph, more often 150. The storm surge was said to be six to seven feet according to the National Weather Service, but Cameron Parish had recorded twelve. Only one site noted that offshore wave height had been 45-50 feet and the waves had come onshore over and above the storm surge at 21+ feet. The actual death toll was unknown, but more than 500 deaths had been attributed to the storm--again, the numbers were never the same from one site to the next.
I tore myself away from the computer for a rare date with my husband for dinner.
A few days later I came to a stop at a stoplight. As I looked in the rear-view mirror, a key-chain bearing a wood paneled station-wagon I had hung on my mirror danced in the sunlight. The little Ford looked like the old Mercury station-wagon we'd owned when I was very small--the first car I'd ever known. The key-chain had been a gift from my daughter, for memory's sake. It caught my eye and the footnote became a page in my life's story.
Then I knew what had happened to the old Mercury station-wagon. Then I knew the storm hadn't been just a bit of wind and all was well. Then I knew there was a story nobody had ever told me. Then I knew we'd been in real danger, that we'd lost things--that storm surges and high winds weren't just something that happened to somebody else far, far away. That's why we had a brand new Ford Squire wood paneled station-wagon in 1957!
It reminded me of a mystery that has haunted me since the late 70s. I'd consulted a psychic hypnotist to help me quit smoking. He'd asked me if he could read a pendant that I wore that my father had given to me. When he took it, he told me that he saw me as a very small child alone in a storm, alone in the dark, my wet dress clinging to my legs--he repeated "all alone" several times--I was crying for my parents. He asked me if it rang any bells. I couldn't think of any. But somehow, I knew he'd seen something--something I should know.
It isn't a footnote anymore. It is part of my tragic early life. Perhaps it is part of why I struggle with depression, insomnia and tend to think in terms of worst case scenarios.
All I knew about Louisiana was that I didn't like it anymore. A few years ago we went to New Orleans and I had thought to stop by Lake Charles before leaving the state. No sooner had we reached Cajun country and we were cruising down narrow roads braced by full bar ditches on either side than I began to feel repulsed. We stopped at a replicated Acadian Village near Lafayette. As we went from house to house I was struck by the familiarity of it all. The odor--the musty odor that had permeated my childhood and every object I touched until I was five--hung heavy in every room. Common household objects like chairs looked so familiar I would think that even the peeling paint, the very color, was familiar--we'd had a chair like that! The village was very well done--although the styles of the houses and even the objects in them seemed everyday to me, I can assure you--truly Cajun. Go see it, but leave me here!
When we got back into the car, I told my husband I felt oppressed and I wanted to get away from there. I didn't want to go on. When we drove out of the white shelled parkinglot, we headed north for home. We didn't stop for the night until we reached northern Texas.
I have other memories, too. Memories that are too fresh to deal with yet. Fifty-one years old! My daughter and I talked on the phone all day today. I repeated my journey with her through the net, searching out anything to do with Hurricane Audrey, zapping her link after link by email. She encouraged me several times, "It's family history, you know."
Then who? Who was it that realized? My mother died a year and four months after the storm.
No wonder I don't want to go back home again!
Remarkable things happen--strange things. For years I have watched hurricanes barrel ashore from my safe dry living room here in Oklahoma. I thought I watched them the way that most Americans do. I thought I felt approximately the same emotions as I saw signs whipping in the wind and debris smashing into walls, panned by camera crews as it bounced down empty rain spattered city streets. When Ike came ashore, I watched it with the same somewhat detached attitude--curious, concerned, but distant. That is, until I checked the radar in the evening just before it made landfall.
The map clearly showed the outlines of Texas and Louisiana superimposed on the radar screen. I saw the storm track where the storm was even at that moment smashing into the shores. I saw Beaumont--and something snapped. Something so long forgotten I didn't even know it was there! Orange, Cameron . . . Lake Charles! And something very much like a panic attack seized me. I was convinced that Ike would hit Beaumont square on. I was convinced that Lake Charles and my old home town of Westlake would get the brunt of it, too. I imagined the storm surge and rooftop rescues. I don't even know if I know anybody there anymore--it was so long ago--but I felt the way I'd feel if my sisters were there.
I was born in Lake Charles, Louisiana in 1955. We lived in Westlake, across the bridge. And it was there in June of 1957 that my family took refuge in the school when Hurricane Audrey hit earlier than predicted, a level 4 hurricane. Previously a footnote in the history of my life, my two-year-old mind hadn't filed memories where they would be accessed. But in that moment that I saw the track of the storm, the fear, the horror--and even strange details like familiar place names--deeply etched at some level exploded into my consciousness.
The cue that triggered a cascade of emotion was the thought of Lake Charles. Why Rita didn't trip that memory, I haven't got a clue. Maybe because we were so over the top with hurricanes that season. Or maybe it was because Galveston was a favorite holiday destination for my family and Ike was already pushing a heavy storm surge against the levees. Half in denial, my first thought was to check to see what Lake Charles was reporting. The warning had been issued that day at 2:30 pm.
Shaking as though the storm was raging outside my window, I couldn't tear myself away from the computer for the next hour. I had to Google everything and anything I could find about Hurricane Audrey on the net. I looked at old weather maps and storm surge maps, I read news reports issued then and rehashed on the 50th anniversary of the storm, I perused library collections of photo journals and looked for books at Amazon.
I noted things. Facts varied from site to site. Wind speeds in Lake Charles were claimed to have been 110 to 150 mph, more often 150. The storm surge was said to be six to seven feet according to the National Weather Service, but Cameron Parish had recorded twelve. Only one site noted that offshore wave height had been 45-50 feet and the waves had come onshore over and above the storm surge at 21+ feet. The actual death toll was unknown, but more than 500 deaths had been attributed to the storm--again, the numbers were never the same from one site to the next.
I tore myself away from the computer for a rare date with my husband for dinner.
A few days later I came to a stop at a stoplight. As I looked in the rear-view mirror, a key-chain bearing a wood paneled station-wagon I had hung on my mirror danced in the sunlight. The little Ford looked like the old Mercury station-wagon we'd owned when I was very small--the first car I'd ever known. The key-chain had been a gift from my daughter, for memory's sake. It caught my eye and the footnote became a page in my life's story.
Then I knew what had happened to the old Mercury station-wagon. Then I knew the storm hadn't been just a bit of wind and all was well. Then I knew there was a story nobody had ever told me. Then I knew we'd been in real danger, that we'd lost things--that storm surges and high winds weren't just something that happened to somebody else far, far away. That's why we had a brand new Ford Squire wood paneled station-wagon in 1957!
It reminded me of a mystery that has haunted me since the late 70s. I'd consulted a psychic hypnotist to help me quit smoking. He'd asked me if he could read a pendant that I wore that my father had given to me. When he took it, he told me that he saw me as a very small child alone in a storm, alone in the dark, my wet dress clinging to my legs--he repeated "all alone" several times--I was crying for my parents. He asked me if it rang any bells. I couldn't think of any. But somehow, I knew he'd seen something--something I should know.
It isn't a footnote anymore. It is part of my tragic early life. Perhaps it is part of why I struggle with depression, insomnia and tend to think in terms of worst case scenarios.
All I knew about Louisiana was that I didn't like it anymore. A few years ago we went to New Orleans and I had thought to stop by Lake Charles before leaving the state. No sooner had we reached Cajun country and we were cruising down narrow roads braced by full bar ditches on either side than I began to feel repulsed. We stopped at a replicated Acadian Village near Lafayette. As we went from house to house I was struck by the familiarity of it all. The odor--the musty odor that had permeated my childhood and every object I touched until I was five--hung heavy in every room. Common household objects like chairs looked so familiar I would think that even the peeling paint, the very color, was familiar--we'd had a chair like that! The village was very well done--although the styles of the houses and even the objects in them seemed everyday to me, I can assure you--truly Cajun. Go see it, but leave me here!
When we got back into the car, I told my husband I felt oppressed and I wanted to get away from there. I didn't want to go on. When we drove out of the white shelled parkinglot, we headed north for home. We didn't stop for the night until we reached northern Texas.
I have other memories, too. Memories that are too fresh to deal with yet. Fifty-one years old! My daughter and I talked on the phone all day today. I repeated my journey with her through the net, searching out anything to do with Hurricane Audrey, zapping her link after link by email. She encouraged me several times, "It's family history, you know."
Then who? Who was it that realized? My mother died a year and four months after the storm.
No wonder I don't want to go back home again!
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
A return?
I've been sojourning in a strange land with no means of navigation which has led more to inaction and pondering my location rather than choosing any particular direction in hopes of finding my way back to the land I once I knew. I often wonder if I will ever find my way back!
Every now and then I stand up and take a few steps in a direction, only to return to the stump I've been sitting on for fear that it is the wrong direction. The sun rises and the sun sets and I still sit. I know which direction is which--but I don't know where I am, so directions are meaningless.
Sometimes I convince myself that anywhere would be better than here. There is nothing here but ghosts and they don't talk.
What can I say--could I go through the kind of stress I've been through this past year and a half and not spiral down into the depths of the dark cave of depression? Every day is a new day--because no thread from yesterday hangs limply over my head for me to grasp and work with. It seems my lethargy is contagious because the landscape seems changeless as those who are supposed to be working toward a solution seem as discontinuous as I am and so things just remain where they are, unmoved.
I had hoped to return to blogging a month ago and I made one weak stab in that direction--it was great to feel a moment of inspiration of any kind. Then my browser began to act up and I deleted it from my hard drive. With it I lost my links, my Blogger identity (I'd forgotten it) and the means to find it. I also lost all my other links--my friends, too.
If I visit here, what I am going to have to do, and I am obviously hesitant to do, is write about what I don't want to think about. Past journeys through this dark land have taught me that when I finally begin to feel the need to struggle against the darkness, I'm on my way up out of the abyss. I always used to seek counseling at this point. More than once I've finally just scolded my counselor and said, "I just have to DOOOO something!" Okay, so I am prone to depression--but according to the psychiatrist I've never been clinically depressed and so some suffer far more depth than I do. This is bad enough, thank you.
My health continues to bounce around--some days I feel great and some, terrible. I realized that I almost dread the days I feel great because they seem to precede the days I feel terrible. I think fear has a great deal to do with why I'm stymied and simply sitting here on this stump not doing anything. I just don't know what the future will bring--will I ever be able to live in my own home? Will I have to leave all and go live where the mold isn't so prevalent? Is this controllable or is this going to get worse? And finally--are these days the beginning of the end? Will it kill me? The weird thing is that I've been asking these questions for more than two years now and I have no more answers now than I did then.
Hope that I remember to get batteries for my camera so that I can take photographs of my home and my companions to share with you. And hope that I'll remember to come back and post and that I'll remember where my blog is, too.
Every now and then I stand up and take a few steps in a direction, only to return to the stump I've been sitting on for fear that it is the wrong direction. The sun rises and the sun sets and I still sit. I know which direction is which--but I don't know where I am, so directions are meaningless.
Sometimes I convince myself that anywhere would be better than here. There is nothing here but ghosts and they don't talk.
What can I say--could I go through the kind of stress I've been through this past year and a half and not spiral down into the depths of the dark cave of depression? Every day is a new day--because no thread from yesterday hangs limply over my head for me to grasp and work with. It seems my lethargy is contagious because the landscape seems changeless as those who are supposed to be working toward a solution seem as discontinuous as I am and so things just remain where they are, unmoved.
I had hoped to return to blogging a month ago and I made one weak stab in that direction--it was great to feel a moment of inspiration of any kind. Then my browser began to act up and I deleted it from my hard drive. With it I lost my links, my Blogger identity (I'd forgotten it) and the means to find it. I also lost all my other links--my friends, too.
If I visit here, what I am going to have to do, and I am obviously hesitant to do, is write about what I don't want to think about. Past journeys through this dark land have taught me that when I finally begin to feel the need to struggle against the darkness, I'm on my way up out of the abyss. I always used to seek counseling at this point. More than once I've finally just scolded my counselor and said, "I just have to DOOOO something!" Okay, so I am prone to depression--but according to the psychiatrist I've never been clinically depressed and so some suffer far more depth than I do. This is bad enough, thank you.
My health continues to bounce around--some days I feel great and some, terrible. I realized that I almost dread the days I feel great because they seem to precede the days I feel terrible. I think fear has a great deal to do with why I'm stymied and simply sitting here on this stump not doing anything. I just don't know what the future will bring--will I ever be able to live in my own home? Will I have to leave all and go live where the mold isn't so prevalent? Is this controllable or is this going to get worse? And finally--are these days the beginning of the end? Will it kill me? The weird thing is that I've been asking these questions for more than two years now and I have no more answers now than I did then.
Hope that I remember to get batteries for my camera so that I can take photographs of my home and my companions to share with you. And hope that I'll remember to come back and post and that I'll remember where my blog is, too.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
What about evangelism?
*I apologize for being in avoidance mode for the past four months!*
Father Jake has a new blog, an apolitical one: Father T. Listens to the World. Today he wrote a post that made me look at evangelism in a whole new light: Ransom or Satisfaction.
Cutting right to the chase, Father T. has in one swipe managed to completely change my view of atonement, the meaning and purpose behind Christ's death and therefore our faith and everything! I suddenly see all this as a theological miasma--diseased and broken--in which we have tried to explain what happened on the cross in a way that would be palatable to us--rather than the one truth we need to see. It is all a lie! And we know it--deep down inside we know it. God gave us his Son, his perfect, flawless, beautiful Son and we crucified him. We have no true defense. This would answer all Father T.'s concerns in this post: heaven, hell, sin and Christ. And until we do see it--the truth of the cross--we will not own up completely to our brokenness and our need for goodness. Oh, we talk about brokenness! But do we sincerely own it? The more advanced our theologies get, the less we have to do and the less we have to face the reality that would make our need of God irresistible and our evangelistic message ring of truth. We've been using euphemisms for theology!
In short, somebody asked what could be said to the uninitiated that explains the cross? Or rather to either defend our faith or to evangelize? Instead of the purity cult that Christianity has become, perhaps we could get back to the dusty reality of a god that is man and the god in man.
It is when we see with our very hearts our own role in the crucifixion of Christ and how, as he hangs on that cross, we will know our own brokenness and our own very deep need of him, of something greater than ourselves and with love in our hearts and sadness we beg for his forgiveness and his help. He shows us in passive humility the Way to perfection, a way to perfect goodness and in the process he will remake us in his own image, to be one with him--whole, unbroken and good. Our sin doesn't condemn us forever to the fires of hell, but becomes a door through which we ache to enter in to a changed way of being, to enter in to a loving way of life where we cease to harm ourselves and others, because the heart of the Law is love. We, desiring healing and seeking it, realize that it is in loving others that we cease sinning and through it we ourselves approach the cross and tremble beneath. There we ask again and again--what do we do now to bring your healing message of hope to a needy world? There we beg with our unceasing need to make reparation for the goodness we have crucified. We promise to never scourge another, or mock or jeer or crucify again. Once forgiven--we have a fresh new beginning, we can stand upright, we can be healed and we will grow whole--we can see another way of being, a lasting and perfect and Christlike way. That is our greatest hope. Without shame we know we won't let ourselves forget: We crucified the Lord of Glory.
That is atonement--his forgiveness for what we have done.
It seems to me that we have permitted our theology to skirt the real issue of what God does in this world and how. We are his hands, we are his servants, who share his love with the world at large. Love cannot leave us unchanged. Our sadness against his suffering is our impetus to bring his healing message into physical reality and through our living faith actively every day.
So I have begun with my conclusions. It may be for the better for me to return to answer Father T. point by point here, to begin at the beginning and work back to close.
Peace.
Annie
Father Jake has a new blog, an apolitical one: Father T. Listens to the World. Today he wrote a post that made me look at evangelism in a whole new light: Ransom or Satisfaction.
Cutting right to the chase, Father T. has in one swipe managed to completely change my view of atonement, the meaning and purpose behind Christ's death and therefore our faith and everything! I suddenly see all this as a theological miasma--diseased and broken--in which we have tried to explain what happened on the cross in a way that would be palatable to us--rather than the one truth we need to see. It is all a lie! And we know it--deep down inside we know it. God gave us his Son, his perfect, flawless, beautiful Son and we crucified him. We have no true defense. This would answer all Father T.'s concerns in this post: heaven, hell, sin and Christ. And until we do see it--the truth of the cross--we will not own up completely to our brokenness and our need for goodness. Oh, we talk about brokenness! But do we sincerely own it? The more advanced our theologies get, the less we have to do and the less we have to face the reality that would make our need of God irresistible and our evangelistic message ring of truth. We've been using euphemisms for theology!
In short, somebody asked what could be said to the uninitiated that explains the cross? Or rather to either defend our faith or to evangelize? Instead of the purity cult that Christianity has become, perhaps we could get back to the dusty reality of a god that is man and the god in man.
It is when we see with our very hearts our own role in the crucifixion of Christ and how, as he hangs on that cross, we will know our own brokenness and our own very deep need of him, of something greater than ourselves and with love in our hearts and sadness we beg for his forgiveness and his help. He shows us in passive humility the Way to perfection, a way to perfect goodness and in the process he will remake us in his own image, to be one with him--whole, unbroken and good. Our sin doesn't condemn us forever to the fires of hell, but becomes a door through which we ache to enter in to a changed way of being, to enter in to a loving way of life where we cease to harm ourselves and others, because the heart of the Law is love. We, desiring healing and seeking it, realize that it is in loving others that we cease sinning and through it we ourselves approach the cross and tremble beneath. There we ask again and again--what do we do now to bring your healing message of hope to a needy world? There we beg with our unceasing need to make reparation for the goodness we have crucified. We promise to never scourge another, or mock or jeer or crucify again. Once forgiven--we have a fresh new beginning, we can stand upright, we can be healed and we will grow whole--we can see another way of being, a lasting and perfect and Christlike way. That is our greatest hope. Without shame we know we won't let ourselves forget: We crucified the Lord of Glory.
That is atonement--his forgiveness for what we have done.
It seems to me that we have permitted our theology to skirt the real issue of what God does in this world and how. We are his hands, we are his servants, who share his love with the world at large. Love cannot leave us unchanged. Our sadness against his suffering is our impetus to bring his healing message into physical reality and through our living faith actively every day.
So I have begun with my conclusions. It may be for the better for me to return to answer Father T. point by point here, to begin at the beginning and work back to close.
Peace.
Annie
Sunday, April 20, 2008
*Yes, I am still around!*
What can I say? I have had no inclination to write at all! Not any kind of writing. It is so unlike me.
I guess that is all I have to say!
An entry on faith, however. The question is asked: What about secrets in the church--any kind. It could be more specific, really.
The Gnostics had secret knowledge and early Christians considered that to be heretical. I reject secret knowledge for the very simple reason that there is no deception in God. If there is a truth, it should be shouted from the rooftops! (scriptural) There is nothing exclusive. (scriptural--evangelize!) There is certainly nothing in God that rejects those who do not follow him--but rather invites! (scriptural) I think of the invitation to the wedding feast. I am not more special because I belong to him. (scriptural, prodigal son) We are all special and he wants us all. We are all equal in that he does not wish to lose even one sinner. I am not more loved than you and I am not more loved that the drug addict leaning against the decrepit brick wall in an alleyway. I am sick to death of Christians trying to create some sort of pristine social club when nothing could be LESS holy!
I guess that is all I have to say!
An entry on faith, however. The question is asked: What about secrets in the church--any kind. It could be more specific, really.
The Gnostics had secret knowledge and early Christians considered that to be heretical. I reject secret knowledge for the very simple reason that there is no deception in God. If there is a truth, it should be shouted from the rooftops! (scriptural) There is nothing exclusive. (scriptural--evangelize!) There is certainly nothing in God that rejects those who do not follow him--but rather invites! (scriptural) I think of the invitation to the wedding feast. I am not more special because I belong to him. (scriptural, prodigal son) We are all special and he wants us all. We are all equal in that he does not wish to lose even one sinner. I am not more loved than you and I am not more loved that the drug addict leaning against the decrepit brick wall in an alleyway. I am sick to death of Christians trying to create some sort of pristine social club when nothing could be LESS holy!
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Update on my health and other considerations:
Sorry to have been so absent, but I have recently joined a discussion group based on the book, The Faith Club.
But, because a lot of people access my blog because of my problems with mold, I thought I would update with a little critical information.
First, I noticed that my hepa filter machine was contaminating the air in my room. Thinking that it must be the filter had gone bad after only three months, I bought a new one. But it didn't do any good. On closer examination with my trusty black light which reveals fungus, I found that the interior of the machine was contaminated. Naturally, I removed the air filter and examined it from the front, the area where the air would come through the filter, but there was very little contamination between the filter and the fan. After reassembling it, I began examining the outside of the machine. I found that all the seams around it indicated a small amount of air seepage, i.e., the seams glowed. But what was shocking was when I turned it around and examined the back, the manufacturer has put holes in the back so the unit can be hung on the wall. These little hook shaped holes were filled with dirt, dust and, yes, fungus. I took Q-tips and pulled out at least a teaspoon of contaminants from each hole. What the manufacturer hasn't done or even attempted to do is to maintain the integrity of the machine. Once cleaned, I could see that the Styrofoam insulation for the fan housing is completely open and exposed there allowing contaminates to work their way into the fan itself.
I began by trying to contact the company. They obviously don't care. Then I went to research hepa filters and I found that this is a known issue. I found good information on hepa filteration at The Allergy Buyers Club. Look below the air filters for a list of articles on air filtration and what all of us need to know.
As far as I'm concerned, even if I didn't have extreme allergies, I wouldn't want a machine that would allow dangerous and allergy causing contaminants into my room even if I were trying to just have better air. For those of us who suffer extreme allergies an industry wide rating system needs to be instituted. Machine need to be rated several different ways. Some are better for some types of contaminants than others, for example. More importantly because this little machine did do a superb job for about three months, the rating needs to be established after the machines have been in use for a period of time. In short, it matters not a wit that a machine is rated by the manufacturer to clean 99.97% of all contaminants from the air!
In short all that I had spent on that little machine is a waste of money! Now I need to find another air purifier/sanitizer and probably spend quite a lot more in order to buy a machine that is effective for my needs. For the record, I had simply gone shopping locally for the two machines that I did buy, same brand, and I bought what was available. Sadly, others might make the same mistake but like me suffer without realizing that the machine they are staking their lives and health on are their worst enemy. If I didn't have a blacklight and a contagion that shows up under black light, I might never have discovered this!
It is mind boggling that the company cares so little because sealing the seams and blocking the hook holes would cost little or nothing! Buyer beware!
Dry, dry hands! I was suffering from eczema and I spent money out the whazzoo to go to a dermatologist. His very expensive medicines were doing no good. In fact one of them seemed to make my hands worse. While shopping in Wichita, I ran across one of those little kiosks where they were selling Dead Sea Salt products. The very nice young woman who saw me putting on hand lotion called me over and she demonstrated her product. OUCH! I was telling her I have eczema! She assured me it would be good for me. I bought some other product from her, but not her salt! But then . . . my hands got so much better! In the next seven days my hands were much improved! I went back to the mall and couldn't find them. I'll admit it was terribly pricey but better than the cost of the dermatologist. She had told me they had a web site and so I went in search for it. However, I found other companies that sell Dead Sea Salt for considerably less. So, I bought some. Shipping wasn't cheap! But I'm using it once a week.
I simply scrub my hands with it. I also bought vegetable glycerin and I've added a several drops each of bergamot and tea tree essential oils to the bottle. I made it fairly strong. So, after using the salt, I apply a little of this--which is really intense moisturizing.
I'm no doctor. You can take my singular experience as my own testimony for what it is worth. You may find products by searching the Internet that are better.
The company that introduced me to the idea has several good products--as I said, I bought some--and they are Deja Vu Cosmetics.
And later--before I found Dead Sea Salt--I remembered a local bookstore sells Dead Sea products. I bought a lotion that I dearly love called AHAVA: Dead Sea Laboratories
All of these produce this silky feel to my skin and it can only be the salt itself. My hands are nearly completely healed now in just a few short weeks. I am so thrilled! And no, at this time I own no stock in any company that manufactures and imports these products. ;) But maybe I ought to!
I have not tried it yet, but my local health foods store claims that Himalayan Salt works the same way. They also sell the pretty pink salt for eating and she claims it is the best tasting salt and the only one that those on low sodium diets can eat. But I haven't tried this.
Both the Dead Sea Salt and the Himalayan Salt are low sodium and have trace minerals, btw. This is just a warning that I stumbled across--luckily--Sea Salt is not the same! There are no substitutions for these fairly pricey salts. I still feel that the discovery that has given me so much comfort the price seems low in comparison.
But, because a lot of people access my blog because of my problems with mold, I thought I would update with a little critical information.
First, I noticed that my hepa filter machine was contaminating the air in my room. Thinking that it must be the filter had gone bad after only three months, I bought a new one. But it didn't do any good. On closer examination with my trusty black light which reveals fungus, I found that the interior of the machine was contaminated. Naturally, I removed the air filter and examined it from the front, the area where the air would come through the filter, but there was very little contamination between the filter and the fan. After reassembling it, I began examining the outside of the machine. I found that all the seams around it indicated a small amount of air seepage, i.e., the seams glowed. But what was shocking was when I turned it around and examined the back, the manufacturer has put holes in the back so the unit can be hung on the wall. These little hook shaped holes were filled with dirt, dust and, yes, fungus. I took Q-tips and pulled out at least a teaspoon of contaminants from each hole. What the manufacturer hasn't done or even attempted to do is to maintain the integrity of the machine. Once cleaned, I could see that the Styrofoam insulation for the fan housing is completely open and exposed there allowing contaminates to work their way into the fan itself.
I began by trying to contact the company. They obviously don't care. Then I went to research hepa filters and I found that this is a known issue. I found good information on hepa filteration at The Allergy Buyers Club. Look below the air filters for a list of articles on air filtration and what all of us need to know.
As far as I'm concerned, even if I didn't have extreme allergies, I wouldn't want a machine that would allow dangerous and allergy causing contaminants into my room even if I were trying to just have better air. For those of us who suffer extreme allergies an industry wide rating system needs to be instituted. Machine need to be rated several different ways. Some are better for some types of contaminants than others, for example. More importantly because this little machine did do a superb job for about three months, the rating needs to be established after the machines have been in use for a period of time. In short, it matters not a wit that a machine is rated by the manufacturer to clean 99.97% of all contaminants from the air!
In short all that I had spent on that little machine is a waste of money! Now I need to find another air purifier/sanitizer and probably spend quite a lot more in order to buy a machine that is effective for my needs. For the record, I had simply gone shopping locally for the two machines that I did buy, same brand, and I bought what was available. Sadly, others might make the same mistake but like me suffer without realizing that the machine they are staking their lives and health on are their worst enemy. If I didn't have a blacklight and a contagion that shows up under black light, I might never have discovered this!
It is mind boggling that the company cares so little because sealing the seams and blocking the hook holes would cost little or nothing! Buyer beware!
Dry, dry hands! I was suffering from eczema and I spent money out the whazzoo to go to a dermatologist. His very expensive medicines were doing no good. In fact one of them seemed to make my hands worse. While shopping in Wichita, I ran across one of those little kiosks where they were selling Dead Sea Salt products. The very nice young woman who saw me putting on hand lotion called me over and she demonstrated her product. OUCH! I was telling her I have eczema! She assured me it would be good for me. I bought some other product from her, but not her salt! But then . . . my hands got so much better! In the next seven days my hands were much improved! I went back to the mall and couldn't find them. I'll admit it was terribly pricey but better than the cost of the dermatologist. She had told me they had a web site and so I went in search for it. However, I found other companies that sell Dead Sea Salt for considerably less. So, I bought some. Shipping wasn't cheap! But I'm using it once a week.
I simply scrub my hands with it. I also bought vegetable glycerin and I've added a several drops each of bergamot and tea tree essential oils to the bottle. I made it fairly strong. So, after using the salt, I apply a little of this--which is really intense moisturizing.
I'm no doctor. You can take my singular experience as my own testimony for what it is worth. You may find products by searching the Internet that are better.
The company that introduced me to the idea has several good products--as I said, I bought some--and they are Deja Vu Cosmetics.
And later--before I found Dead Sea Salt--I remembered a local bookstore sells Dead Sea products. I bought a lotion that I dearly love called AHAVA: Dead Sea Laboratories
All of these produce this silky feel to my skin and it can only be the salt itself. My hands are nearly completely healed now in just a few short weeks. I am so thrilled! And no, at this time I own no stock in any company that manufactures and imports these products. ;) But maybe I ought to!
I have not tried it yet, but my local health foods store claims that Himalayan Salt works the same way. They also sell the pretty pink salt for eating and she claims it is the best tasting salt and the only one that those on low sodium diets can eat. But I haven't tried this.
Both the Dead Sea Salt and the Himalayan Salt are low sodium and have trace minerals, btw. This is just a warning that I stumbled across--luckily--Sea Salt is not the same! There are no substitutions for these fairly pricey salts. I still feel that the discovery that has given me so much comfort the price seems low in comparison.
Monday, December 31, 2007
End of Year . . .
It is right and fitting that the year should end curled up with an excellent book, isn't it? I have just finished reading The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield.
It was an excellent book for those who like an old fashioned whodunnit, very British. I am serious when I say old fashioned because Ms. Setterfield tends to write in a style heavily reminiscent of the 19th Century greats such as the Brontte sisters. Since I tend to that style myself it was very comfortable. My only disappointment was the Thirteenth Tale when it was finally revealed, but, since that says nothing about the plot itself, it is a small thing.
I also began to read The Fire of Your Life, a book of meditations by Maggie Ross. There are meditations for each month of the year. I've only read one, November's. I think it is in for a reread. These are not meditations to be hurried through, but relished and contemplated. They are even the type of meditations that spawn more meditations. It may indeed take a year for me to read them all.
So, back to the whodunnit: I am reviewing the genre for the purpose of beginning to write the suspense novel that has been brewing this past year. Of course, that takes reading that style of writing or, as some would say, a study of the genre. I have always loved mysteries.
Sometimes I think I have an outline taking form and sometimes I feel as though I am still feeling my way. No matter where I begin, there will have to be more flashbacks than I care to use. Past tense is dead, lifeless, static. What POV shall I use? I think that is my big issue right now.
At any rate, should any reader accost my blog today, I wish them a reflective and safe New Year's Eve and a happy New Year! One should never party and end a year in drunken revelry! They should remain watchful as the old year ends, intent on the new beginning that is coming, the fresh start, rather than waking with a hangover and beginning the year on a bad and grumpy note.
It was an excellent book for those who like an old fashioned whodunnit, very British. I am serious when I say old fashioned because Ms. Setterfield tends to write in a style heavily reminiscent of the 19th Century greats such as the Brontte sisters. Since I tend to that style myself it was very comfortable. My only disappointment was the Thirteenth Tale when it was finally revealed, but, since that says nothing about the plot itself, it is a small thing.
I also began to read The Fire of Your Life, a book of meditations by Maggie Ross. There are meditations for each month of the year. I've only read one, November's. I think it is in for a reread. These are not meditations to be hurried through, but relished and contemplated. They are even the type of meditations that spawn more meditations. It may indeed take a year for me to read them all.
So, back to the whodunnit: I am reviewing the genre for the purpose of beginning to write the suspense novel that has been brewing this past year. Of course, that takes reading that style of writing or, as some would say, a study of the genre. I have always loved mysteries.
Sometimes I think I have an outline taking form and sometimes I feel as though I am still feeling my way. No matter where I begin, there will have to be more flashbacks than I care to use. Past tense is dead, lifeless, static. What POV shall I use? I think that is my big issue right now.
At any rate, should any reader accost my blog today, I wish them a reflective and safe New Year's Eve and a happy New Year! One should never party and end a year in drunken revelry! They should remain watchful as the old year ends, intent on the new beginning that is coming, the fresh start, rather than waking with a hangover and beginning the year on a bad and grumpy note.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Even if you don't play handbells . . .
here is a nice distracting game to keep you from stressing too much over the minute details of Christmas preparation! I hear it is a lot like Guitar Hero.
Handbell Hero
Handbell Hero
Monday, December 17, 2007
Feeling irreverant:
Don't ask me about my inspiration for this!
I'm always a tad bit amused by Christians who the claim the label of "biblical Christianity" as though most Christians aren't "biblical". That and the "Bible believin'" Christians. Perhaps you mean you are a member of one of the One Thousand and One different denominations based on the newest, most recent, most absolutist and most accurate, mostest truest interpretation of scripture, purely and truly sola scriptura, and no other denomination that claims biblical Christianity is as valid as yours? It must be one of the newest and most sophisticated since you not only claim to believe in it, you claim to be "biblical". I realize it is lots and lots of fun to shake that Bible and try to claim "biblical Christianity", but pardon me for trying to point out that a lot of Christians think they have the Bible, too and are therefore biblical. It was the Roman Catholic Church, the original and very firstest of all first Churches that claims to be the truest of all Christian sects who formed and created the Canon--if memory serves. And they even read it, study it and believe in it, too! But it might have been before the Great Schism . . . now there are actually two original, very first and bestest Churches that can claim to be the truest and most right of all Christian sects or denominations with the claim of having the original Bible and even having created it. So, they might actually think of themselves as biblical, too. Heck! They can actually claim St. Peter and therefore most of the books in the New Testament were written by their very own Apostles! Definitely biblical. I actually think that the oldest extant Bible of all is in a monastery at Mt. Sinai--in Orthodox possession. It was my own Church that created the King James Version, THE most accurate version of scripture of all time according to some . . . er . . . uhm . . . protestant sects, authored and authorized by God himself.
*I could have my son sing that to a cool riff ... maybe I should try to revise it and add some rhyme*
I'm always a tad bit amused by Christians who the claim the label of "biblical Christianity" as though most Christians aren't "biblical". That and the "Bible believin'" Christians. Perhaps you mean you are a member of one of the One Thousand and One different denominations based on the newest, most recent, most absolutist and most accurate, mostest truest interpretation of scripture, purely and truly sola scriptura, and no other denomination that claims biblical Christianity is as valid as yours? It must be one of the newest and most sophisticated since you not only claim to believe in it, you claim to be "biblical". I realize it is lots and lots of fun to shake that Bible and try to claim "biblical Christianity", but pardon me for trying to point out that a lot of Christians think they have the Bible, too and are therefore biblical. It was the Roman Catholic Church, the original and very firstest of all first Churches that claims to be the truest of all Christian sects who formed and created the Canon--if memory serves. And they even read it, study it and believe in it, too! But it might have been before the Great Schism . . . now there are actually two original, very first and bestest Churches that can claim to be the truest and most right of all Christian sects or denominations with the claim of having the original Bible and even having created it. So, they might actually think of themselves as biblical, too. Heck! They can actually claim St. Peter and therefore most of the books in the New Testament were written by their very own Apostles! Definitely biblical. I actually think that the oldest extant Bible of all is in a monastery at Mt. Sinai--in Orthodox possession. It was my own Church that created the King James Version, THE most accurate version of scripture of all time according to some . . . er . . . uhm . . . protestant sects, authored and authorized by God himself.
*I could have my son sing that to a cool riff ... maybe I should try to revise it and add some rhyme*
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Another poem:
Advent
Come, Lord Jesus,
hear my cry!
Hopeless darkness,
I watch the sky.
All swirling clouds,
the endless darkness,
all oppressed.
In tearful pleas
I wait.
Come, Lord Jesus,
hear my cry!
The joy of your presence,
the gift of your love.
A ray of light
breaks through
my heart lifts,
but in the dark
I wait.
Come, Lord Jesus,
hear my cry!
Hope draws me
to watch the sky.
A glimmer here,
a shade of light
the darkness breaks,
a promise comes,
balm to my soul
I wait.
Come, Lord Jesus,
hear my cry!
Peace of mind,
reprieve .of turmoil,
of strife, of hunger.
You'll lift my burdens,
sooth my soul,
with songs like Larks
we'll not have a worry
gently guided,
I wait.
Come, Lord Jesus,
hear my cry!
Your love is all!
And wrapped in love,
joy, peace and hope,
the dawn will come.
The light of love we all will see
forever,
for eternity.
Come, Lord Jesus,
hear my cry!
Hopeless darkness,
I watch the sky.
All swirling clouds,
the endless darkness,
all oppressed.
In tearful pleas
I wait.
Come, Lord Jesus,
hear my cry!
The joy of your presence,
the gift of your love.
A ray of light
breaks through
my heart lifts,
but in the dark
I wait.
Come, Lord Jesus,
hear my cry!
Hope draws me
to watch the sky.
A glimmer here,
a shade of light
the darkness breaks,
a promise comes,
balm to my soul
I wait.
Come, Lord Jesus,
hear my cry!
Peace of mind,
reprieve .of turmoil,
of strife, of hunger.
You'll lift my burdens,
sooth my soul,
with songs like Larks
we'll not have a worry
gently guided,
I wait.
Come, Lord Jesus,
hear my cry!
Your love is all!
And wrapped in love,
joy, peace and hope,
the dawn will come.
The light of love we all will see
forever,
for eternity.
Saturday, December 08, 2007
Why it frightened her:
It had been almost two years since she had dropped out of a favorite listserv, allfaiths.com. It had been such a time waster! Shortly before dropping off, she'd been involved a round-robbin writing thread. The story line, as is true of all round-robbins, where one person writes a scene based on the previous entry, had become wild. It was an old-west meets New York City fantasy with everything from robots to vampires centered on an old country house. City slickers trying to imagine old tractors and farm dogs made it extra wild. Each character had a favorite comfort from hot tea to Jim Beam Whiskey. Among those who played in the round-robin was a character by the name of Dingo. He came complete with straw hat and baggy coveralls. It was all in good fun and some terribly fun ideas had been birthed by the group. Overall, the quality of the writing was amazing.
One day, Katie mentioned shooting a manuscript off to a publisher. It was simply a figure of speech. Before she knew it, Dingo was playing with the idea in all sorts of terrible ways. "Katie git yer gun," or "Katie's cleanin' up her gun," "Katie's on a rampage! Better find that gun o' hers before she gets here or we'll all be dead!" or "We're gonna have to run, Katie's got 'er gun!" It had gotten out of hand and it made her miserable. Dingo was stuck on the idea and no matter what, he wasn't leaving it alone. She quit the thread and quit the list serv.
Just about a month before the firs of the threatening emails came, she'd started visiting the list serv again. Almost the day she returned, she had said something in a discussion on the subject of the war in Iraq and Dingo had become irate. He wasn't the least bit subtle about it, either. He was cold. Katie thought the post had been quite inoffensive, really, and thought he'd misread what she'd written. She tried to set the matter straight, but every post she wrote boomeranged on her and he simply became more angry. It puzzled her that others seemed to take his side. She even tried rereading her own post to see what could have been so offensive. It was certainly inadvertent. That was the first time it ever occurred to her that the man was a little off-kilter.
But now, here were those same things mentioned in these emails that related so perfectly to the things Dingo had been saying in the round-robin. Except they were threatening, not just uncomfortable. And now the other Steven Kingly thriller characters were being introduced. It all made sense now. And she had a good idea that the person threatening her was either Dingo or somebody else who had participated in the round-robin.
It wasn't that the risks of playing around on the Internet had never crossed her mind. She'd always been alert to the possibility, but no red flags had ever flown over the innocent games the group of writers had been playing. Wisdom reminded her that this would have always been the case. People don't ever associate with weird people like that knowingly.
Notes: (So, I don't lose my notes, I'll write them right in.) A year and a half later she catches Dingo doing the same thing on the list serv that he'd done to her to another woman.
One day, Katie mentioned shooting a manuscript off to a publisher. It was simply a figure of speech. Before she knew it, Dingo was playing with the idea in all sorts of terrible ways. "Katie git yer gun," or "Katie's cleanin' up her gun," "Katie's on a rampage! Better find that gun o' hers before she gets here or we'll all be dead!" or "We're gonna have to run, Katie's got 'er gun!" It had gotten out of hand and it made her miserable. Dingo was stuck on the idea and no matter what, he wasn't leaving it alone. She quit the thread and quit the list serv.
Just about a month before the firs of the threatening emails came, she'd started visiting the list serv again. Almost the day she returned, she had said something in a discussion on the subject of the war in Iraq and Dingo had become irate. He wasn't the least bit subtle about it, either. He was cold. Katie thought the post had been quite inoffensive, really, and thought he'd misread what she'd written. She tried to set the matter straight, but every post she wrote boomeranged on her and he simply became more angry. It puzzled her that others seemed to take his side. She even tried rereading her own post to see what could have been so offensive. It was certainly inadvertent. That was the first time it ever occurred to her that the man was a little off-kilter.
But now, here were those same things mentioned in these emails that related so perfectly to the things Dingo had been saying in the round-robin. Except they were threatening, not just uncomfortable. And now the other Steven Kingly thriller characters were being introduced. It all made sense now. And she had a good idea that the person threatening her was either Dingo or somebody else who had participated in the round-robin.
It wasn't that the risks of playing around on the Internet had never crossed her mind. She'd always been alert to the possibility, but no red flags had ever flown over the innocent games the group of writers had been playing. Wisdom reminded her that this would have always been the case. People don't ever associate with weird people like that knowingly.
Notes: (So, I don't lose my notes, I'll write them right in.) A year and a half later she catches Dingo doing the same thing on the list serv that he'd done to her to another woman.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
As flu season begins . . .
Some may be interested in this article in the New York Times today on how flu spreads and why it is a phenomenon of the winter months.
Study Shows Why the Flu Likes Winter
So stay indoors and humidify the air! Or, take a shot.
And, as long as I am providing public service messages, this one is from Snopes on a slick credit card scam:
credit card scam
Study Shows Why the Flu Likes Winter
So stay indoors and humidify the air! Or, take a shot.
And, as long as I am providing public service messages, this one is from Snopes on a slick credit card scam:
credit card scam
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
My burden:
In a square of cloth I place my woes:
The desire for what's been lost;
The ache for those when my love fell short;
the regrets for things I didn't do
and for the things I did.
I gather up my fears, remember each
and how I ran, then drop them in.
I should have trusted you.
And shame! For when my pride was hurt
--as though pride is ever good
or served myself or you.
It's big and bloated and oozes shame,
I wipe my hands of it.
Trembling, I recall mistakes I've made.
What I valued that I shouldn't,
What I should, but didn't.
Regrets! They're heavy and they hurt.
I cry as I shove them to the pile.
What time I've wasted--
when a second can have such impact,
and I whiled away my hours.
The pile of sins, the wrong's I've done,
the burdens that bore me down.
Ashamed, I'd rather hide.
I gather the four corners of the cloth,
and pull and center, tie the bundle closed . . .
with all my strength I lift it, and struggle out the door.
Beyond the tree and down the path
until I reach the summit of the hill
and there I lay my burdens down at his feet,
and offer up the me that is in it.
I feel a soft, caressing breeze,
an almost unheard whisper.
The bundle shrinks,
it floats aloft,
weightless in his unseen hand.
I'm free, unfettered,
tearful for the joy.
I'd promise to not build another pile,
but spend my time as seconds count
and his will, mine.
Where you will me, Lord!
My burden--yours.
The desire for what's been lost;
The ache for those when my love fell short;
the regrets for things I didn't do
and for the things I did.
I gather up my fears, remember each
and how I ran, then drop them in.
I should have trusted you.
And shame! For when my pride was hurt
--as though pride is ever good
or served myself or you.
It's big and bloated and oozes shame,
I wipe my hands of it.
Trembling, I recall mistakes I've made.
What I valued that I shouldn't,
What I should, but didn't.
Regrets! They're heavy and they hurt.
I cry as I shove them to the pile.
What time I've wasted--
when a second can have such impact,
and I whiled away my hours.
The pile of sins, the wrong's I've done,
the burdens that bore me down.
Ashamed, I'd rather hide.
I gather the four corners of the cloth,
and pull and center, tie the bundle closed . . .
with all my strength I lift it, and struggle out the door.
Beyond the tree and down the path
until I reach the summit of the hill
and there I lay my burdens down at his feet,
and offer up the me that is in it.
I feel a soft, caressing breeze,
an almost unheard whisper.
The bundle shrinks,
it floats aloft,
weightless in his unseen hand.
I'm free, unfettered,
tearful for the joy.
I'd promise to not build another pile,
but spend my time as seconds count
and his will, mine.
Where you will me, Lord!
My burden--yours.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Friday Cat Blogging:
This is more along the lines of what is strange rather than just pretty photographs. We lost a dearly beloved old cat last winter. And then our youngest cat, Squeaky, began to hang around on his grave. Not only that, but she began to take over his old role among the cats in the family. She guards the property, she guards me and she does all the things that I thought no cat would do once Black Kitty was gone. At any rate, I took these pictures of her one early spring evening.
The Perfect Murder
*Yes, I am going to write this. Even if y'all think it is stupid! It keeps playing on my mind and I do think that if I pull it off, it is a great idea! And it is a rough draft . . . *
Another weird email turned up in her email defense. Kate saw it and knew what she was looking at simply from the title. It said it was from the 5th 3rd Bank. It could have just as easily said it was from EBAY or PayPal or any other financial type of concern. But she knew if she opened it, there would be a threatening addition at the bottom. She knew it would play off a famous Stephen King thriller--one she had not read. She knew that herself and the main character shared the same first name. She knew it might be written as though it was nonsensical gibberish, words strung together in a way that suggested they might have been shuffled, some sort of code, as though if she printed it out and cut them apart she could reassemble them to say something very specific. She knew that it could very well threaten her for her religious views and she also knew that it could very well and very clearly state that she was going to die.
She double clicked and opened it. Briefed through it. Confirmed her fears. Hit print. Took the freshly printed pages from the printer and tucked them at the bottom of the pile that she'd been keeping front and center on her desk right above her keyboard. This one would be the thirty-second message she had printed out and she'd allowed even more than she had kept go to delete heaven.
The same old questions haunted her. Was it a real threat? Some of the posts had been addressed to more than one address. She'd checked most of them. One batch had been sent to all the email address beginning with the same letter as her own email address through her Internet Service Provider. She called them on that one. Some had been emailed to her alone. Should she take it to the police? That was the action that her ISP had recommended. But then her daughter had told her that she'd received some too--which made little sense because Internet wise, the two never crossed paths--different web interests--and her daughter lived three-hundred miles away, had an unrelated email address and a different ISP. Along with talking to her ISP and her daughter, she'd checked for scams and it wasn't listed among them. Besides, what kind of scam is a murder threat using a character named after yourself? Finding no answers, she'd continued to work over the same sparse evidence for a month now--mentally, always mentally. Other than printing out the posts, she had done nothing else. One thing was certain--she had no intention of taking the time to decipher the message. It seemed to be an act that would play into the monster's hand.
Brandishing the pile, even fanning them with her thumb, she rose from her chair and, like a person hypnotized, walked into the living room where her husband was watching the television. She sat down on the edge of the couch, nerves taut. She flipped the pages again, noting an odd word here and there. Would he think it was foolishness?
####################################################################################
The day was perfect. The sky was a clear blue, the air clear, the hint of fall that is typical of September days that you can't quite explain--like a smell--marked the end of hot summer days. As Kate dexterously rounded the near-right-angeled curve going 35 mph on the road to her house, she felt the numb, painful dryness of her lips and wondered how, when the weather was so beautiful and not at all dry, her lips should feel January-arctic-front dry.
Another weird email turned up in her email defense. Kate saw it and knew what she was looking at simply from the title. It said it was from the 5th 3rd Bank. It could have just as easily said it was from EBAY or PayPal or any other financial type of concern. But she knew if she opened it, there would be a threatening addition at the bottom. She knew it would play off a famous Stephen King thriller--one she had not read. She knew that herself and the main character shared the same first name. She knew it might be written as though it was nonsensical gibberish, words strung together in a way that suggested they might have been shuffled, some sort of code, as though if she printed it out and cut them apart she could reassemble them to say something very specific. She knew that it could very well threaten her for her religious views and she also knew that it could very well and very clearly state that she was going to die.
She double clicked and opened it. Briefed through it. Confirmed her fears. Hit print. Took the freshly printed pages from the printer and tucked them at the bottom of the pile that she'd been keeping front and center on her desk right above her keyboard. This one would be the thirty-second message she had printed out and she'd allowed even more than she had kept go to delete heaven.
The same old questions haunted her. Was it a real threat? Some of the posts had been addressed to more than one address. She'd checked most of them. One batch had been sent to all the email address beginning with the same letter as her own email address through her Internet Service Provider. She called them on that one. Some had been emailed to her alone. Should she take it to the police? That was the action that her ISP had recommended. But then her daughter had told her that she'd received some too--which made little sense because Internet wise, the two never crossed paths--different web interests--and her daughter lived three-hundred miles away, had an unrelated email address and a different ISP. Along with talking to her ISP and her daughter, she'd checked for scams and it wasn't listed among them. Besides, what kind of scam is a murder threat using a character named after yourself? Finding no answers, she'd continued to work over the same sparse evidence for a month now--mentally, always mentally. Other than printing out the posts, she had done nothing else. One thing was certain--she had no intention of taking the time to decipher the message. It seemed to be an act that would play into the monster's hand.
Brandishing the pile, even fanning them with her thumb, she rose from her chair and, like a person hypnotized, walked into the living room where her husband was watching the television. She sat down on the edge of the couch, nerves taut. She flipped the pages again, noting an odd word here and there. Would he think it was foolishness?
####################################################################################
The day was perfect. The sky was a clear blue, the air clear, the hint of fall that is typical of September days that you can't quite explain--like a smell--marked the end of hot summer days. As Kate dexterously rounded the near-right-angeled curve going 35 mph on the road to her house, she felt the numb, painful dryness of her lips and wondered how, when the weather was so beautiful and not at all dry, her lips should feel January-arctic-front dry.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Morning Pages:
It has been a number of years since I actually practiced a daily act of journaling, what Julia Cameron calls Morning Pages. I joined a group yesterday with the thought that it would do me good. Immediately, I saw some of the old familiar questions that haunted me so long on my now defunct Artist's Way* listserv. So today, here, I am going to give the advice I won't let myself give there. I'm just going to be a participant this time, a member of the group. Ideally, it is a circle, anyway.
My mind played with the immediate objective of releasing the creative person within. It sells the process. But, as I considered that somebody was asking if they should join the group at Chapter 5 because they joined late or begin at the beginning and I was considering my own advice--which I refrained from giving on the grounds that I am not the facilitator in this group--I would say to begin at the beginning because the process builds on itself and the first three chapters are crucial. What releases our creativity or unblocks us is, in actual fact, far more than a mere block. We are constipated or, to be even more harsh, crippled by the cumulative effect of these monsters that haunt us. The process heals us and releases us from a great deal of emotional baggage we've been hauling around. When I had my list, I was convinced that the process would be good for everyone, not just blocked creatives.
Those first three chapters release a tumultuous deluge of emotion. As I recall, and it has been ten years since I first worked through the book, it began with dreams--vivid, sometimes nightmarish, memorable. It began almost as soon as I began doing MPs. It brings the subconscious to the conscious. And as the process evolves and the book works on the various ways we have allowed blocks to form in our creative flow we begin to see that our mind has been attempting to protect our selves from destruction, but the ghosts of the truths it has hidden from us often turn out to be merely mirages, or mists. These are not real ghosts, they are laughably inept and powerless ghosts, to say the least. Some turn out to be rather inane, really. They are like the monster that hid under your bed when you were five.
Many drop out in these first three chapters. The third is the most difficult, if I remember correctly. Later, once through the book and through the process, it is difficult to figure out by rereading the book what caused so much tumult at the time. It seems so benign. I think it happened again in the seventh lesson, or so. If I recall correctly, I entered a desert--and we don't like deserts!--from lessons seven through nine. I used to work very hard at encouraging those who were dragging and I feared may drop out to keep struggling. To raise the ghosts that haunt us, if you will, and then not prove them to have no power over us--I think--is to do ourselves more damage than had we never begun the journey. They resuscitate the monster under the bed but never get out of the bed to look under it in order to see that it is little more than a dust bunny hiding there. My best advice to anybody before they begin the journey is to keep that contract by all means! Do not even begin or else finish.
This is oft repeated advice: Begin at the beginning. Come to the page every day. Morning Pages are best done first thing in the morning, but if they are forgotten before the habit is firm, do them later if necessary. Morning is important because we're looking for the biggies, not the daily grind. If you don't have time to write, try to make note of those first thoughts of the day and deal with them when you do get to the page. Try by hand first. Save them for six weeks exactly as you are told to do (I can't check this fact) and then read them--the garbage is so much more beautiful and more meaningful than it felt! Hide them, whatever, but use them to HEAL. Do your work and move right along. Don't fool yourself into thinking that you need to spend more time on a lesson! Make it in twelve weeks.
Note: I do not have my book in my possession in order to be more specific or double check my memory.
My mind played with the immediate objective of releasing the creative person within. It sells the process. But, as I considered that somebody was asking if they should join the group at Chapter 5 because they joined late or begin at the beginning and I was considering my own advice--which I refrained from giving on the grounds that I am not the facilitator in this group--I would say to begin at the beginning because the process builds on itself and the first three chapters are crucial. What releases our creativity or unblocks us is, in actual fact, far more than a mere block. We are constipated or, to be even more harsh, crippled by the cumulative effect of these monsters that haunt us. The process heals us and releases us from a great deal of emotional baggage we've been hauling around. When I had my list, I was convinced that the process would be good for everyone, not just blocked creatives.
Those first three chapters release a tumultuous deluge of emotion. As I recall, and it has been ten years since I first worked through the book, it began with dreams--vivid, sometimes nightmarish, memorable. It began almost as soon as I began doing MPs. It brings the subconscious to the conscious. And as the process evolves and the book works on the various ways we have allowed blocks to form in our creative flow we begin to see that our mind has been attempting to protect our selves from destruction, but the ghosts of the truths it has hidden from us often turn out to be merely mirages, or mists. These are not real ghosts, they are laughably inept and powerless ghosts, to say the least. Some turn out to be rather inane, really. They are like the monster that hid under your bed when you were five.
Many drop out in these first three chapters. The third is the most difficult, if I remember correctly. Later, once through the book and through the process, it is difficult to figure out by rereading the book what caused so much tumult at the time. It seems so benign. I think it happened again in the seventh lesson, or so. If I recall correctly, I entered a desert--and we don't like deserts!--from lessons seven through nine. I used to work very hard at encouraging those who were dragging and I feared may drop out to keep struggling. To raise the ghosts that haunt us, if you will, and then not prove them to have no power over us--I think--is to do ourselves more damage than had we never begun the journey. They resuscitate the monster under the bed but never get out of the bed to look under it in order to see that it is little more than a dust bunny hiding there. My best advice to anybody before they begin the journey is to keep that contract by all means! Do not even begin or else finish.
This is oft repeated advice: Begin at the beginning. Come to the page every day. Morning Pages are best done first thing in the morning, but if they are forgotten before the habit is firm, do them later if necessary. Morning is important because we're looking for the biggies, not the daily grind. If you don't have time to write, try to make note of those first thoughts of the day and deal with them when you do get to the page. Try by hand first. Save them for six weeks exactly as you are told to do (I can't check this fact) and then read them--the garbage is so much more beautiful and more meaningful than it felt! Hide them, whatever, but use them to HEAL. Do your work and move right along. Don't fool yourself into thinking that you need to spend more time on a lesson! Make it in twelve weeks.
Note: I do not have my book in my possession in order to be more specific or double check my memory.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Loneliness:
It is that time of the year that causes immense suffering for those who are lonely. Which makes me think of what I am called to do by Christ. I am called to love even those who are difficult to love, the least among us.
A few weeks ago I participated in a conversation about this very thing, if you will. The question asked was, "I know I am called to love my neighbor, but do I have to like her?" The consensus in the group was, "No. You have to love her, but you don't have to like her." And with that answer the intent was that this person need not associate with her annoying friend, need not include her in her group, etc.--in short, shun her.
Who am I to buck the group? I'm one small voice. The norm of the group is to allow that a person has some deep-seated personality flaws and she is difficult to have around, she does some socially irresponsible things and hurts people in the process and so--even though only God would know it--we love her (how?) but exclude her. Note, this isn't a person who is intentionally abusive. She probably hasn't got a clue what others don't like about her. She isn't socially adept. I, on the other hand, think that if I am loving toward my neighbor, then my neighbor knows it. Far be it from me to be very judgmental, truth be told, so my voice wasn't very loud. But like so many other ways we don't do the hard things we are called to do, loving the least among us is a biggy we'd rather forgive in ourselves and avoid rather than change.
There are lonely people that I am not taking care of at this time and so guilt is contributing as much to my silence in the group as the outcry against my better judgment. But self-examination leaves me with the burden of doing something about my unloving and un-Christlike burden. I do have to love the people that are difficult to love. From the opposite side of the same street, I realize that I am hurt by the people who don't seem to find me to be a lovable, worthwhile person. I know that I am not deserving of their unloving behavior! ;) So, who am I to do the same thing to somebody else?
When my children were growing up, they were normal. It hurt them to be normal. At about age thirteen or so, the painful truth that they were not among the most popular kids in the school caused untold misery. I especially had to give my eldest child several pep talks on the subject. In every school, indeed in every place we go in life, there will be the few, the pacesetters, the top dogs, the few at the top of the heap. But the vast majority of us have to endure being average: somewhat liked, often disliked; sometimes agreed with, often disagreed with; sometimes respected and often reviled; sometimes included, often excluded; sometimes noticed, often overlooked. There is only room at the top for two or three and the second tier are their favored inner-circle, beyond that are all the rest of us.
What makes a person popular? Is it their intelligence? No . . . I know some totally intelligent people that are dreadful to be around. Is it that they always say and do the right things? No . . . I've seen popular people say and do dreadful things. In short, I've never figured out any reason for them to be popular that they did intentionally. It seems to be more like . . . an accident of birth. It is more like being born with a certain skin color, or into a wealthy home, or artistically talented, or mathematically inclined. But I must say that being socially adept and popular is good for the self-esteem.
Yesterday I wrote about Thanksgiving and family. Families are a case in point! We get tossed together with some of the strangest people! There are definitely people in every family that are a pain. We have to look deep for their worthiness to love, ignore a lot of bad behavior, brush aside past hurts and sit at the same table.
My point isn't so much that there are unpopular people as it is that some people are more difficult to like, more distant and hard to get to know than others, shy and uninclined to speak up and so go unnoticed. For a myriad of reasons, the lonely are among us. In the first example, the woman in question was bossy.
While running an errand and thinking on this subject, I remembered a man I once knew. He was rude, never curbed his tongue, critical of everybody--a real bear! I hated to be anywhere near him and I usually did avoid him. We worked together at the children's home. But let me tell you, when one of those kids was in some sort of trouble or in need, he would move earth and sky to take care of them. That rough exterior was hiding a heart as big as all outdoors! In the long run, I would say that he is one of the best people that I have ever known. He wasn't a bear! He was a huge grumpy teddy-bear!
I've been thinking a lot about Anne Lamott's book, Grace (Eventually). I suffer a sense of guilt because most of my religious counterparts read more meaty theological works. But what Anne is dealing with is the grit of Grace--the living out of faith. It is the most complex theology of all! How do we live out our faith. I don't recall a single meaty theological discussion that dealt with loving the least among us, even those who are difficult to love.
In this book she tells about a woman's husband who has some deep personality flaws and was, shall I say, to be avoided if possible. I gather he'd corner Anne and talk her ear off on some subject ad infinitum. But Anne's friend, who was fighting cancer, was struggling through a heat wave and suffering. Her husband bought an A/C--spur of the moment with funds saved for a vacation. He courted his wife's anger, he defied her wishes--all because he loved her and loved her life. It was grace, I gather, for Anne to see in him something worth loving and to appreciate the fact that he loved her friend.
I hold that every person has both good and not so good--shall I say bad?--personality traits, but all are lovable if we just find what it is that is lovable about them. And it is harder to find love for some than it is for others. I also hold that we are all children of God and we are all called to love each other. And loving does mean that the object of our love knows they are loved. So, loving the least among us, loving even those who are difficult to love, does actually include loving those we don't like. It may not mean that we must be with them day in and day out or include them in all our activities, but it should mean that we tolerate even those who annoy us, that we greet them in such a friendly way that they feel loved and welcomed when they come our way; that we forgive them for their stupidity; it may mean that we allow them to approach us and talk to us at a party and it may mean that we are willing to speak to them, pick up the phone, if they call. It may mean that we are so open to them that if they whispered their pain, we would hear it.
A few weeks ago I participated in a conversation about this very thing, if you will. The question asked was, "I know I am called to love my neighbor, but do I have to like her?" The consensus in the group was, "No. You have to love her, but you don't have to like her." And with that answer the intent was that this person need not associate with her annoying friend, need not include her in her group, etc.--in short, shun her.
Who am I to buck the group? I'm one small voice. The norm of the group is to allow that a person has some deep-seated personality flaws and she is difficult to have around, she does some socially irresponsible things and hurts people in the process and so--even though only God would know it--we love her (how?) but exclude her. Note, this isn't a person who is intentionally abusive. She probably hasn't got a clue what others don't like about her. She isn't socially adept. I, on the other hand, think that if I am loving toward my neighbor, then my neighbor knows it. Far be it from me to be very judgmental, truth be told, so my voice wasn't very loud. But like so many other ways we don't do the hard things we are called to do, loving the least among us is a biggy we'd rather forgive in ourselves and avoid rather than change.
There are lonely people that I am not taking care of at this time and so guilt is contributing as much to my silence in the group as the outcry against my better judgment. But self-examination leaves me with the burden of doing something about my unloving and un-Christlike burden. I do have to love the people that are difficult to love. From the opposite side of the same street, I realize that I am hurt by the people who don't seem to find me to be a lovable, worthwhile person. I know that I am not deserving of their unloving behavior! ;) So, who am I to do the same thing to somebody else?
When my children were growing up, they were normal. It hurt them to be normal. At about age thirteen or so, the painful truth that they were not among the most popular kids in the school caused untold misery. I especially had to give my eldest child several pep talks on the subject. In every school, indeed in every place we go in life, there will be the few, the pacesetters, the top dogs, the few at the top of the heap. But the vast majority of us have to endure being average: somewhat liked, often disliked; sometimes agreed with, often disagreed with; sometimes respected and often reviled; sometimes included, often excluded; sometimes noticed, often overlooked. There is only room at the top for two or three and the second tier are their favored inner-circle, beyond that are all the rest of us.
What makes a person popular? Is it their intelligence? No . . . I know some totally intelligent people that are dreadful to be around. Is it that they always say and do the right things? No . . . I've seen popular people say and do dreadful things. In short, I've never figured out any reason for them to be popular that they did intentionally. It seems to be more like . . . an accident of birth. It is more like being born with a certain skin color, or into a wealthy home, or artistically talented, or mathematically inclined. But I must say that being socially adept and popular is good for the self-esteem.
Yesterday I wrote about Thanksgiving and family. Families are a case in point! We get tossed together with some of the strangest people! There are definitely people in every family that are a pain. We have to look deep for their worthiness to love, ignore a lot of bad behavior, brush aside past hurts and sit at the same table.
My point isn't so much that there are unpopular people as it is that some people are more difficult to like, more distant and hard to get to know than others, shy and uninclined to speak up and so go unnoticed. For a myriad of reasons, the lonely are among us. In the first example, the woman in question was bossy.
While running an errand and thinking on this subject, I remembered a man I once knew. He was rude, never curbed his tongue, critical of everybody--a real bear! I hated to be anywhere near him and I usually did avoid him. We worked together at the children's home. But let me tell you, when one of those kids was in some sort of trouble or in need, he would move earth and sky to take care of them. That rough exterior was hiding a heart as big as all outdoors! In the long run, I would say that he is one of the best people that I have ever known. He wasn't a bear! He was a huge grumpy teddy-bear!
I've been thinking a lot about Anne Lamott's book, Grace (Eventually). I suffer a sense of guilt because most of my religious counterparts read more meaty theological works. But what Anne is dealing with is the grit of Grace--the living out of faith. It is the most complex theology of all! How do we live out our faith. I don't recall a single meaty theological discussion that dealt with loving the least among us, even those who are difficult to love.
In this book she tells about a woman's husband who has some deep personality flaws and was, shall I say, to be avoided if possible. I gather he'd corner Anne and talk her ear off on some subject ad infinitum. But Anne's friend, who was fighting cancer, was struggling through a heat wave and suffering. Her husband bought an A/C--spur of the moment with funds saved for a vacation. He courted his wife's anger, he defied her wishes--all because he loved her and loved her life. It was grace, I gather, for Anne to see in him something worth loving and to appreciate the fact that he loved her friend.
I hold that every person has both good and not so good--shall I say bad?--personality traits, but all are lovable if we just find what it is that is lovable about them. And it is harder to find love for some than it is for others. I also hold that we are all children of God and we are all called to love each other. And loving does mean that the object of our love knows they are loved. So, loving the least among us, loving even those who are difficult to love, does actually include loving those we don't like. It may not mean that we must be with them day in and day out or include them in all our activities, but it should mean that we tolerate even those who annoy us, that we greet them in such a friendly way that they feel loved and welcomed when they come our way; that we forgive them for their stupidity; it may mean that we allow them to approach us and talk to us at a party and it may mean that we are willing to speak to them, pick up the phone, if they call. It may mean that we are so open to them that if they whispered their pain, we would hear it.