Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Shitty Rough Drafts
I thought that because I've attempted to restart my writing habit a number of times only to fail, that the best thing would be to go back to the beginning. In the beginning, my blog was for daily writing adventures. It wasn't supposed to be agonized over or perfected. It was to be purely rough draft. It was supposed to be a "keep the pen moving" effort.
A writer is really someone who can never quite give up writing. The evidence is overwhelming against me. I must have a half a dozen notebooks for different purposes, although those purposes are often fuzzy and cross the lines somewhat. I always have a journal. I have one notebook for when I manage to work on something from Natalie Goldberg's, Old Friend From Far Away. I have another one that I bought because it was cheap on sale and it captures my wilder moments. So, I am simply confessing that I am a writer and I can't give it up. I might as well make some sort of forward progress. I have two shitty first drafts and who knows how many hefty beginnings. It seems that my biggest problem is revision. When it comes to revising a novel with a minimum of one-hundred-fifteen-thousand words, I'm overwhelmed. I bog down in what to add and what to slice and keeping track of all my thoughts. But I do worry that I will die with shitty rough drafts on my hard drive. Worse, I worry that my computer will die with shitty rough drafts that aren't saved anywhere else. Obviously I have a problem. I might need Writers Anonymous.
Yesterday, I took Anne Lamott's, Bird by Bird to work with me. She makes me feel so good. I laugh until my sides hurt. I have read and reread this book so many times through the years. Or, I just pick it up for a laugh. I thought that would be the best way to begin again, with Anne's guidance and humor. I needed to remember turning my critics into mice, picking them up by the tail and dropping them into a mason jar. I had to draw a bracket around her paragraph about her mind having conversations with people who aren't there. For me anything that happens or is going to happen is the cause of an imagined scenario. And sometimes even a revised scenario. And sometimes, I'm even smart enough to remember that I never get it right before the fact. Some of these are just sketches. Sometimes I even color in the lines. I talk to a lot of cops that way, too, if I think they might have seen me do something stupid or if I see a cop do something stupid. I was just having a conversation in the bathtub with my employer over a hoped for position. I hate to look for another job. He'll never know.
It is this kind of imagination, this all consuming constant story creation, with my mind forever lost in its own little imaginings that must be the hallmark of all who are driven to write. When I was tiny, my grandmother was always saying that I would lose my head if it weren't screwed on. Others said things that weren't quite so nice that implied the same spacey approach to life. She saw it, she just didn't know what she was seeing.
I used to think I loved to write but I never had a story worth writing. I would agonize over it for weeks at a time. Why I thought I could love to write if I didn't have anything to write about is a mystery. I would cook up a novel idea and lose it in creating an outline. In truth, I feel that way again now. But I had one profound moment, years ago, when it dawned on me that I have been making up stories constantly every day of my life as far back as I can remember. They may not be interesting, but I've dreamed up millions of them. I think the problem is the blank page. Seeing a blank piece of paper makes me think I have to write something great. Well, shoot that mouse! If I can just manage one sentence, tarnish the page, I'm halfway there already.
I was going to write about lunchboxes because Anne uses remembering school lunches as an assignment. I was going to tell how all my friends had the coolest lunchboxes and that was back in the day when they were still metal. What I really wanted was a Wyatt Earp lunchbox. I never had one because I usually went home to eat with my Dad. But when he was out of town, I had to take my lunch like the normal kids. Talk about being up against the fence! And since I made my lunch, I had to write my own name on the paper bag, if I was fortunate enough to have a lunch bag sized bag.
That would have been boring anyway. Or, should I say, too.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Hush! This is a secret and I am not telling anybody that I am blogging again. I am also going to work on my writing again which is why I am beginning by blogging. I expect this to be boring and bad. But my topic today is reading.
My reading habit had become too lax. While cleaning the house recently, I noticed my piles of books, those piles that shift from here to there around the house but have not changed much over time for quite a few years and continue to collect dust. They are all good for me to read, edifying, but have failed to hold my attention and so they sit. Each has a bookmark sticking out of one end wherever I finally lost interest so totally I could never bring myself to open it again. If a good book lands on the pile, it isn't long before it's gone. With fall looming and silence in the house, I was suffering a terrible hunger to read. I knew that I need to devour books, fun to read books, books that are not good for me to read before I could feel mentally healthy. I took a trip to the library to solve the problem three days ago.
I felt right at home the minute I walked in the door. The carpet hasn't changed, the old sweet scent of books, of old paper and ink, of read text, was perfect perfume, an elixir for flagging spirits. I began by going directly to the front desk. In the back of my mind, a fear had begun to fester that they would kick me out if they saw how long it has been since I last checked out a book. It is time to confess that I prefer to own my own books, but books have become quite pricey of late. It turned out that my library card had expired one month and one day before I came back. It wasn't as bad as I had feared it would be and I needed a new card anyway because I'd lost my old one. A new card on my keyring and I was ready to find some books.
Fortunately, the fiction section is the first room beyond the lobby. History, though I love it, was off my list--too good for me, too edifying, too likely to collect dust. I began reading titles and immediately saw one I ought to read. Out of habit, my hand responded to the impulse, I reached for the top of the spine. But froze--do I need another good for me to read book that I will drag through? I managed to pull my hand off the top of the book and walk on. I needed a book that would grab me! I even managed to get all the way around to the other side of the first row of shelves, scanning titles and authors and muttering, "No, not that one," over and over, before I saw the first promising title--a book I hadn't read by an author with whom I had no previous acquaintance. Perfect!
What is more, this particular title concerned me. It is remarkably close to the working title of my WIP, slow progress. If you are a friend of mine, you may remember that title is, And Fair, Fierce Women, borrowed from a poem by Robert Burns. This book's title is Fair and Tender Ladies. Too close, too close. It fulfilled the requirement that the book must grab me. It grabbed me so fast that the cover was open and I was reading in less than a second. It is an older book, published in 1988 and I am stymied as to how I could have missed it in the past.
My search resumed and I went into the next room and began at the end of the fiction section. The next one that grabbed me was not so unfamiliar, I just don't remember reading this particular novel before. It is, A Gift of Sanctuary by Candace Robb, a medieval mystery, and if I am lucky, the library will have the whole series at some point. That's what I hate about libraries.
Then I did something that is totally out of character for me. I made myself leave. I did not continue until I had an armload. This is fortunate now that I am living alone and unemployed. With no interruptions and no schedule, I might be totally out of control if I have some books that aren't good for me to read. I am a confessed book devourer. I can resist going to the bathroom for hours when I am reading a gripping story.
I checked out, I went home and immediately began to read. I read until 4:00 AM. I resumed reading with my early afternoon coffee the next day. I read straight through, into the second day, until the last page had been turned. And then . . . and then I reread parts. Both were excellent, but especially Lee Smith's. I would be reading still had I picked up six books instead of only two. Besides, this means I get another whiff of library perfume and more wear on my new library card. This is always good for my spirit, to get out and go to either a book store or a library. This is where I come alive.
My reading habit had become too lax. While cleaning the house recently, I noticed my piles of books, those piles that shift from here to there around the house but have not changed much over time for quite a few years and continue to collect dust. They are all good for me to read, edifying, but have failed to hold my attention and so they sit. Each has a bookmark sticking out of one end wherever I finally lost interest so totally I could never bring myself to open it again. If a good book lands on the pile, it isn't long before it's gone. With fall looming and silence in the house, I was suffering a terrible hunger to read. I knew that I need to devour books, fun to read books, books that are not good for me to read before I could feel mentally healthy. I took a trip to the library to solve the problem three days ago.
I felt right at home the minute I walked in the door. The carpet hasn't changed, the old sweet scent of books, of old paper and ink, of read text, was perfect perfume, an elixir for flagging spirits. I began by going directly to the front desk. In the back of my mind, a fear had begun to fester that they would kick me out if they saw how long it has been since I last checked out a book. It is time to confess that I prefer to own my own books, but books have become quite pricey of late. It turned out that my library card had expired one month and one day before I came back. It wasn't as bad as I had feared it would be and I needed a new card anyway because I'd lost my old one. A new card on my keyring and I was ready to find some books.
Fortunately, the fiction section is the first room beyond the lobby. History, though I love it, was off my list--too good for me, too edifying, too likely to collect dust. I began reading titles and immediately saw one I ought to read. Out of habit, my hand responded to the impulse, I reached for the top of the spine. But froze--do I need another good for me to read book that I will drag through? I managed to pull my hand off the top of the book and walk on. I needed a book that would grab me! I even managed to get all the way around to the other side of the first row of shelves, scanning titles and authors and muttering, "No, not that one," over and over, before I saw the first promising title--a book I hadn't read by an author with whom I had no previous acquaintance. Perfect!
What is more, this particular title concerned me. It is remarkably close to the working title of my WIP, slow progress. If you are a friend of mine, you may remember that title is, And Fair, Fierce Women, borrowed from a poem by Robert Burns. This book's title is Fair and Tender Ladies. Too close, too close. It fulfilled the requirement that the book must grab me. It grabbed me so fast that the cover was open and I was reading in less than a second. It is an older book, published in 1988 and I am stymied as to how I could have missed it in the past.
My search resumed and I went into the next room and began at the end of the fiction section. The next one that grabbed me was not so unfamiliar, I just don't remember reading this particular novel before. It is, A Gift of Sanctuary by Candace Robb, a medieval mystery, and if I am lucky, the library will have the whole series at some point. That's what I hate about libraries.
Then I did something that is totally out of character for me. I made myself leave. I did not continue until I had an armload. This is fortunate now that I am living alone and unemployed. With no interruptions and no schedule, I might be totally out of control if I have some books that aren't good for me to read. I am a confessed book devourer. I can resist going to the bathroom for hours when I am reading a gripping story.
I checked out, I went home and immediately began to read. I read until 4:00 AM. I resumed reading with my early afternoon coffee the next day. I read straight through, into the second day, until the last page had been turned. And then . . . and then I reread parts. Both were excellent, but especially Lee Smith's. I would be reading still had I picked up six books instead of only two. Besides, this means I get another whiff of library perfume and more wear on my new library card. This is always good for my spirit, to get out and go to either a book store or a library. This is where I come alive.
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
Responses to the question, "Where was your god . . . "
I spend too much time in discussions on Christianity. Sometimes I write too much and sometimes I think it may be helpful to keep that stuff--it didn't do any good where it was posted. There are so many in this world who now hate Christianity and badger and berate all Christians. I completely identify with what they are saying considering what "Christians" proclaim quite loudly and most often wrongly. You'll have to assume the questions that spawned the essays because I can't, of course, copy the words of those I responded to.
I. In Haiti--in such a quick disaster--it is difficult to know what prayers God answered or what lives were saved or what will be for those who died in those awful minutes and those who suffered beneath the rubble for days but were never found. We believe that there is life after death--that life is eternal or we are already dead in the here and now. That what Jesus teaches us. I believe that eventually we will all come to God--rejoin our maker in the way God has planned--and this life with its miseries and sufferings and the difficulties we've surmounted will some how play into that other life. But I also believe that in the love that is shown, in the love of the people who are struggling in the aftermath of this disaster some of the greatest spiritual growth will occur--it is our human nature. But some will be angry, too.
The greater question may be why create the trouble in the first place? What is our purpose? Why do we suffer? Why do we hunger, thirst, go naked, get sick, have injustices done to us, work our lives away, suffer earthquakes, fires, floods and storms? We don't have those answers. We are so often wounded in the heart. But it seems to be a part of the creation. We aren't in paradise, we are on earth. There are myths that explain this stuff but some of us don't take them literally as in that is exactly how it happened even if we see that some purpose or thing we should understand is worked into the myth. Some would say, "So we will know our need of God." And some note that God does comfort us through our trials. For those of faith, we often see many small miracles--but we can't convince those who have no faith.
So, we come to the question that really matters: what is the nature of God--the Creator. And we can't answer that either. Some of us believe or sense that God is in all things and is everywhere--God is spirit. When Jesus entered Jerusalem the very rocks would cry aloud.
Does God speak to us? Yes, in the silence of our hearts, God speaks. God does guide and God does, through faith, help us. But God is more about relationships and love than God is about miracles and preventing disasters. Could God prevent the disaster? Perhaps--but what is his hidden purpose? (Yes, that is in scripture) I am a gifted intercessor and I have done intercessions and healing was reported back to me. I have prophesied little bits that pertain to our relationship to God. I believe that when our hearts ache when we see someone who is suffering and we appeal to God, God makes our help possible--we become God's hands in this world through love. I know that I need to pray daily . . . I'm a contemplative and so I actually don't have rigid prayer times so much as prayers of intent as I go about my day. I know the love of God is the love we all ache for. That God understands us the way we ache to be understood. These things God has worked into our being in such a way that we spend our lives searching for them until we find them--even searching in all the wrong places--until this aching need is finally satisfied and the only true answer is God. A friends said that most gods are gods of something: war, harvest, moon, sun; but our God is a god of relationships as in the "God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob." Our lives are enriched by faith and the practice of faith and once we have perceived the presence of God we "hunger and thirst" for more.
I'm not about fairy tales and I'm not a spin master of stories. I can't explain why all these years the Church has furthered untruths and mislead the people in the pew and then time and again the people are left with nothing. Or why the Church has fostered our fear of death, selfishness, self-aggrandizement and especially our hatreds--all brick walls between ourselves and our God. But the knowledge of the experience of God has been recorded time and again by many on the spiritual path and it is out there and has been all along--more in ancient times than in these days.
We all seek something greater than ourselves, we sense it deep within our being. No doubt we will and should reject those ways that do not work for us. This is the sad truth that the churches should hear. Nobody here is immortal--everybody on earth eventually dies--why promise that this God will save our lives in this world when scripture never promises that and none of us--not even the most holy saints--have lived beyond our years. Our hope begins here and is eternal--and ends with God . . .
We shouldn't try to make up answers when we don't have any.
II. For what it is worth, I totally agree with you that the evidence here suggests religion gone horribly wrong. And one of the reasons I am on this board is to try to figure out a way to combat this kind of ungodly theology that creates these monsters who teach, preach, practice hate in the name of God. It is absolutely impossible to have faith in God and do intentional harm to another. If they have faith of any kind it is in the twisted lies, twisted myths. These lies, perpetrated against scripture and our God that have been harranged into them by controlling, self-aggrandizing clergy relying on chopped up scripture to support whatever soapbox issue is in their sights because they love the sound of their own voice and are jealous of power. In short: Brainwashing. It is spiritual abuse! (And it isn't limited to Christianity, either). And unlike the tradition, they rely more on mass hysteria as their experience of god than the silence and stillness that even is described in scripture and taught by Christ.
There are many religions--probably the best, imho, as far as not going wrong, is Buddhism, albeit Buddhism is more often thought of as a philosophy, it is still a religion. I don't believe the world will ever be freed of religion, so the only solution I can think of is for those of us who actually belong to a religion with a mystical basis, is to try to set things to rights. The sad thing is that there is a good and beautiful, PASSIVE, loving basis for the "Peaceful" Abrahamic religions--yes, all three claim the God of PEACE. All three teach LOVE, love of God and love of neighbor. All three have great spiritual leaders and a great and beautiful tradition and a mystical branch to which those who really love God will aspire (notwithstanding a little sexual bias . . . ). Despite the fact that they all have factions that have dredged up and maintained the war god image--that power monger god that never existed but was always wished for. There IS no relationship with the living God of LOVE in an environment of hate--so no, I do not call it faith! Hate precludes the experience of God! Faith is not religion, religion is not faith. If it is faith it is empty and their hopes are always dashed, their god won't come through. That imagined god does not exist! There are a lot of Christians who won't own the title "Christian" anymore. It is so tangled up with the bible cults and extremists and their hateful and despicable actions.
I cannot and will not try to control you, what you think or what you believe. But I will defend the beautiful and loving Christ who never did any harm but loved all (even those who are hard to love), taught love and commanded love; who was persecuted, suffered and died for loving and healing humanity and spent three years preaching to those who--unfortunately did exactly what most religionists do now--created their own god out of their desires instead of accepting the real God that is. This--MURDER--is the extent to which people will go to defend their created traditions and brainwashed cults. What we see in the Passion of the Christ is that we all stand in the crowd that yelled, "Crucify him!"--we are all guilty, it is human nature to want to use a god's gloss to control others and bring about our idealized, albeit sick, concept of what godless good is. But we crucify that nature to take on Christ--to be filled by Christ. We can only do (God's) good, we cannot harbor hate, we cannot try to control others--control issues are at the heart of the lower nature. Hate to say it, but just like the Buddhists we are busy meditating . . . you don't hear much from us.
For what it is worth I admire real science, I accept evolution, I am not a creationist and I believe in reason. True, in some random way, I believe God directed it all--but I don't believe that science can lean on that or we'd all be back to the middle ages . . . I abhore rewriting history and anti-intellectualism, shutting down people's minds to accept a fictionalized view of god is grotesque in my opinion and I don't believe you will burn in hell. Book burning is anathema to me. And I don't care what others believe as long as they don't smear Christ or do harm to others in the name of God!
For what it is worth--I am utterly amazed that Christians are being attacked because God didn't stop the earthquake! Then there should never have been earthquakes! What?! Is it supposed to be paradise?! Talk about imagined gods! lol!
I. In Haiti--in such a quick disaster--it is difficult to know what prayers God answered or what lives were saved or what will be for those who died in those awful minutes and those who suffered beneath the rubble for days but were never found. We believe that there is life after death--that life is eternal or we are already dead in the here and now. That what Jesus teaches us. I believe that eventually we will all come to God--rejoin our maker in the way God has planned--and this life with its miseries and sufferings and the difficulties we've surmounted will some how play into that other life. But I also believe that in the love that is shown, in the love of the people who are struggling in the aftermath of this disaster some of the greatest spiritual growth will occur--it is our human nature. But some will be angry, too.
The greater question may be why create the trouble in the first place? What is our purpose? Why do we suffer? Why do we hunger, thirst, go naked, get sick, have injustices done to us, work our lives away, suffer earthquakes, fires, floods and storms? We don't have those answers. We are so often wounded in the heart. But it seems to be a part of the creation. We aren't in paradise, we are on earth. There are myths that explain this stuff but some of us don't take them literally as in that is exactly how it happened even if we see that some purpose or thing we should understand is worked into the myth. Some would say, "So we will know our need of God." And some note that God does comfort us through our trials. For those of faith, we often see many small miracles--but we can't convince those who have no faith.
So, we come to the question that really matters: what is the nature of God--the Creator. And we can't answer that either. Some of us believe or sense that God is in all things and is everywhere--God is spirit. When Jesus entered Jerusalem the very rocks would cry aloud.
Does God speak to us? Yes, in the silence of our hearts, God speaks. God does guide and God does, through faith, help us. But God is more about relationships and love than God is about miracles and preventing disasters. Could God prevent the disaster? Perhaps--but what is his hidden purpose? (Yes, that is in scripture) I am a gifted intercessor and I have done intercessions and healing was reported back to me. I have prophesied little bits that pertain to our relationship to God. I believe that when our hearts ache when we see someone who is suffering and we appeal to God, God makes our help possible--we become God's hands in this world through love. I know that I need to pray daily . . . I'm a contemplative and so I actually don't have rigid prayer times so much as prayers of intent as I go about my day. I know the love of God is the love we all ache for. That God understands us the way we ache to be understood. These things God has worked into our being in such a way that we spend our lives searching for them until we find them--even searching in all the wrong places--until this aching need is finally satisfied and the only true answer is God. A friends said that most gods are gods of something: war, harvest, moon, sun; but our God is a god of relationships as in the "God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob." Our lives are enriched by faith and the practice of faith and once we have perceived the presence of God we "hunger and thirst" for more.
I'm not about fairy tales and I'm not a spin master of stories. I can't explain why all these years the Church has furthered untruths and mislead the people in the pew and then time and again the people are left with nothing. Or why the Church has fostered our fear of death, selfishness, self-aggrandizement and especially our hatreds--all brick walls between ourselves and our God. But the knowledge of the experience of God has been recorded time and again by many on the spiritual path and it is out there and has been all along--more in ancient times than in these days.
We all seek something greater than ourselves, we sense it deep within our being. No doubt we will and should reject those ways that do not work for us. This is the sad truth that the churches should hear. Nobody here is immortal--everybody on earth eventually dies--why promise that this God will save our lives in this world when scripture never promises that and none of us--not even the most holy saints--have lived beyond our years. Our hope begins here and is eternal--and ends with God . . .
We shouldn't try to make up answers when we don't have any.
II. For what it is worth, I totally agree with you that the evidence here suggests religion gone horribly wrong. And one of the reasons I am on this board is to try to figure out a way to combat this kind of ungodly theology that creates these monsters who teach, preach, practice hate in the name of God. It is absolutely impossible to have faith in God and do intentional harm to another. If they have faith of any kind it is in the twisted lies, twisted myths. These lies, perpetrated against scripture and our God that have been harranged into them by controlling, self-aggrandizing clergy relying on chopped up scripture to support whatever soapbox issue is in their sights because they love the sound of their own voice and are jealous of power. In short: Brainwashing. It is spiritual abuse! (And it isn't limited to Christianity, either). And unlike the tradition, they rely more on mass hysteria as their experience of god than the silence and stillness that even is described in scripture and taught by Christ.
There are many religions--probably the best, imho, as far as not going wrong, is Buddhism, albeit Buddhism is more often thought of as a philosophy, it is still a religion. I don't believe the world will ever be freed of religion, so the only solution I can think of is for those of us who actually belong to a religion with a mystical basis, is to try to set things to rights. The sad thing is that there is a good and beautiful, PASSIVE, loving basis for the "Peaceful" Abrahamic religions--yes, all three claim the God of PEACE. All three teach LOVE, love of God and love of neighbor. All three have great spiritual leaders and a great and beautiful tradition and a mystical branch to which those who really love God will aspire (notwithstanding a little sexual bias . . . ). Despite the fact that they all have factions that have dredged up and maintained the war god image--that power monger god that never existed but was always wished for. There IS no relationship with the living God of LOVE in an environment of hate--so no, I do not call it faith! Hate precludes the experience of God! Faith is not religion, religion is not faith. If it is faith it is empty and their hopes are always dashed, their god won't come through. That imagined god does not exist! There are a lot of Christians who won't own the title "Christian" anymore. It is so tangled up with the bible cults and extremists and their hateful and despicable actions.
I cannot and will not try to control you, what you think or what you believe. But I will defend the beautiful and loving Christ who never did any harm but loved all (even those who are hard to love), taught love and commanded love; who was persecuted, suffered and died for loving and healing humanity and spent three years preaching to those who--unfortunately did exactly what most religionists do now--created their own god out of their desires instead of accepting the real God that is. This--MURDER--is the extent to which people will go to defend their created traditions and brainwashed cults. What we see in the Passion of the Christ is that we all stand in the crowd that yelled, "Crucify him!"--we are all guilty, it is human nature to want to use a god's gloss to control others and bring about our idealized, albeit sick, concept of what godless good is. But we crucify that nature to take on Christ--to be filled by Christ. We can only do (God's) good, we cannot harbor hate, we cannot try to control others--control issues are at the heart of the lower nature. Hate to say it, but just like the Buddhists we are busy meditating . . . you don't hear much from us.
For what it is worth I admire real science, I accept evolution, I am not a creationist and I believe in reason. True, in some random way, I believe God directed it all--but I don't believe that science can lean on that or we'd all be back to the middle ages . . . I abhore rewriting history and anti-intellectualism, shutting down people's minds to accept a fictionalized view of god is grotesque in my opinion and I don't believe you will burn in hell. Book burning is anathema to me. And I don't care what others believe as long as they don't smear Christ or do harm to others in the name of God!
For what it is worth--I am utterly amazed that Christians are being attacked because God didn't stop the earthquake! Then there should never have been earthquakes! What?! Is it supposed to be paradise?! Talk about imagined gods! lol!
Monday, February 01, 2010
No, the framers of the Constitution were not Christian!
I'm saving all the information I can. I'm amazed at what is going on in this country. Am I repeating myself? I love the USA and I don't want it to be changed!
The cause of my concern today: Is your faith about to be demoted?
My rebuttal: American Founding Fathers and Deism
The First Amendment: Wikipedia entry on the First Ammendment for ignorant Americans who want to rewrite history">
The cause of my concern today: Is your faith about to be demoted?
My rebuttal: American Founding Fathers and Deism
The First Amendment: Wikipedia entry on the First Ammendment for ignorant Americans who want to rewrite history">
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Time to resuscitate my blog?
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.
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.
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.