The Religion of SELF

Another tragedy. Another why.

As I perused social media last night, I saw many different reactions to yet another terrorist attack in the UK.
There was heartbreak, anger, questions of why and there was blame.

Blame went in several directions. Blame is always many layered. It can never be laid at the feet of one person or idea.

I had already seen ugliness earlier in the day. It did not end up in murder, but it threatened to. A very intelligent person I follow shared the bevy of hate mail he'd received while away. Much of the hate included threats of harm to him and his family.
I was sickened by all of it. And I observed: violence begins in the heart.

Several people shared that religion is the problem. I am going to both agree and disagree, and I hope my reasoning will serve the greater good.

To lay blame of violence at the feet of religion is easy. It is true, religion has caused massive violence throughout history. But religion is also responsible for so much good in the world. How can it produce both violence and good?

I believe how we walk in this world is a layer of the problem. It was unnerving yesterday for me to see so many people so opposed to someone else's ideology, that they threatened harm. These people were not attacking based on religion. They attacked because they were "right" and he was "wrong". They shared all the violence in the heart with their words. Not in the name of religion. I posit, they share in the name of self.

I think our religion has become self. We worship our rightness. We worship our needs and wants and what we think we deserve.
 I think some people of faith ferret that out. People of all different faith systems use their faith to chisel away at the self that would consume anything or anyone in its path and allow their selves to be molded in such a way that produces love and beauty for the whole world. I believe that people of no faith, atheists and agnostics can and do the same.

And then there is the religion, of all faiths and no faith that would be right at all costs. The religion of extremism. The religion of violence toward all who disagree.

There are so many ways to react to these times that devastate and are devastating.
I do not think there is one right way to react.
I would encourage all of us though, to lay a portion of blame at our own feet. When we acknowledge our own selfish acts of aggression, we can step outside of them.
In so doing, we can become stronger. We can become a united front against the real violence that does threaten everyone. We can create a hopeful future for our children and stand united in love.

What the peony spoke to me

I've been struggling a lot lately. And, small comfort, I see I am not alone. All the lovely blogs I read are sharing stories of the comparison game. At first I didn't think I struggle with that. I don't look at other people's lives or belongings and think I should have them. I have particular things I have always wanted from the time I was a young child, and those things have nothing to do with what other people have. Outside of that, am quite content.

Then I realized, I do compare in a much more insidious way. More than just wishing I had someone's car or house, I wish for people to see what I am capable of. And I compare that with others. And I know I am capable. And I get disappointed in how things play out.

I also know I am an oddball. I love my oddballness. But, my inability to be inauthentic sometimes leaves me outside the crowd. Sometimes I just have to zig when everyone else is zagging.

Yesterday morning, I was feeling the weight of this. I went outside to water my plants and listen to the birds and be silent.

It was the peony that spoke.

They're not supposed to grow here in my zone. I tried and failed years ago to grow peonies, and nearly gave up. But I'm trying again. I bought a plant in bloom last year. By my calculations, if it didn't come back, it was just like buying a bouquet of fresh flowers. I watched it seemingly die over winter. All the leaves fell off, leaving brown sticks. Dead. I was sure of it. But, it was tucked away in a place I could ignore, and so I did. Then, out of the blue, beneath those dead sticks, for they were dead, tendrils of green pushed through the soil. Oh hello lovely. I stopped ignoring the plant. I visit almost daily. When it's pouring down rain, I look out the window and will it to grow. I've been speaking to it, and yesterday, with one of its blooms just on the edge of bursting out of its tight bud, it spoke to me:

Hold tight. We'll bloom together.

Groundhog Easter Day

In the Christian tradition, Easter weekend is typically a time of death to life.
It's both a somber weekend and a joyous celebration.
No matter where I am in life, I always find myself a little more introspective.
To be honest, Easter has rarely been a time of joy for me. It's kind of a Groundhog Day of sorts. I know, every year, Easter is coming, but I can't live it out and step away. The dying happens over and over. It's never done. Something in me dies every day.
I am in part inspired to write this morning, because I just scrolled past yet another image of the man in the White House that engendered multiple negative feelings. I initially felt a gag reflex. Yes. True story. I gagged. You see, the image was somewhat a double entendre, and it was so suggestive, I had to gag. And then I felt an actual tangible ache, deep ache in my heart. To think that people who profess a faith in the man whose death and resurrection is observed on Easter weekend, would actually look up to and defend this man who would sooner hammer the nails himself.
And just after that photo, a photo of a Syrian family in a field. It stops me in my tracks, it's beautiful. Children in vibrant colors and yellow flowers dot the green landscape. But it's a story about people being bombed, even in their safe places. The space negotiated as safe for evacuees on both sides is bombed. And thoughts of all the Christian people I know who only want to bomb Syria from afar, but exclude them from our country. And my mind just can't comprehend.
And it's all the more palpable over Easter weekend, these thoughts and reactions. I sat there and thought about sharing the first photo and my disgust over it. And then I thought….maybe simmer down, it's Easter weekend. And then I thought about the response if I did post it. Maybe no one would even respond. But if they scrolled past, they'd be thinking: That was a long time ago. People change.
It is a weekend celebrating new life after all.

Then I thought about my own embarrassing deeds. Thankfully, (as far as I know), there's no photos. There's no grab em by the….audio. There's just stories. And times I made people feel bad. And private things. Thoughts and actions. And I realized, if I ever became a public figure, I would own it. I would wear my remorse like a badge. Because there is strength in honesty. There is life in death. Prune a rose tree and it grows back stronger and more beautiful the next year.
And then I saw the Syrian family, and I knew I wanted to say something. But what?

For some reason though, things are amplified for me around Easter. I've had some traumatic experiences. I once had someone close to me scream at the top of his lungs with wild eyes that I was a whore. Yes. A whore. On Easter. He was not a romantic partner, but had strong opinions on what makes a whore, and most of you would likely disagree. Reaching back even further in time, I had another man tell me he thought I was a prostitute. It was awkward. So awkward. He'd called me into his bedroom to tell me this whilst everyone was just outside circling up, holding hands to pray on Easter. I'm sure their eyes nervously darted around the room as the raised voice lashed out. And I was being apologized to? It didn't feel like it because it felt like I was still being called a prostitute….and then his wife came in and screamed at both of us, and that was just all the weirdness a kid could take. Side note…I was entirely a virgin at this time. So….that's a head scratcher for sure. But my cheeks got hot and I felt the shame of a thousand harlots. And a piece of me died.
A string of these kinds of stories is why I observe Easter as my own personal Groundhog Day.
Something died in me those days. Because I was not who these men accused me of being. And yet, I was also not perfect. So all the shame and guilt for the bad things I had done mingled with the shame and guilt of the things I was falsely accused of, and I was a heap.
So, you can imagine, that outside of any religious observations, Easter and I, we have a complicated relationship.
Here's the thing, I feel a deep remorse any time I realize I've caused pain to others. That badge I wear, it's not with pride. Something dies in me those days too.

I don't feel like this man in the White House feels any remorse. I think, more than anything, he regrets getting caught. He's glossed over his indiscretions and made fleeting apologies. And it's not my place to judge or speculate what is in his heart. But without comparing him to anyone else, but who his better self could be, it kills me that people professing that Jesus rose from the dead on Easter, would look up to a man, defend a man, that in his public life has sounded the very antithesis of the one who died. Who stands and lives for America First? Him first? No death to any desire, but false promises of giving people what they want and not really what they need and delivering neither.
And my beef isn't with that man. Well…it is politically. But more than that, I struggle this Easter to make heads or tails of a people who make every justification for a demagogue. And while they justify the demagogue, they justify things I just cannot find in the bible.

It's funny. It seems like the evangelical Christians accuse the progressive Christians of only wanting to see Jesus and focus on love. (As if that's a bad thing?) But what I see more often than not, is the evangelicals longing for a time before the cross. A time when tribes were good or bad, in or out. And though there was no America at the time of the OT, for some reason, American Evangelicals think their tribe is in. Special blessed. When everything about Jesus tells me he wants one tribe. I think the Old Testament tribalism in post Christ times led to The Crusades. We continue these misguided Crusades even today. Both through disingenuous wars for oil or in our daily lives as people kill with their tongues, all in the name of a god who is made in man's own image.

It's nigh impossible for me to celebrate a living Jesus, when so many of his followers seem to be killing everything Jesus stood for.
And so, I grapple with the groundhog every year. Will there be a spring with new life? Or are we going to continue in this winter way? The winter of my discontent, as I connect those same traumatized feelings as a younger person, to the trauma I feel today. Right now, instead of a death and resurrection, I am struggling to see past just the death of compassion and grace and generosity and dignity. Perhaps the resurrection is in me, as I learn to die to myself, my me first attitude, and offer to bring more compassion and grace and generosity and dignity to those around me. And thankfully, I know I am not alone in doing so.

Thanks to Jen Hatmaker for sharing her own raw stories. Perhaps inspired by her, I share this.

Patriotism on the Porch

(I wrote this over a month ago. Before Patriotism and the National Anthem made headline news. Somehow it seems even more relevant.)

Dear Patriot:

You are ruining patriotism for me.
Let me explain:

I have a romanticized version of patriotism in my head. It includes 4th of July parades, honoring vets, in quaint towns sitting on verandas with flag bunting all around.
Doesn't that sound dreamy?
I love flags waving from porches.
I love living in this country.
I love the Norman Rockwell ideals of families praying around tables, and celebrating life together.

And then.
Then I get uncomfortable. A presidential candidate's platform has been to make America great again. Again? Like when? Like when black people had to use the fountain that spewed hot water on a blazing hot day? (Because I have recently learned the "white" people fountains had cooled water. Did you know that? I didn't. I just thought they were separate.) When we had our own little Indian holocaust? When we treated a whole segment of humanity as animals because their skin was darker? When, pray tell, was America great? Was it post WWII when women were hushed away and the price of being a house wife was subservience and silence? When husbands handled the money, and a woman just silently accepted philandering? When "ugly" things were hidden away, and all that was celebrated was the white nuclear family? America has actually always been great, and simultaneously needed to improve. It can be both. It is both.

I yearn for a country that is willing to look honestly at where it has been and where it is going. I yearn for a people of humility. I yearn for the definition of patriot to mean someone whose love of country includes constructive criticism. I yearn for people who can take the long view. Who can logically follow their own desires all the way through their course, and admit when their own desires trample on the desires of others. Whose love of the Constitution is balanced by a love of people, all people. So, for now, my patriotism isn't romanticized. It's gritty. It includes being really uncomfortable on so many levels.

When everyone is welcome on the veranda, that is when America will be great again.

The Complications of Protest

Friends,

I've posted a lot about Colin K. I'm not sure why I get so wrapped up in these issues, (peaceful protest, respect, and the actual subject of protest,) when I could just as easily wrap myself in the flag, and not notice.

There are so many factors in this situation…and I want to approach them delicately. I share this in humility, as I am part of the problem. On both "sides" if you will. Very recently, I spent ten minutes listening to a coach share his view, and I agreed with him. Then I read a rebuttal from a professor, who gave a different perspective and I agreed with him. Every time I read a new perspective, it changes and reshapes mine.

I completely stand by CK's first amendment right to not demonstrate in symbolic action his allegiance to the flag as a protest that the flag does not currently represent all that he thinks the flag ought to represent. The moment we start requiring people to blindly make gestures of patriotism without protest, we are no longer American.

Here is what his protest is not:
It is not that he's offended by the flag.
It is not that he does not appreciate the sacrifices of service people who have gone before.

All of that said; he is young and naive.
Here is where I do take issue: As a friend pointed out, he is part of an American pastime that involves being some sort of an example to our youth.
I think perhaps the NFL could maybe rethink what they require of their EMPLOYEES before it becomes an issue. What is required of a person as an American and required of a person as an employee are two very separate things. Let's treat them that way.

That said, I'm not sure his gesture was perhaps the most thought through. I really like the essay I shared earlier (link re-posted below), where he states he pledges allegiance to the flag not just for what it stands for and the imperfections, but the hopes for a better future.
Because here's a glitch with CK's protest: When does it end? When you protest something without a measurable solution, when do you stop protesting? I can't judge what was in CK's heart. I won't. That is speculation, and in my book, that's gossip. I can't expect humans to make the "right" choices (whatever those may be) in all circumstances. On the other hand, people would impose a system of how to behave on him, on anyone, that does not really provide opportunity for change. Respect the tension.
He made a choice that is now becoming a dialogue about free speech and flag burning and jersey burning rather than the dialogue that he'd hoped for. Be the bigger person. really.

Can we blame that on him, the negative response? In part, yes. When you make choices, there are consequences. Always. And we often do not know how to calculate for the unintended, because our focus is usually on the intended. That is where we cut people some slack. And, I am editing to add: it's a shame the unintended consequences are even half of what they have been. Sometimes, when trying to shine a light on something, there is no other way, but a way that makes people uncomfortable. Is there some truth in what he is saying? Focus on that. Is there a way of improving? Focus on that. Is there a way to look at yourself in the mirror and ask yourself how you can be part of the solution instead of the problem? Do that. Is there a way to kindly direct anyone who behaves in a way you find disrespectful? There is a way. It's called open, respectful dialogue. It is not accusations and insults hurled. It is not petty memes dragging a person through the mud. Have they made other mistakes related to said protest? Probably. The negative response is also down to the responder. Dismissing a person out of hand will not produce any positive change that either one of you are looking for. Whining about someone whining is just a lot of whining. How sad.
Why do I say all this? Because I read. I see. It needs to be said. Again. and again.

I'd rather focus on the PROBLEM, (which I understand many people would rather side step). But right now, seems like all we can do is focus on the reaction. Which, when all is said and done, is part of the problem.

http://www.baltimorebeatdown.com/2016/9/6/12814902/ravens-ben-watson-gives-fantastic-response-regarding-colin-kaepernick-and-national-anthem?utm_campaign=baltimorebeatdown&utm_content=article%3Atop&utm_medium=social&utm_source=facebook

What do we celebrate?

Life is about more than I can even fathom at this moment. Sometimes, I feel pushed like a tide is carrying me into deeper and deeper waters; the Syrian crisis to 9/11 to wildfires. No matter what you believe about wars in general, refugees, what actually happened on 9/11, no matter what, people are suffering, have suffered. I see a meme floating around comparing Mulala to a Kardashian. I can't stand the Kardashians. I love Mulala. Basically, it is asking, what do we celebrate?

Sometimes I despair….what do we celebrate? Eyes roll when politics come up. Differing points of view turn into fences and walls and wars of words, and if they gather enough steam, wars. I remember as a child, when my favorite television show was interrupted because something needed round the clock news coverage; I was so upset. How dare something I couldn't care less about preempt my viewing habits. I celebrated my television shows; my leisure time. My perceived rights even. One year, I was really mad a soon to be Princess was preempting my shows. And then I fell in love with the Princess, and didn't care anymore. What could we fall in love with now? What could preempt our lives and turn into a love story?

I see the community rallying for those who have lost everything in these raging fires. (On a side note, I love the imagery of losing everything in a symbolic fire, for then everything you build from there can have purpose and intention.) But I digress….
I see donation centers reach max capacity of clothes, blankets, pet food. People packing up their trailers with food to share, homes opened, trailers sent after left behind horses and animals. The community knows how to care. The community knows how to rally and come together.

But I have this nagging thought.
How do we learn to live in such a way that we can give to those who may be displaced by something else. Something singular. Something personal. Something that is twisted into looking like someone's hand in our pockets. The personal fires, that sometimes people can build on, and sometimes leave people desolate.

How do we not suffer compassion fatigue as we're swept along the tide of suffering. Humans, animals. There's always a need. There's always a Gofund me, a sick friend, a sick animal, a disaster, a riot, a war. How do we rise above this constant need, so we're not sucked dry and can no longer give or even care.

How do we get people to care in the first place? Many people have a lens on life that it is all about their own checklist: career: check, house: check, baby: check, vacation: check, the good life: check, check, check. All good things, no doubt. But what could move a person outside of this system, into one that celebrates humanity?

It's scary to care.
Sometimes, we're even judged for what we care about.
Kim Davis wouldn't do her job. The internet lit up talking about it. Then, in some circles, anyone who talked about it was under fire from those who felt the Syrian Crisis was a 'bigger deal'. I see this kind of logic time and again. The arbiters of what's important. Here's what I think: It's all a big deal. All of the ways we treat each other. All of the ways we celebrate life, or annihilate it. It all matters.

The more we celebrate that which alienates and devastates, the more we set ourselves up to one day be the refugees.

It feels like I care from a place of emergency. From the comfort of my home. I listen to the news, I scroll through Facebook. I'm moved. And then I move on. I can't sit in that place of grief or I'll die. Inside first.
So, here's my final thoughts: how can I create some margins in my life for caring? How can I incorporate actively caring in a sustainable way, for truth is, there will always be a need. How can I set aside money to give away freely when disaster strikes? I know so many people living beyond their means, and yet, their means are incredible; and living well within in them, they'd still be richer than most of the world. How do we flip our perspectives so we appreciate what we have so much that we want to share instead of hoard? Hopelessness says we can never give enough. Entitlement says we deserve all we have and more. I feel guilty nearly every time I buy something frivolous, yet that's not living. That's not helping anyone. I think sometimes it's all or nothing, and wind up giving nothing, because I'm afraid of unraveling. But. Somewhere, there is balance. That is what I am looking for. The place where we can still find joy in small things and big things, coexisting with the place where we can give until it hurts.

Instead of feeling hopeless about all that is falling apart, I'm going to pull myself together, and celebrate some life. I'm going to be grateful for what I have, most importantly for who I have. And I'm going to give. Time, money, whatever I can. Today. I'm going to celebrate life.

An Unconventional New Year

photo courtesy au.tv
Monty Python and The Holy Grail

Unconventional. How else can I describe anything about my life? I who wanted to be more conventional than anyone ever. My goal in highschool was to get married, have lots of babies and collect tupperware. I have not a single piece of tupperware.
So, this year I rang in the new year in the most unplanned, unreflective way.
A friend posted that the way you spend your New Year's Eve is the way you'll spend the rest of the year. In some ways, I hope that's true, and in others....not so much. The not so much is the crazier part than how I chose to ring in the new year...I'll get there.
 My Numero Uno is on the other side of the world, so I really didn't care what I did. I stayed with my friend's teenager while she went away for the holiday.
I'm so glad I did.
He is probably old enough to stay on his own, but something about this particular situation told me to go, and I knew it made my friend feel better.
The first night, I was so cautious about intruding on his life. I tip-toed around and basically passed out I was so sleepy.
But last night, we immediately started talking about everything. His Mom, Aunt and Uncle have been dear friends for over 20 years; I know a lot about this kid and his family. The words came pouring out of him. Before I knew it, we were sitting on the living room floor snuggled in blankets laughing and watching the time fly. He is one cool kid.
After a while, a good long while for a teenager and a "grown up" to have a conversation, we decided to watch his new extended edition Lord of the Rings. Our tummies were full, and we settled into the movie. We both fell asleep midway.
Here's the crazy part. They have an attack cat. You sit there smugly thinking how bad can a cat be? Do you remember the Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog from Monty Python and the Holy Grail? Worse than that. It wants to tear any visitor to shreds. It doesn't wait for you to get too close for comfort, it comes after you, scratching and biting. Sometimes, I think it has wings. My first night there, we locked him away. But last night I felt sorry for him, and suggested we let him out, the creepy fiend. He patrols the room all slinky and slow. It was fine when we were awake, because if he got too close, the kid could shoo him away. The kid is the only one who can handle this cat.
But then....I was asleep on the couch, and the kid had carried himself off to his own bed. And I was alone. With the cat. Stalking me. Lurking. Sticking his face in mine with a menacing growl. Jumping up onto a high shelf cocking his head sideways like a Gremlin sizing me up. When he got too close, I lifted my down comforter like a shield.  We'd watched Lord of the Rings, I knew how to take action. What I didn't know how to do is go back to sleep with Jaws, I mean the cat in the room.
So I sat up and started reading on my computer. I used my phone as a light to keep track of where the cat was, because he likes to sneak up. Then I realized the kid was up playing video games. It was a relief to turn a light on, and know where that cat was. We started the new year being awake at 4 in the morning laughing about his crazy cat. Not at all how I'd imagine starting the year. But perfect.
This year....I'm going to turn a light on. I'm going to illuminate that which scares me and face it, that which is beautiful and that which brings joy and magnify it. And I'm going to continue caring for the people I love and be open to wherever the wind may take me; with the light on. Happy 2013!

Grief Beauty Strength

Thoughts are like waves. See them, acknowledge them, then let them pass. (paraphrase) ~Ruth Riffe

I haven’t posted anything in a long time. I have so much I’d like to say, but not sure how to construct it, well, constructively. These words ache to come out.

The past several weeks have been rough; add the tragedy in Connecticut, and I’m a regular waterworks. I’ve been bouncing back and forth between raw grief and ordinary life and it sometimes feels weird. I even struggle now and then with guilt. How can I go on living and laughing and eating cookies when families are ripped apart, never to be the same?

Yesterday, I attended a fundraiser for a dear teacher Ruth at my yoga studio. Ruth called in sick just over a month ago and a week or so later was handed the diagnosis of cancer. All over. She could try treatments, that would maybe extend her life, maybe. And, she’d be miserably ill. She opted to let it take its course. You see, Ruth watched her own husband fight the same cancer just 2 years ago and she knew what lay ahead. Our vibrant Ruth, who sometimes had so much energy I thought it was going to vibrate right out of her and the very walls would start dancing.

We gathered together for her yesterday. We dedicated our class to her. Normally, a teacher leads us with their words, but yesterday, only the names of the postures were called, and we moved into them silently. It was such a beautiful dance. We were all moving for Ruth. I think we were moving for something even larger.
I marveled as tears flowed down my face that I could be so heartbroken as memories of Ruth splashed across my mind, as well as images of the sweet babes in Connecticut, that I could still move and my body could still bend backwards and forwards and dare I say do amazing things. I marveled at everyone’s strength and beauty. I know I wasn’t the only one in the room with a tight heart, not for the aerobic activity, but the sadness welling up and out. And yet, we all followed along, wordlessly and with purpose. It’s one of the most beautiful experiences I’ve had.

It strikes me now that that is how we move on. (Or at least one of the ways). In strength and beauty, we go about our business, and we cry when we need to. It’s very simple, and yet I at least struggle with it.
Ruth will always be with me. The things she taught me both actively and passively will always be with me. The crying and grief will slowly fade out. Hearing Ruth’s voice during class will fade as well, I am sure. But the way she has touched me, just as I’ve been touched by others who have gone before Ruth, they will always be a part of my being, whether I consciously know it or not.
We take time to remember, we take time to honor and then we move out into the world with grace and strength and do each thing to the best of our ability and in love.

Judgement

I have been threatening to write a post on judgement for some time. This is not that time. I'm just going to post a few synonyms to the word judgement, and continue to ponder this word that I think is perhaps misunderstood?


perspicacity


1. keenness of mental perception and understanding; discernment; penetration.
2. keen vision.




Discernment is a term used to describe the activity of determining the value and quality of a certain subject or event. Typically, it is used to describe the activity of going past the mere perception of something, to making detailed judgments about that thing. As a virtue, a discerning individual is considered to possess wisdom, and be of good judgement; especially so with regard to subject matter often overlooked by others.


I'll perhaps cite sources at another time.


Do I even dare to tackle judgement (again)? 

Shallow

Something has been on my mind lately. Shallow. Actually, a lot has been on my mind. So much so, that sometimes I can only speak gibberish.
Judgement has been heavy on my mind....but I'm not ready to tackle that, so I'll stick in shallow waters. Shallow waters can be lovely. Coral reefs need to be in shallower waters, so they can receive light. You can snorkel in shallow water, and cruise around with clown fish.
This crossed my mind as I was talking to a friend the other day, and this friend described someone else's lifestyle as shallow, quickly followed by the no judgement disclaimer. I didn't take it that way. But to really seal the deal in my mind, I started thinking about the beauty of things that are shallow.

Not everyone needs to go deep. Not everyone needs to be a philosopher. Not every observation is a judgement. I'm grateful for all the different people in my life, each displaying their own unique beauty on so many different levels.

Icharus

I haven't had much to share lately. Lots to say, not much to share. Life hasn't been very funny lately.
It isn't funny that I am so afraid of rattle snakes and tip toe around the ranch with my head bent low making sure I don't step on snakes. It isn't funny that I am so cautious. Until I am not. Thankfully, the writhing mound of snakes under the tarp that had been untouched for 2 years until I crouched down and studied the puddles of water still present after all these warm days....they weren't rattle snakes. Lucky me.
Because I pretty carelessly poked around until I was too close for comfort.
Not funny.
It's also not funny that the day after I told my Mom I should be running a company instead of what I do, my boss pointed out a very inconvenient mistake I'd made. Not funny at all.
I was sick about it all day. Except when I was laughing at myself.
It's not funny that I can parallel park my beast of a car in a teeny tiny space as if I'd just slid it in sideways, but I can't make a U-turn on a mostly soft shouldered spacious road without hitting the one random panel of sidewalk and putting a gash in my tire. Not funny. At all.

But really, it's all pretty funny. Life is funny, really. We all make mistakes. We all get a little puffed up, and then maybe taken down a peg. I am sorry I inconvenienced my boss, but I'm going to go with a little humility rather than wounded pride.
I'm going to learn from my mistakes, and slow down a little. And then maybe pick up the pace again. And maybe make some more mistakes. (maybe?) And I'm going to laugh at myself. And stay away from tarps. I'm really going to stay away from tarps.

This guy is the last man standing. The others slithered back under the tarp.

The one about tanks, or me, it's difficult to say

Since this blog originated with the concept of extending grace, more and more I find, the person to whom I need to extend the most grace is um, Me.
I'm a complete mess most of the time, and the only reason I write at all is because I must.

So, here's guilty confession number 237: I am not of strong character. I am a people pleaser. Ooohhh, that's 2. It's ironic, since I am also very outspoken. But there it is. I am an outspoken people-pleaser of weak character. I bet you're jealous.....I am a walking oxymoron. (But definitely not a moron.)

Here's the stage; I've just sat down to a picnic lunch with a handful of acquaintances and friends I have not seen in a while. I am eager to impress. Especially since one of said acquaintances can only recall me based on a very unfortunate crush I had years ago. Gosh, I hope I gave him a better association today. I'm thinking maybe no.
The table is spread with wine, cheeses and bread, olives, pate and prosciutto. A discussion on the humaneness of pate arises. I didn't bring it up, but being the know it all that I am, and only after the question was asked, I contributed to the conversation that pate is often the result of inhumane treatment of animals, look across the table and realize aforementioned friend is spreading generous portions of pate on bread. Shortly thereafter, it was pointed out, not by me, that I am a vegetarian. I felt on the spot. When asked why, I gave my stock answer that there's many reasons, I'm not a militant vegetarian, and I really just don't like meat. I was so anxious to not offend, that I wanted to wave it all away. I felt all sorts of wishing I wasn't such a big-mouthed introvert.
I shared funny stories of the "vegetarian" friend I traveled with in Israel who ate lamb every chance she had. Who can blame her? I shared how, as a child, I often was sent to bed during dinner because I would not eat the meat on my plate. In my haste to control the attention placed on me, I missed out on something. I missed out on hearing that my  friend's new husband is also a vegetarian, and that he and I probably have a lot in common. I missed out on hearing his perspective, and maybe being the richer for it, and perhaps others would have been the richer for it as well. He was about to share his perspective on industrialized food, but the discussion of whether or not we had to eat everything on our plates as children took over.
None of that really resonated with me until much later. That night, I was doing what I do. I read blogs. Other blogs. I don't just read the blogs, if it's a good post, I read the comments. Last night, I read hundreds of comments on a couple posts. What I discovered, which is really not news, is that people just don't listen, or rather pay attention. Comment after comment revealed the reader latched onto one teeny portion of the whole and completely misconstrued the post or the previous comment. Time and again, the author would have to retell what had already been said, and said clearly the first time in my opinion. Commenters preached and pontificated, and I realized I'm not the only misunderstood person on the planet. I get frustrated that I am often misunderstood, but how can I be surprised when I see it happening to others and I'm so busy crafting a pleasing persona, my real person is lost. Everyone has a paradigm from which they operate. Everyone. Some are more aware of this than others. Some can step outside and understand another's point of view. Others cannot or will not. And there's the rub.
What I really take away is to talk less, listen more. Which is really difficult, because I love to tell stories.
That is why I prefer reading blogs and comments. It affords me the time to really hear other people. I am richer every day from the insights and stories others are willing to share. Now to figure out how to apply that in person.
Meanwhile, if you want to know, I will tell you why I am a vegetarian. And, if you eat meat, I am not judging you. Well, mostly not. Maybe a little. No, I'm not.
If you can't make a clear connection between the photo and this post, refer to The Oatmeal.

The one where I use the "F" word

As I fiddle with the color balance levels on one of my camera apps, it occurs to me how much we are responsible for the color of our world. I altered the color balance so much on a photo that a blue sky turned bright orange, and the brown grass turned lavender. The photo may not have any artistic merit; I may be the only person who appreciates it, but for this moment, for something as harmless as a photo, I don't care what other people think.
I do care (what other people think) when it concerns my well being, or the well being of others. What was initially going to be a post about balance is turning into many thoughts on how we color our world. In word, deed, thought and action, we all have a paintbrush. Finding that balance is tricky. Life is about balance and contrast. Day/night. Sleep/work/play. Trust/self-protection. Dark/light. What would you add to the list?
We spend about a third of the time in my yoga class doing balancing postures. I wonder if that translates into real life.
Every facet of life has been challenging my notion of balance lately.
How do we find our balance? How do we find balance in a world that seems to be spinning off its axis?
I feel things acutely. It's part of my genetic code. Sometimes it leaves me wondering if I was the only one who felt the earth move, or if the whole world did. I'm not yet able to decipher that out. For instance, that awkward moment when people don't know if they should clap or not, and then the awkward moment of when to stop...am I the only one who wonders about these things? What is the perfect balance of time to clap? Not so long you're a lone cheering section and not so brief you're the sourpuss barely able to rub two palms together. As a dear friend says "stop thinking." I can't help it. Sometimes, I have vertigo of thought. Spiraling thoughts make me dizzy, and I want to find that firm leg to stand on.
I've been really enjoying a new favorite blog; Recovering Yogi. Usually the stories crack me up. Often, they are self effacing. People have forgotten self effacing I think. They translate it into negative self-talk. But that's another blog post....Recently, someone tackled manners. I have long wanted to tackle manners, as many people around me already know. What I found interesting is the responses to this post. This is all about being in a yoga community, but I'm sure it translates across life.
I'm going to get gross here. Real gross. Leave it to me to use gas as a launch pad for deep thoughts. There was your warning word. I'm going to talk about farts. Right now. Follow me here (if you can stomach it): the author suggested one leave the (practice) room until they can get their gas under control. To which several  responded in different shades of how terrible she is to judge the accidental fart, to which the author responds she wasn't referring to the accidental fart. She understands those happen. Are you so turned off now? Because I'm taking it to the next level. The next comment had me rolling on the floor. "What about the accidental shart?" Yep. I went there.
Where do we draw the line in our collective prudishness/open-mindedness?
Because, this probably isn't a news flash, I would die if that happened to me in class. So should we shame people for bodily functions? No. And, I think we'd all agree that we'd all like to just not have to think about any of the above. But what about the guy who rings out his soaked towel so you can hear a rush of water on his mat while the room is still and quiet? Is that necessary? I've gotten really acceptive of the sweat that happens in hot yoga class. I've accepted gas happens. But if you can help something, do.
Today, I complimented a new (to my studio) woman's top. She thanked me, told me she made it, and that it was the least amount of clothing she could get away with. Followed by, "wouldn't it be great if we could practice naked yoga?" Um, no, no it would not be great. I'll tell you right now, that thought offends my sensibilities way more than the above conversation about gas. But, I can choose to go or not go to a naked yoga class. I can choose to go or not go to a hot yoga class; knowing there will be things that are not my favorite. I can also choose to be mindful of others. I can choose to try not drip all over others. I can choose to not shave my legs when 10 women are in line for the shower. I can choose to respect other people's time and space. I cannot choose whether or not my nose is going to start running. I cannot choose if I have gas...though really friends, I never do that.
Sometimes, I feel like we've gone so overboard in being love and light or being irritable that we don't really know which battles to pick. What I think is okay and not okay is not what you'll think. Somewhere in the middle is balance, no? I think the key is: do no harm, within balance. Be mindful that we share a space in the yoga room and on this planet. I confessed in my last post that I talk about things. It's true, I do. I talk about what's funny, what I want to see change, what's obnoxious. I talk. Here's my choice; if you can't change it, I'm not going to talk about it. If you had a rough day, you've got all my grace. If you're new to something and don't understand, no judgement from me. If you're a selfish prat, then I'm probably talking about you. And when I'm done, I probably still like you. I just don't like that thing you did. The longer I practice yoga, the less annoyed I am in general. But I still expect people to show up and realize we live together and share space. The balance I struggle with is realizing you can't change other people; and realizing you can.

The Scarlett Letter

I wish I could wear a Scarlett Letter. I'd wear a "G" instead of an "A" though. For those of you who are not familiar with the "Scarlett Letter" it is a work of fiction by Nathanial Hawthorne. Hester Prynne has been discovered to be with child by someone other than her husband. Her punishment for such a shameful act: to wear a Scarlett "A" round her neck so everyone would know she is an adulterer. You gotta love the Puritans.
I cheat on yoga with gossip. I don't repeat things told to me in secret, I share observations. It's a tricky relationship for me. I am gifted with an ability to take in a lot of information at one time, which means....I take in information I'd rather not. I'd rather not see your private bits, but if you don't know what to wear to yoga, and I'm craning me head in final spinal and get blasted with your bits, I'm going to tell. And there will be laughter.
Also, I get frustrated with things that are off balance to me, that I vent by talking about the things I'd like to change.
Did I say vent? I gossip. It's true. I'm saying it out loud, well I'm broadcasting it. And, it's something I truly dislike about myself. Because I hate to hurt other people. I hate to be petty. If I had to hang that Scarlett G around my neck, perhaps I'd think twice before passing on information. The kind of information that serves no purpose but a commiseration of how messed up people are.
But then again, how else do we learn, but by being called out? There's a quote periodically making the rounds that says something like small minds discuss people, average minds discuss things and great minds discuss  ideas. I see that. If you'd prefer to discuss how big someone's butt is in those jeans instead of world peace....maybe you're shallow.
Then again....it's not that simple. Is it? I've been reading in the yoga community, and there's interesting discussion about what is annoying, how annoying it is that you're annoyed in the first place, and really who is judging whom. I had to laugh as I read because things got blown so out of proportion, and really, even the best of us can't shake the ego. For example, I'm not judging your worth as a human being when you carelessly slam the door on your way out during Savasana, you're still a worthy being. I'm judging that in that moment, you're obnoxious. And, if enough people talk about how obnoxious the door slamming event is, maybe it will become an idea that we all need to not slam the door. See how that works? Of course, others may not care about the door slamming at all, (in actuality I don't), but let's hear it for courtesy and mindfulness.
I'm not trying to justify being a gossip. I'm serious when I say I hate that about myself. I am saying a lot of bad behavior goes unchecked, and when we fall into the trap of rising above it, excusing it as human nature, it seems to me it just gets worse.
The word that keeps coming to mind as I contemplate these ideas is balance....this post has been sitting here for weeks, because it is such a scary topic to me! And given the Scarlett Letter, I still think Hester would do it all the same.

Guilty Confession Part Two, or Another Crunchy Gravel Show

I believe in my last post, I made a confession of enjoying a Masterpiece Theater program  soap opera. (They changed their name to Masterpiece Classic, but whatever...it's my blog.) This week's confession is going to get a little thicker. I check the Masterpiece website, and, oh my gosh, I'm sharing this in a teeny tiny whisper; I vote for characters I love and loathe. What's more, I check the chart to see how other people are voting. I am sucked into Downton Abbey.

Tonight, I changed my mind about a few characters. Some went down in my estimation while others went up. I'm watching lives unfold, and seeing some characters make bad choices, or be misunderstood, or maligned even, and how it all shakes out. I find it interesting how each week, the chart shifts with the storyline. And, when I see a particularly loathsome character display a change in character, I wonder, can a leopard change its spots? Or, more importantly, the character who has been misunderstood has new light shed upon him or her which paints a much different picture. Or, the character who has been strong and honorable suddenly falls off his proverbial white stallion.

And a thought occurred to me. Maybe it's not  earth shaking to you, but for me, very. If we could view people in the fulness of time, what would we see? Would we have more grace with someone if we knew that one day, they would display better behavior? Would we be more accepting of people if we knew that we didn't know the whole story?

I'm sure some of my friends already live this way. I'm sure most people are not half as judgmental as me. And I don't believe in throwing judgment out entirely. I'm kind of a realist. You know, as George Bush said, "There's an old saying in Tennessee — I know it's in Texas, probably in Tennessee — that says, fool me once, shame on — shame on you. (awkward pause.) Fool me — you can't get fooled again." —Nashville, Tenn., Sept. 17, 2002.  Well, actually, it's "fool me twice, shame on me." I fully believe in the balance between self preservation which comes from discernment which has a flavor of judgment. But, I also wonder what it would look like if I treated people like the characters on Downton Abbey. Maybe today someone appears super dastardly, and so it is. But what if I leave room for interpretation and depth of character? 
It is a balance between discernment and grace. I love being able to see the characters develop in the series, and being privy to information before them, and seeing how they'll receive the information. One writer says "they are always looking to do the right thing." http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-16731254 I don't agree with that entirely, but where it is true, it is interesting. It has helped me gain perspective I wouldn't necessarily have.

It is ironic, the two favorite characters on the series are completely opposite. One is loved for her outspokenness and wit, while the other is loved for her discretion and kindness. Guess who I am like and who I wish to be like.....
Humans are complicated. Some more than others. I'm sure over time, we all rise and fall in people's estimation. But, at the end of the day, the ensemble of us living and being together is a Masterpiece as well, and we're all capable of doing the right thing, whatever that may be.


*Crunchy Gravel credit to Lisa De Moreas, Washington Post

Another Guilty Pleasure

Tonight, on my way home from yoga, I caught an interview with Gregory Maguire. He's the brilliant author who takes fairy tales and turns them on their head. That is not what tonight's post is about. Sorry. But he did strike a chord with me.
He reminded me of a lost era. He reminded me of my childhood. In explaining how his ideas came about, he reminisced about a time when there were only 3 channels on TV. I came a little later, and can remember  just 10. I thought my family was really super high tech when we had 10 buttons to push, rather than a dial to turn on our television. I could feel a little bit of the excitement from long ago when Maguire shared how the Wizard of Oz was scheduled to air once a year, and it was eagerly anticipated. These days, most kids grow up seeing their latest favorite movie until it wears a hole in the floor. Oh, waxing nostalgic, when The Wizard of Oz came on, it was an event. We marked it on the calendar, we made popcorn, we may have even curled my hair; I'm not sure.
What has this to do with guilty pleasures? Just this: I'm just 30 minutes away from part 3 of Downton Abbey on Masterpiece Theater. It's a period drama, but I won't have a freak out if you call it a Soap Opera. It might be. Only the acting is better, the location is better, the story is better and ooh la la the wardrobe is better. But sure, it's a soap.
I had to wait a whole year for this. Actually, more than a year. It's the same feeling I had while waiting for the next Harry Potter book or movie. Anticipation.

This connection in and of itself is obvious. Least, I think it is. But, just to really drive it home, I recently had a little exchange on facebook regarding Downton Abbey. A friend of mine, (forgive me friend for using you as my foil), wrote: "Managed to watch seasons one and two of Downton Abbey in three nights. Now what?" After a little bit of confusion on my part, as all of season 2 has not yet aired on Masterpiece, I discovered she'd watched it all on some website. And you know what ensued? She was jealous of me that I have several episodes yet to view.
I didn't think about this exchange until I heard the interview with Maguire. And then I realized, I'd been looking forward to Downton Abbey all week. I've known no matter what happens this week, good or bad, on Sunday night there's nail polish, wine and Masterpiece Theater. (Truth be told, if handsome man asked me to dinner, I'd watch it online later this week.) But the point is....it's gooooood to look forward to things. And, it's not often I do look forward to something. Everything is so right here, right now. Tomorrow is crashing in on us instead of being a beautiful wistful full of possibility and mystery day to anticipate. I'm going to take some time to think about some other things I can look forward to. There's a saying that goes, "Why put off until tomorrow what you can do today?" Just for this moment, I'm going to think about replacing instant gratification with, why consume today what you can eagerly anticipate tomorrow?

Words in the New Year

I love words. I collect them like flowers. I mentioned elsewhere, I've been bereft of words today. In fact, I believe I've actually growled several times when I just couldn't find the words I wanted. Perhaps I had the words even, but I refused to string them together, refused to let my thoughts run their course.
I have been told my whole life to keep expectations low. If we keep expectations low, then we cannot be disappointed. I beg to differ.
I had no expectations of the transition from 2011 to 2012. And yet, I was a perfectly disappointed monster last night. I hadn't given much thought at all to what I'd do to ring in the new year. I could care less really. And after having been awakened at 4 am that morning, raging all night did not seem to be on the menu.
When I found myself at an event after all, having left a wonderfully warm and delicious house party, I thought the evening would be a breeze, as I had no expectations. I could just be. So I thought.
That is not entirely true. I could not just be. I had to navigate through crowds of people all doing the drunk bump up and down narrow corridors and on the dance floor. I wished I was wearing hiking shoes, as the flooring inside and out was a death trap. All evening, the heel of my boot managed to find every random hole in the floor or upturned brick. I craved a cane, or even a walker. I might have some rage issues, because I wanted to punch whoever invented the strobe light. Really only cool if you're totally hopped up on drugs. (I imagine.) I'm getting old, and though I've never been the cool kid, I'm now hovering somewhere in the negative numbers of cool. I'm going to have to start paying people to be cool for me. I look like I've been sucking on a lemon, and have to do things like go outside and pull myself together.  Drunk people are maybe fun to watch if you can remain disengaged, but as an empath....not so much.
I told my Mom today that I wished I was Amish. I'll give you a moment to let that sink in.

I learned something today, that I think I already knew. You probably already know it too. You're probably even shaking your head at me right now forming the word "duh" under your breath. I think it is possible to keep expectations too low. I think it is possible I was so blase about the New Year that I had no intention. I think low expectations and  a lack of intention, (and a lack of sleep) equals a very crabby woman wishing for a walker on a Saturday night. Sad. More importantly, if it's true that if you expect the evening to go poorly it will, then you should follow the converse; keep your expectations high.
I think it's possible to create a better outcome no matter where we start. I think always expect the best. Listen to your heart. Stay in good humor. Get enough sleep. Listen to your heart. Be honest. Be kind. Listen to your heart. Laugh. Laugh some more. And always. Listen to your heart. Did I alienate any men? Sorry. Listen to your heart anyway. Even if you claim not to have one. Because that's the other thing I learned. (again.) In my heart of hearts, I wanted to stay home. And I didn't listen to my heart. I have to laugh at how I proclaimed last week that each day is ours to do with what we will, and a week later I gave it away. Sometimes the simplest things are actually the most outrageous.
Today, the first day of 2012, the first words to pierce my heart that has felt like a bleak winter whiteout since 4 am yesterday were from Neil Gaiman. He says:
I hope you will have a wonderful year, that you'll dream dangerously and outrageously, that you'll make something that didn't exist before you made it, that you will be loved and that you will be liked, and that you will have people to love and to like in return. And, most importantly (because I think there should be more kindness and more wisdom in the world right now), that you will, when you need to be, be wise, and that you will always be kind.
Flowers are budding in my winter heart again. The thought of living outrageously unlocked my words, not just words for blogging, but words for living. It is the key that gives me something to be excited about this year. Listening to your heart will sometimes seem outrageous. Listen anyway.
May you have an outrageous year full of kindness, that which you give, and that which you receive. And may you expect the best, and receive that as well. Here's to expecting the best in 2012. (Unless the Mayans were right, and then well, shoot. Expect the best anway.)

Perfect and Embarrassing

Yesterday, Christmas, was perfect. Things I hold near and dear to my heart were missing. Frivolous things like a large flat screen TV or car that runs were also missing under the tree. Well, okay, kind of difficult to fit a car under the tree anyway, so I'll let that one pass. It was perfect nonetheless.

Twenty years ago, perfect would have been defined for yesterday as a large home with 3 or 4 fresh faced children in matching red velvet dresses and dapper sweaters with curly hair and ribbons. It was also defined as a large house with a grand entrance and garlands of evergreen trailing down a stately staircase. It meant a large family gathering with twinkling crystal and a china pattern I'd picked out for my wedding.
Not one of those definitions of perfection have come to pass. And yet, yesterday was indeed perfect. Not everything went smoothly, I even had a bit of a tummy ache. My step dad sometimes says things that are hurtful or just plain obnoxious. But I love him. I didn't get to see my niece and nephew, and I missed them immensely. And, here's the really terrible awful confession that I argued with myself about sharing. I ran out of gas. On Christmas day. I run out of gas all the time. It is my one failing. If someone ever wants to show me love, fill up my gas tank; physically, take my car to the station and fill her up, and I will feel loved beyond measure. I don't need diamonds or a Mercedes. I need someone to pump my gas.  I did something I never do yesterday. I started my car, and then got distracted. I came into the house, stared into space, scratched my kitties, searched for my phone....ran out of gas. And, to top it off, was in denial. My car is on her last legs. She's been good to me. But she's tired. So, I immediately jumped to the conclusion that she threw in the towel. So, I called Mom in a panic. Meanwhile, I found a gas tank on the ranch, crossed my fingers it contained regular 'ol gas, and threw the dice. Ta da. Problem solved and I was off to Calistoga.
Please don't judge me.
So, why was yesterday so perfect? Because it was mine. It was yours too. Did you sense that, know that; it was your day?
There was nothing fancy about yesterday. My mom and step-dad are very modest. They live for their beautiful walking trails, fish ponds and random gardens they've created on their property. Inside is an afterthought, a place to eat and lay their weary heads. Mom prepared simple foods, but she did make my favorite jello. The one with cream cheese and cinnamon red hots melted in the jello. Yum. More than yum, I happen to know she searched high and low for those red hots; they are difficult to find! My step-dad and I bonded over Malcolm in the Middle. I like to see what makes him laugh.
We called my brother and talked to the kids. We took a walk. We exchanged gifts which is basically money hidden amidst bags of almonds or coffee; more practical things,and, always a Christmas ornament. Just to ensure my status as the spinster crazy cat lady, this year's was a cat. Thanks Mom! On that note, one of the girls in the family I work for gave me a gift on her own. It was a packet of cocktail napkins with, yes, cats, and a curled up kitty thing (?) that looks just like my devil cat that wakes their dogs and thereby their whole family at night. I love her to pieces for thinking of me!
We ended the evening watching "The Help". If you have not seen it put it on the list. I was so inspired. My step-dad could not understand why Mom and I would want to cry on Christmas day, or at all ever for that matter; but crying is a beautiful thing. It reveals the fact that I can be moved. And moved I was. Moved enough to not have one single pang of envy for those who have what I want, or think I want. Moved enough to want to do things in this world that have meaning. Moved enough that all I had was gratefulness for yesterday, and for all the things I do have in this life.
I think today is going to be perfect too.

Don't Blink

Two of my girl-friends, Lexi, Zelda and I had an all too familiar and yet still creepy experience the other night. We had decided to hit a brewery after a meeting we'd all attended. (Not AA). We weren't really after drinking or being noticed. We just wanted a glass of cheap champagne and some girl time to debrief.
I'm not calling myself attractive...but I will say, I believe there is something very attractive about women who are genuinely interested in one another and so content to be in each other's company. That's how things were that night. We were very involved in our conversation. And like a moth to a flame....the creeper came creeping in.
We could all see him, out of the corner of our eyes. It reminded me of an episode of Doctor Who. Yes, did I mention I'm a Sci-Fi nerd? I am. Deal with it. There's an episode where stone angel statues have the ability to move and attack, as long as no one is looking at them. I wish I'd remembered that; as long as someone was staring at them, they had to act like a statue. If only I could have just stared the creeper down into a statue. We tried so hard not to make eye contact, it must have given him the strength to intrude on our conversation.
And, it was one of those awkward intrusions. He used big words completely incoherently, and claimed he wanted to know what we were talking about because it sounded like some (insert nonsense here). We suspected there was more than alcohol involved with this yahoo, as the tell tell residue remained around his nose. We walked the tight-rope of courtesy: enough acknowledgement to not be rude, and yet nothing inviting in our manner. And then he did it. He who barged into our conversation like a drunk toddler tried to turn it around and make us feel badly that we didn't want to stop and invite the powder nosed bull into our conversation.
And, here's where I'm going to get all psychological. He knew he was wrong. From his first creeping step in our direction, he knew the odds were not in his favor. I'm sure alcohol made him roll the dice. Prior to that evening, we had just discussed how people like to turn it around. They know they are in the wrong, but instead of just gracefully acknowledging the wrong, they twist it into the other person's fault. And one can remark on his bravery in trying to meet women. I'm not interested in that right now. What I am interested in is how generous we were in trying to let him off gently, and how much of a buffoon he turned into, well, continued to be I should say, since we weren't interested in inviting him into the conversation.
I am interested in this because I want to have integrity. I am pointing the finger here at me. (and him, certainly him.) When I know I am doing something wrong, (which is rare I tell ya, super rare), I want to look at myself and just stop it. If I could stare myself down into a stone statue in those instances, that would be great. If I look back over times I feel like an idiot, I can trace my own creeping steps toward chaos. Catching ourselves at the first step is big. It could save so much drama. Because, I think when our intentions are pure, we don't need to blame others or be offended or cause offense. Sure, creepers will still creep around, but we need only thank them for taking the time to creep by and send them on their way without a second thought.

Happy, Merry, Feliz, Joyeaux

I've been seeing a lot of commentary about the Christmas/holiday choice in words dilemma some people experience.  I know I used to send out Christmas cards with the baby Jesus on them to Jewish or Atheist friends without a second thought. Then I did one of those huge intakes of breath one day when I realized what an awful, unfeeling, terrible monster I am. Then I took a chill pill. Or several....because maybe I'm too relaxed now.
You see, I don't care. If something basically harmless that gives me joy gets your panties in a wad, I don't care. They're your panties. If someone is going to judge me because I took the time to send a card, and it didn't have their politically/spiritually approved jargon on it, then I'd say they should maybe find an actual cause, like child abuse or slavery. You know, something really actually terrible.
There is a war with words lately, and I grow weary. The irony is, I love words. I have affinities with words just like a I do with people. There are words that make me smile for no other reason than the way they sound. Like plum. Say it. I know you want to.
I digress.
The war on words is like nickel and dime-ing the English language. (Which I have just totally abused in that statement.) I am craving something of substance to be said. I understand people want to be heard. People who feel marginalized, or see that other groups have been marginalized by the  campus bully are trying to use words to defeat the bully. And, words are much preferred over war. But, didn't I begin this paragraph using the term "war on words"?
Honor me. That is what I ask. And I will do the same for you. I won't do that by catering to your whim. Can you imagine even trying to ferret out what everyone actually believes? "Hi so and so. How are you today? By the way, what are your spiritual beliefs (this year) so I can procure the appropriate greeting/card for you?" Kind of a cumbersome idea. It reminds me of an old Saturday Night Live sketch when Dukakis was running for president. He tried to identify with every racial group. He, played by Jon Lovitz, ended his speech in about 20 different languages, which was tediously funny.
Can we not have grace with one another? Can we not accept a person's paradigm and know that their intention is not to force something upon us, but just accept the spirit of their words. I celebrate Christmas. It's in my core. I've got my Grandparent's nativity scene, and I don't display it to shove Christianity down anyone's throat; it represents years of family memories to me. But, if you want to spin a dradle with me, I'm down. If you're an atheist and December means annual ski trip, rock on. If you want to do a dance in the woods celebrating the shortest day of the year...I would dance with you but I get too cold too easily. Let's ease up a bit....and maybe go after the real monsters. You know who they are.