Islands:

 

 

When my husband and I bought our first home, it was with the conviction that it was our last home. “This is where I will grow old with him and die,” I told myself.

When the economic growth of the area accelerated and he decided he wanted to sell and move, I was devastated. After a childhood of upheaval, I sought stability and needed to believe my home could remain an island of such in the madness growing around me. In time, I realized it could not and accepted the move.

Our new home, twenty miles south and three hundred square feet smaller, was just a house:  nice enough, comfortable, but not that space that said, “Forever.” It was, however, an island. It sat on one of the highest lots in the neighborhood and when Hurricane Harvey struck last fall, the water crept up to the curb but never truly threatened us.

It was quiet, as well. Despite being in a small city that is embedded in the Greater Houston area, in fall and spring, when the air conditioning doesn’t run, it’s almost too quiet to sleep. I often found myself listening anxiously to my heartbeat in the early morning hours.

It was a social island as well. If one has children in such a neighborhood, one socializes. If one is “older” and beyond child-bearing years (like we are), one just smiles and says hello or maybe occasionally shares a dog anecdote or two.

If one were to ask me to describe my dream home, it would not have been this little house near the bayou.

Ah—but the bayou.

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I do love it. It is called a creek, but it is a bayou. You can call it a creek and you can even call it by its official name, Clear Creek, to make you feel better about the breen, silty flow that eases and oozes its way ever so lazily around Brazoria and Galveston county—but it’s a bayou.

I love it, in all its bayouness, along with the rest of this sometimes perilous swampland that is Southeast Texas. I love the birds, bats, bugs, and plants that take refuge in it. I love the year-round greenery, the mild winters, the Gulf breezes that smell of salt cedar and seafoam on stormy days. I love the signs warning of alligators and other dangers in the parks.

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And yet we have left the bayou behind in recent weeks. We’ve said goodbye to that reliable little house where Harvey tried but failed to harm us.

We have moved to where the bayous knit together and trail into the sea. We have landed on another island, one of salt marsh and seagulls and “Oh my God! But what about Global Warming?!” Now, I sleep soundly in a house that I truly love, listening to wave susurrations. I truly hope this will be my last home, but I can accept that it may not because my life has simply never been about permanence.

The bayou remains within reach. In truth, there is a shadowy bayou is just up the road—just not “my” bayou. I am not far from Texas live oak, hackberry, chip-chipping cardinals, and complaining crows. There are new plants and birds to meet there as well. Perhaps I will leave this space here for a little “new bayou” chatter.

Nonetheless, watch this space for a new page link; this new island is just as chatty.

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Roll Tide: Enough! Me Too!

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Photo by Ali Taylor

A left-wing cartoonist, rightly pointing out the lack of outrage over war and health care abuses, stupidly minimizes assault by men in power as “ass grabbing.”  Far right Alabamians by the thousands justified voting for a pedophile by saying so many ridiculous things I can’t even repeat them here, so I’ll just refer you to any number of video interviews on the topic. Here’s the law though, 30+ year old adults can’t “date” 14 year old children. End of story. Move to one of those countries in the Middle East you on the right find so reprehensible if you really think that’s okay. I believe some of them still allow child brides, if only secretly.

Or go join the FLDS. But don’t pretend you are Christian Americans.

Let me talk to those who spew that bullshit line about “it was 30 (10, 20, 40, 50, 100) years ago, it shouldn’t matter.”  As if molesting children has an expiration date. Or “Why are they just now coming forward?”

I can’t believe I am saying this again. I can’t believe this has to be said at all. God help you if you are ever assaulted sexually so you get to learn for yourself what this is like. God help you if you ever wake up and realize your heroes are shit. Some of mine were, as well.

Upon hearing of one of Roy Moore’s accusers, someone said to me, “Why didn’t she come forward sooner? She could have helped others. Instead, she wanted to get on with her life.” I was too angry to respond in full. At the time I tight-lip responded with something sharp and brief.

Here is my full anger and truth. Here is what that person, and everyone else who asks that, needs to understand.

I was molested at the age of eleven. I never told anyone at the time. My parents both died in recent years never having known about it. I never told anyone in my family. I only told my second (current) husband. I never “came forward” and never will. That is, the perpetrator will never pay for his crime and in all likelihood he is dead. I will never tell anyone who he was. It’s done. It’s too late. I live with it. I never forget it. At times, the memory of it is so stark that it is sends a sickening jolt through my bowels. As has been said, the body remembers.

But telling “authorities,” then and now, was never an option. Telling meant ruining someone else’s happiness (at least in my eleven year old brain) and it meant being judged for not doing something to stop it (I was not hogtied. I could have screamed and tried to run). It meant, as the expression in my family went, upsetting the apple cart. My family always seemed under fire due to my siblings going through various teen angst crap. I didn’t want to add another burden to my parents. I didn’t want to anger a person with whom I already had a poor relationship. And I didn’t want to be accused of lying because of that poor relationship.

So I didn’t tell.

And yes, I too wanted to get on with my life. I was eleven. I wanted to stuff this horrible event into a dark corner and pretend it never happened. I wanted to play in a schoolyard and be with my friends and listen to my music and be a child. I did not want the pain of dealing with it any more than I wanted to place that burden on my family.

And guess what? I didn’t have Mariska Hargitay (Law & Order: SVU) at my side saying, “You need to come forward. Think of all the other little girls he might be doing this to. Think of how many others he might hurt in the future.” In my eleven year old brain, for all I knew, I was the only victim. The other girls around him all seemed happy and were much older than I was. You know—15,16–Roy Moore would have liked them.

So, no, I didn’t come forward. And every time I watch some dumb procedural wherein some poor girl or woman is fighting the turmoil of reporting or not reporting, of being believed or not being believed, I wonder not that I didn’t come forward but that if I had, what a fat lot of good would it have done? No doubt he would have bullshitted his way out of it and the person I was not getting on with would have hated me all the more for ruining things further by taking that man out of the picture. Life would have been not one bit better and a pedophile would have gone on doing what pedophiles do.

Maybe not. But given the gutless response to the assault strategy of (and credible accusations against) our current White House resident and the astoundingly asinine response to Roy Moore’s “dating” habits (pedophilia), I don’t believe I’m wrong there.

So, ask me again why I did not come forward. Ask me again why that little girl and her mother did not come forward. Ask them what power they had with a leering lawyer standing over them when life is so much easier at 14 or 11 or even 30 or 50 if you just hide from the pain. When your options for telling look as hellish as the time in his filthy presence.

But look out! The tide that has finally come in. This isn’t a bandwagon, people. This is the ocean of women and men who, after decades of stuffing down our pain and rage, have found strength in numbers and are roaring in and saying ENOUGH! DAMN YOU! ENOUGH! You aren’t “ass grabbers” or funny guys “just talking locker room talk.” You are perpetrators and you MUST suffer the consequences. Lose an election. Lose your supporters in Congress or Hollywood. Lose your confident swagger as you walk the halls and sweat bullets and wait for the women you harmed to come forward.

 

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Big Dog in a Big Crisis and Me Giving Thanks

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It began as slower walks around the block and clumsier hops onto the couch. When the crisis occurred, we had no idea what we were dealing with and I was completely off the mark.

Some history: Blind from birth, our Shar Pei cross has hip dysplasia and at 83 pounds fighting weight, has always been a lumbering boy rather than an athlete. When he was about eighteen months old, he tore his cranial cruciate ligament (similar to a human athlete’s ACL tear). Because of his blindness, he learns lessons only once and what he learned from the sudden pivot that tore his ligament was that he would not do that again (outside, but inside was okay). From the pain of walking on the injured knee, he learned that he would simply not put full weight on it. So, despite high quality surgery, the result was a flimsy right hip muscle and an overused left hip joint and increasingly dysplastic hips over what he might have had due to genetics alone.

So, when he began to slow down at just shy of twelve years old this late summer, we put the lumber-now-more-of-a-shuffle off to the hip pain.

Likewise, when he put on about four pounds, we blamed the reduced exercise. He struggled more to get on the couch and opted to lie on the tile more often instead. At our beach house, some days he cruised up the steps, others he took them carefully and allowed us to help him.

Then, about two weeks prior to turning twelve, he started dragging his hind feet. He also began to cough occasionally and pant heavily after minor effort such as getting excited when one of us came home after having been out for some time. He snored louder. He grumbled louder as he curled up at bedtime. He fell off his hind legs a couple of times. His walks were now glacially slow. All these things we put off to aging and the dysplasia/arthritis.

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A tired old dog on November 14, 2017.

A few days after he turned twelve, he began to cough and wretch several times a day. Now something new was in the mix, but what? A friend suggested perhaps the hacking cough, the wretching, the failing back limbs, were all in line with “GOLPP”or Geriatric Onset Laryngeal Paralysis Polyneuropathy. It was true he had many of the symptoms. I even compared his bark of November to his bark earlier in the year and he clearly was straining and had a higher pitch.

However, I didn’t bring up GOLPP with his vet when I took him in. I did show her the video of him hacking and wretching. On that day, November 15th, 2017, he had gained still several more pounds since she had last seen him in late September. Again, we knew he’d been inactive, so while we noted the weight gain, that was the extent of it. As had always been the case, his bloodwork was “unremarkable” and the doctor had always presumed relative health because of his record of utterly normal bloodwork all of his twelve years.

X-rays showed nothing remarkable. His heart was perhaps slightly enlarged but not greatly. He is a large, geriatric dog, so it isn’t unusual for him to have some slight enlargement. His lungs were clear. There were no obvious spots in his belly. His bowels, etc. looked normal. While he looked a bit heavier than normal, he still had a waist. He didn’t look unhealthy, just fatigued, and clearly he was struggling to breathe comfortably. There was some possibility he had a “dense” area on his trachea that might have indicated infection or abnormal cell growth. The doctor prescribed antibiotics to see if this would calm down the cough. If after a few days he had no relief, we would go from there. Ming was cleared for travel to Dallas, approx. 250 miles away, for a 24-hr. stay.

When we left Saturday morning, Ming was reluctant to get into our truck. There have been times when he has hesitated in the past. This was different. He just sat on the driveway and refused. This should have been a giant red flag waving, but again, we assumed his hips were hurting. We lifted him in and I gave him his pain meds. He had a coughing fit halfway to Dallas, but calmed down after a short time.

We had only been in Dallas about seven hours when I saw something odd about Ming. His stomach looked unusually swollen and when he stood, he arched his back slightly.

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Potbelly caused by ascites.

He continued to pant heavily with activity. I panicked and thought, “Bloat!” We helped him into a family member’s sedan and rushed him to a nearby 24-hour emergency vet where he was taken back immediately for x-rays.

 

Thankfully, he was not suffering from bloat. Unfortunately, we had only a vague understanding of what was happening. His heart rate was elevated and the distension of his stomach was caused by ascites, or fluid in his abdomen. (We can only guess the fluid “hid” in his tissues for some weeks before filling his abdomen). Once again, x-ray showed that his heart was slightly enlarged but not excessively. X-ray also showed the same slightly dense area of the trachea and some dense areas in the abdomen. More tests would have to be run to determine what was happening in those areas and what was causing the elevated heart rate.

Fast forward through some major worry and heavy decision making to Monday and a trip to first his regular vet where 850 ccs of fluid were drained from his abdomen (leaving still many behind) while we gave him oxygen and got him an appointment with an internist in Houston. The internist did the necessary tests to discover that Ming has a bad mitral valve and atrial fibrillation. It remains true that his heart is not grossly enlarged but only slightly. It also remains true that we are uncertain as to what, if anything, the dense area on his trachea means, if the fluid in his abdomen is solely caused by the heart disease, and how well medication will control his problem.

He hasn’t coughed since he came home Tuesday. He breathes normally for the most part. He is back to sleeping and snoring normally and, while still somewhat weak, is trying more often to get on the couch and is more stable on his feet. He is nine pounds lighter than he was on Sunday. We have a somewhat guarded prognosis at the moment and he sees the cardiologist in a few days.

There are a few suggestions we want to pass on from this experience:

  1. Don’t make assumptions about your pet’s (or a family member’s) health based on given/expected circumstances. I based all my initial decisions regarding Ming’s health on my belief that his behaviors were in response to his hip problems and his age and did not consider he might be otherwise ill until it was almost too late.
  2. Pay attention to their emotional and behavioral changes. Ming was behaving differently in sometimes subtle ways that I saw as quirky when in fact they were signs of distress.
  3. Pay close attention to physical changes even if they seem harmless. When they suddenly gain weight, lose hair, or start breathing/barking/snoring/walking differently, consider that it might be something worth checking into. I could have saved Ming at least two weeks of discomfort, and possibly more, had I realized these things were not “just aging.” I am, however, thankful that I saw the expanding belly when I did.

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    Comparison photos of Ming’s tummy.

  4. My Momma once told me, when I was going through a particularly horrid time in my life, “Make the most you can of the time you have with the ones you love.” Needless to say, we are holding our little, old man close. We are thankful we have him for a little while longer.

Happy Thanksgiving to those of you who celebrate the holiday.

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My 99-Cent Novel. How I Feel About Seeing my Book on the Discount Rack.

Bless you for your wisdom, Chacón.

Seeing the Elephants

My first novel can be bought on Amazon for 99 cents.

That’s quite a deal, less than a buck.

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One time I ordered three of them, just to give to friends.

You quickly learn that when booksellers on Amazon say 99 cents, they really mean four dollars and 98 cents, because shipping and handling is $3.99.

That’s where the booksellers are making what little money they do from my 99-cent books.

As you know, when writers run out of the free copies they get from the publisher, they can buy their own book at a 40 percent discount. Many writers earn what little wages can from publishing by ordering their books wth this discount and selling them at readings they do in the community.

Michele Serros talks about how she had the trunk of her car filled with copies of her book, and she went from town to town setting…

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Cyclones and Cycles: Letting Go of Stuff

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Thirty-nine-year-old leaf.

Hurricane Harvey has come and gone leaving the Flood from Hell in his wake. I feel not one bit qualified to write about, “the Experience of Harvey.” I will say, in a nutshell, we were fortunate and had almost no damage from the storm. Certainly, nothing worth mentioning. There was anxiety and sleeplessness, but honestly, I have that every night. It’s built into my genetic code. I was more worried about my daughter worrying too much about us than I was worried about us. Sort out that mental spaghetti, if you can.

We were on the periphery of this storm and in almost all respects, despite the fact that almost fifty inches of rain fell on our home. I feel lucky, relieved, and guilty as hell.

In the middle of the storm, there was little to do but listen to wind and rain and hope for the best. We had no boat and no special capabilities, so, we just stayed put. I tried to write, but my mind wandered constantly, taking me to my phone to check radar or to the window to check the water level in the street. If I wasn’t checking the road or the phone, I was watching the news for the latest predictions and hoping for a change for the better. Any kind of focus on creative thinking became impossible.

Finally, after the rain abated and the temperature dropped, I went to our garage where I sorted through boxes my husband had pulled down from the attic months before in an effort to prepare for a retirement move. As the wind buffeted the garage door (and made me fear for our trees now sitting in soaked earth), I looked through memories that went back over forty years.

Most were newer: junior high school pictures of my daughter, a copy of a short story my brother wrote about fifteen years ago, and anniversary cards from my husband. Many were much older: My Girl Guides journal and lapel pin from England (ca. 1973), a tiny, white New Testament from about 1970, and a large maple leaf I’d picked up somewhere around 1978.

I kept a leaf. Actually, two. Not beautiful flowers or stunning butterflies. Leaves.

Now, I love trees. If trees were animated creatures, I’d say they were my spirit animals. But, to keep a leaf in a book for forty years?

It struck me, looking at that leaf as the storm raged around us and knowing, all around me in the huge Houston metropolitan area, thousands of people were losing their homes, cars, livelihoods, perhaps family members: what a lot of crap we keep for no damn good reason.

Leaves.

You hear it a lot at these times, as people wait to find out if their house is safe from rising waters or as they swim away from their inundated home: “They’re just things.”

They are and they aren’t. They’re things we spent years clinging to for some reason. They’re things we’ve invested with emotion, meaning, connection to the past. They should be “just things,” but we will still feel an ache when we think about them floating down a street into a bayou and into the Gulf of Mexico.

If they’re just things, at what point do we stop collecting them? At what point do we admit that it was absurd to lose, let’s say, three thousand dollars worth of cat toys to a hurricane, so we should probably not replace them in full. (Thank you, Steve Martin)

I’m not saying cat toys (or shoes, or purses, or fountain pens, or electronics, or even forty-year-old leaves) are bad. I just wonder if, in saving all these things, this stuff, we need to spend more time on ourselves, our souls, if you will. Some people can balance the two, stuff and soul, beautifully. Speaking for myself, I have spent far too much time in life not taking care of my soul, but taking care of what I thought others expected of me. When I couldn’t do that very well at all, I sank into despair and simply did nothing. Often times, I bought stuff to fill the void. That stuff eventually found its way to boxes that ended up in the attic. Often, I picked up things, or kept bits of my past, as if they were somehow parts of my empty soul, and they too found their way into the boxes in the attic.

I kept leaves.

I haven’t answered my own questions. When do we stop collecting? When do we stop clinging? Does it take a flood to remind us every time we start getting too attached?

If life is cyclic, and it seems to be so for me, then maybe this is one of those cycles. When we next move, if we do as planned, it will be roughly the same number of years in this home as in our last home. We will be downsizing again and much will be thrown out, donated, or sold. Time, not Harvey, will have cleansed our home. I hope, however, that I will have learned by then not to restock the new home with stuff. There will be a time when I am too old to sort through boxes. When I’m gone, I don’t want my daughter sorting through leaves.

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Harvey (Not the Big Invisible Rabbit)

Hurricane Harvey is on his way. Oh, he was supposed to be just a little tropical storm. A “rain event.” Then he dawdled a bit last night and this morning. Now he’s a full-on hurricane and he’ll be a bigger hurricane when he comes onto the Texas coast. The only questions are how big and where?

So, I’m in pain. In itself, no surprise. It goes with the territory. Anxiety. Shifting isobars. Tensing muscles. Will we get five inches of rain or forty? Will the dog go outside and do his business over the coming five days (predicted minimum time that Harvey will be disrupting life) or will I have an overgrown Chihuahua that requires some sort of makeshift “potty”? Will the power hold up in both houses? Does it matter? Should I be complaining when I am so privileged that I can use the phrase “both houses”? (Oh, I can answer that one. Hell, no.)

When Hurricane Ike barreled through in 2008, I wasn’t really frightened. It was unsettling to hear the house pop and bend and to hear the occasional branch or roof tile hit the metal covers on the windows. But it wasn’t frightening. However, when the storm cleared and the radio began giving us reports of what was left in Ike’s wake (we had no power so there was no television to look at), sadness hit. We were safe. My family and close friends were safe. The word of the destruction in Galveston, High Island, Crystal Beach, Surfside, and other nearby areas was agonizing. As painful as it was to hear, I could only I imagine how horrible it was to experience. I listened to the stories and thought, “God, those poor people.”

And then, eight years later, my husband and I bought a beach house.

Eh?

Are we insane?

Is memory that short?

We can see, every time we walk the beach at Surfside, the remnants of Ike: Two homes still in the water, half gone, pilings slowly being chewed away by the surf, gaping holes in the flooring overhead. You can see drapery still fluttering in the windows. Nine years later. Further down the beach, homes that were inland with private docks or dune crossovers are now on the beach. Yet, further still, the beach grew, sand deposited by the storm, turning first row homes into third row. Because that’s what Nature does. She takes here, gives there and then, quite possibly switches it all back around again. On our many visits to this lovely little village over several years of vacations, we looked at these things and thought how hard it must be to live through such events. We asked ourselves if we could stand the trauma. We asked ourselves if we would rebuild if we were crazy enough to have a beach house. We told ourselves over and over that we would not own a beach house. One, it was not within our reach and two, it was too much risk.

But the thing about places like this village. Places like lakes in the woods and towns on mountainsides. They hook you. They’re like drugs. You keep going back and back and they soak into your soul. Pretty soon you find yourself recalling the scent of the town when you are a hundred miles away. A seashell in a magazine advertisement takes you drifting back. A woman in the grocery store makes you think of the proprietress of the burger joint in the village. The voice of a gull on the wing, blown inland on a storm, puts an ache in your heart. You must have your beach fix, so you return.

You return until returning isn’t enough and all those concerns: Can we afford it? What about the drive? What about the upkeep? What about the septic system? You said you hate septic. What about this and that? What about—Hurricanes? All that just falls away and you succumb.

So, I’m sitting here, in pain, crying, not really ready for what Harvey might bring, but cautiously optimistic that he will not do too much damage since he won’t be a direct hit at hurricane strength (they say). I’m also realistic, he won’t be a non-event. He won’t be nothing. He may do more damage at my inland home than at the beach because he promises days of rain. He will likely do more damage down the coast and I am fearful for people in his path there.

But after sixteen months of weekends and vacations with the waves playing their songs through our bedroom window, I know can’t escape—maybe not ever.

We shall see. Get back with me in about a week or so.IMG_0890 (Edited)

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Health, Hope, and Mud-Dung Candy: Living in the Present

I came away from Facebook for a few weeks. I logged back in a few times not because I wanted to, but because I had to log in to some other damn this or that I had linked to (Instagram, Pinterest, etc.) at one time or another. And because every time I tried to do this one thing on my iPhone it splattered a warning on my phone that said I had to log into my Facebook account without explaining why, even though what I was doing hadn’t a damn thing to do with Facebook (or Instagram, or Pinterest, or etc.) .

I just wanted a rest. I didn’t like disconnecting from my friends and family, so I kept Messenger connected. Funny thing: It was hard for me to escape Messenger conversations prior to deactivating my Facebook account. After deactivating, I’d go two or three days without Messenger contact.  I didn’t mind the sudden “radio silence,” of course. It was just interesting. Out of sight, out of mind, I guess. I seem to be living in that phrase lately. If I stay away from television, Facebook, news sites, and even other people, I’m much happier. So, maybe it should be, “out of site, out of mind.”

I’m not suggesting being uninformed or disengaging entirely from the world. If anything, people like me need to engage and speak up in these times. However, I do think there is wisdom in first taking stock of what is healthy and unhealthy for each of us. What I found in my last few days before I first deactivated my main account, was that click bait, blaring headlines, and well-meant but unwanted hand-patting were unhealthy.

Below is a capture I found that illustrates one aspect of why I stepped away.img_0506 It isn’t really that the news is “fake” so much as that it is distorted. News bloggers (I don’t like calling them writers; half of them can barely compose a proper sentence.) take a grain of truth, layer mud and dung on it, coat it in sugar syrup, then wrap it in some pretty paper and call it “news.” We gobble that shit up. Empty calories with a dose of disease.

That disease was taking too much out of me each time I confronted it. Each time my friends and family confronted it, I worried how much it took and continues to take out of them.

I also began to look back on last year with immense sadness. I lost two of the loves of my life, my Momma and Daddy. With each new loss (oh, so many) of my generational icons, it felt like the world was just slipping away and I too would be slipping away with it sooner rather than later. This is what some people don’t understand about getting older and watching your heroes die. If they are so lucky as to get older, they will perhaps understand that looking at such loss is also looking at one’s own mortality. It’s selfish, perhaps, but as natural a part of grief as the sadness.

My grief brought on the old familiar frustration of not having accomplished the things I’d wanted to accomplish in life and fear of not having time to accomplish them. I looked ahead into an ugly future that would possibly be even further truncated. I lost hope. People attempted to give me hope with platitudes and religion, neither of which are any comfort to a skeptic in grief.

It isn’t that I don’t believe in a Something. Most days. I simply don’t believe it will hold us up above the flames. I have been in the flames plenty of times. I have also had great joy. I have been exceptionally fortunate. I am thankful, for sure. I recognize all the good things I have in life. But the good does not preclude the pain, sadness, grief, anger, disappointment, outrage. I am allowed those. If there is one thing I have learned, it is that repressing my emotions is at the top of the “unhealthy” list for me. I will continue to wail and cry when I am in pain. I will smile and laugh when I am genuinely happy.

I have found what is healthy for me.  In no particular order: 1) Dealing with my emotions on my schedule, with tools I choose, not what others set out for me. 2) Cutting out ugly television. No more Criminal Minds, SVU, war movies, or any such shows/movies. I’m tired of real people hurting each other. Why should I watch fictional people hurt each other? 3)Time with my family. 4) Time with my dog. 5) Time at the page. 6) Time with nature. 7) Time in the rhythm of my breath. 8) Each Present Moment. It’s a concept that’s hard to fully appreciate after fifty-two years of looking behind me and feeling regret and looking ahead and anticipating failure. But, I appreciate it a little more each day. With that appreciation comes the realization that I don’t need hope, I simply need to be and do. I think number 8 wraps up numbers 1 through 7.

To continue to appreciate the present moment, I must continue to live in it. To live in it, I must also forego the diseased mud-dung candy on Facebook. I do hope that those of you who aren’t already following my “author’s” page  will do so. Someone (thank you, Carol) has kindly accepted the task of keeping a casual eye on that page for me. As before, my Messenger will remain available. Until I’ve reached a point that peace comes readily when I encounter the mud-dung candy, my personal page is going to go dormant in a couple of days. It’s simply to easy to react to links. This dormancy could be two weeks or two years. Who’s to say? Also, grandchildren override EVERYTHING and must occasionally be afforded a log-in.

This is not a plea for attention, nor am I isolating. I’ll be on Instagram, still. I’m just bowing out of this particular spiritual poison.

I’m closing with a video I posted some weeks ago. I play this song often which means I cry often. There is method in that madness. Each time, this song reminds me not so much of what I’ve lost (though there is that) but what is important to me. Some things “got lost along the way” in the last thirty-five years, give or take, as they do for a lot of us. I’ve determined, at fifty-two years old, the only way to get them back is to live in the present moment. From my heart to yours.

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Notebook 1: God’s Will & Interpreting History

This issue has been running around in my head for months. I have neither the historical nor the theological training to address it, so I am pleased to find Tim Miller’s work here and reblog it.

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NOTEBOOK 1: GOD’S WILL & INTERPRETING HISTORY

(As an appendix to Humility is Endless, the seven-part Notebook is a collection of connected quotations from scripture, interpretation, and history, which further illustrates the destructive nature of fundamentalist belief and religious certainty of any kind. My own commentary is the thread running through them all.)

As an addition to this essay, here are more instances from history where, to our peril, various contemporary events were interpreted as obvious manifestations of divine action.

While the superficial justification for anti-Semitism has always been a variation on, “[Because] Jews suffered proved that Jews deserved to suffer,”[1] this is also generally true for everyone at some time or another: it is always assumed there is an obvious, divinely sanctioned correspondence between our religious or political or civic affiliations, and the fates of those religions and nations, even though there rarely is. Even worse…

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“In the beginning was the Word” and we took it very seriously.

680-640x480“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” (John1:1, KJV))

In the original Greek, “Word” was “Logos” and it meant, among other things, reason and discourse. The writer (or writers) of the Book of John, used Logos to describe a spiritual entity, grown from the power of God’s reason. This Logos, this Word, had so much power that He came down in human form. Language in itself had power. Christians should understand this given the commandment: Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain; for the Lord will not hold him guiltless that taketh his name in vain.” Exodus 20:7 (KJV)

Today, we rarely acknowledge the power of words. They are as throw-away as used tissue. They are “just words.”

Are these just words?

TRUMP: “Yeah that’s her in the gold. I better use some Tic Tacs [breath fresheners] just in case I start kissing her. You know, I’m automatically attracted to beautiful… I just start kissing them. It’s like a magnet. Just kiss. I don’t even wait. And when you’re a star they let you do it. You can do anything.”

BUSH: “Whatever you want.”

TRUMP: “Grab them by the pussy. You can do anything.”

I saw an internet meme that said that since these words were not actions, they weren’t so bad. The meme claimed, that these words expressed “what the person wants to be, not what they are.” Like, “I want to be a fireman when I grow up.” So, I guess, in this case, that means, “I want to be a rapist when I grow up.” Yes, that’s so much better.

Words, however, are not just words. Word are not separate from action for in their power they have action on us. We may not see it as physical/mechanical action, but they are not tissue or ephemeral fluff that disappears the moment they are spoken.

Those particular words spoken by the candidate create actions. Several.

  1. This is a man that many people admire. A small population could see this as tacit permission to follow his lead. “He does it, so can I.” I hear the protests, already. “That doesn’t make it Trump’s fault!” Of course not. It makes it the fault of those cheering him on as a fine, upstanding citizen worthy of representing our country rather than condemning him for his behavior. It makes it the fault of those calling it “locker room talk” when it is, instead, an assault strategy. Say, “I wish I could just grab her pussy.” Fine. You’re a sleaze and you’re desperately lonely. You’re not evil. However, say, “Just grab her pussy. You can do it. You’re a star.” That’s an assault strategy.
  2. In the population there are already perpetrators. Every one of them has just been validated by these words that were “just words” and by everyone who gives the speaker a pass.

Men like the old cowboy that molested me when I was twelve have just been validated. It’s all good. Boys will be boys. Just grab her by the… Yup. Perfectly okay to take what you want. Half the voters love him so half the country must agree with him and with me. Just words.

  1. That validation has a flip side. The victims are being re-victimized. For those of us who can stand up and spit out the gall and the absurdity of it, we will go on, even though our pain and anger remains. For those for whom it is just too much pain to bear…my heart breaks.

To those who will continue to hold that candidate up as a paragon of virtue or even say, “Yeah, he’s an ass, but he’s good for the country!” or, as I saw the other day, “Fuck your feelings!” I pray you never have a daughter or granddaughter or any loved one that is harmed in this way. I pray it is never you.

  1. Finally, let’s not forget the good guys. The men who don’t behave like people are trash they can use and throw away. The men who actually love and respect their partners. I know there are many on both sides of the aisle. They too are harmed by these “just words” and they don’t always know it. As a survivor, it becomes difficult to trust again when re-victimized in this way. We have to be able to look at the men around us and know they get it. We have to know we can trust them to protect us and that trust is damaged if they don’t get it. Especially when “every guy talks/thinks like that” rings through the air.

So, no, they aren’t just words.

A note to anyone throwing the Bill Clinton grenade. 1) Yep. He’s a dog. He’s not running for president. If he were, I wouldn’t vote for him. 2) If you’re going to point at Bill Clinton and his dog-ness (poor dogs!) then you MUST point at Donald Trump. You can’t use Bill Clinton as an excuse for Trump’s behavior. You can’t say, “Bill Clinton did this X years ago so Trump can do it now.”  By that logic you can say, “Stalin slaughtered tens of millions of people, so we can slaughter tens of millions of people now” — that’s just stupid.

As a writer, I believe it’s my job to imbue my words with compassion, integrity, and reason to the best of my ability. We humans have been given this gift, this powerful tool, Logos, reason, that can be used to lift us up as a species, rather than humiliate and harm others.

As Christians, we were given Logos, the Word, and He had a lot to say about how to treat other people. I don’t recall “grab ‘em by the pussy.”*

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Porpoises and Purposes

You might have noticed (you probably didn’t, so I’m telling you) that I haven’t written an entry in quite some time. That isn’t strictly true. I’ve written multiple entries. I simply haven’t posted them.  Most were typical writerly whining: grief, new house, more grief, lots more new house, topics too topical to discuss (Politics! Yuck! Outrage! Yuck!) None of what I wrote seemed to belong here. Either it contributed to the bile that everyone else was spewing or it was self-serving schlock. (Well, it’s a blog; all of it is self-serving shlock.)

We have a new home. It’s small and sweet and near the beach and I’ve never prayed through hurricane season so much in my entire life. It’s a joy and I wouldn’t trade it for any amount of money.

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A pod of porpoises often comes close to shore near our new home. It seems, if you’ll forgive the anthropomorphism, that they are making fun of the fishermen on shore. At times one pod member performs something similar to a gymnast’s tumbling line, making its way through the trough between beach and sandbar with one leap after another. It’s not all fun and games, I’m sure. The pod is likely snacking in their high tide hijinks, mixing purpose with their play.

My purpose has finally shifted back to writing to a point.

The stressful and time-consuming process of setting up the house has slowed. I no longer spend my days looking for stuff for the house or ways to stuff the stuff we already have into the much smaller place.

The grief flutters in and out several times a day. Little reminders arise that I won’t see or hear my parents ever again. Momma and Dad come to me in my dreams in various ways—good and bad—that leave me near tears upon waking.

The national and international topical topics grind away on my sanity daily. Politics and its cohort Societal Entropy are driving me to wish I drank. I am attempting to cope with them by reading a book that stretches me considerably. Evil in Modern Thought: An Alternative History of Philosophy by Susan Neiman. It’s a bit like drinking vinegar to cure acid indigestion, walking on hot concrete to heal stone bruises, or hiring someone who bankrupted his own businesses to balance your books. Neiman poses these questions: “Can there be meaning in a world where innocents suffer? Can belief in divine power or human progress survive a cataloging of evil? Is evil profound or banal?”

Meanwhile, my news feed tells me about earthquakes killing hundreds in Italy, chlorine bombs dropping on innocents in Syria, and my fellow citizens arguing over how many flags one must wave to be a true patriot and whether one can sit during the national anthem. Nothing has changed in fifteen years. (“I’ll take ‘Banality for Beelzebub’ for $400, Alex.”)

Still, I have this idea, perhaps unrealistic, that at the end of this book, I’ll better understand a purpose for evil, unfairness, and complacency, or at least be better able to stomach it.

My best response might be to retreat to our little island home and watch for our pod of porpoises. I think they know the answer to the questions that book poses. Evil is just a function of being an animal on this planet and must be lived through (or not). Move on to the next shore. Play and dine in the waves.

There are wonderful days ahead in this sweet home by the beach. I do know that. Purpose and play, not just politics and banality. I am grateful for, if yet baffled by, my world.

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