And Suddenly...It's Autumn Again.

Since getting older I have developed a new appreciation for time. There never seems to be enough hours in the day, and then...months fly by. Things I should have done are still not done. Life always seems to get in the way of living. I want to be more mindful, I need to stay on top of things and I should prioritize better than I do. Life, after all, does not stop to indulge us and then continue when we are ready to jump back on the donkey cart.

The Book of Common Prayer contains a prayer of confession that contains the phrase:"...by what we have done and by what we have left undone...". It is addressed, of course to God, and it continues with all the wording appropriate to proper breast-beating and remorse. I don't believe I need to go quite that far here considering the things I have done and left undone during the months since I last posted, but it does bother me on some level that I have neglected to keep up with things, especially since I made the declaration that this blog would be based on my own spiritual journey. It's a bit like breaking a promise made to a friend, and I rarely do that if I can at all help it.

So here's my excuse: I'm easily distracted and lazy. And once again, I forgot the password to my blog account, so I suppose that also makes me a tad irresponsible, too. Did I mention that as time passes and I get older my mind seems to wander and I occasionally ramble? Okay, maybe getting older has nothing to do with it, but I do become easily side-tracked by the sights and sounds of everyday life.
For which I do not apologize. Did I mention I am wont to ramble? I did? Just so you know.

All this time has passed, and suddenly, it's Autumn again. Thank God and Whomever keeps the Universe running, I am here to see yet another Autumn. It's my favorite time of the year. "Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower", according to French philosopher Albert Camus, and I couldn't agree more. I love being  in a part of the country where there are actually four distinct seasons. I love the crisp snap in the air, the smell of wood smoke as it burns in fireplaces, the carpet of crunchy leaves beneath my feet as I walk, and even the foggy grey skies in morning. I do not love the extended cold and darkness or having to use artificial light as much as is necessary this time of year. I've had to curb my candle-lighting habit as of late because I adopted a cat that was suddenly orphaned. Supreme Resident Feline lives up to the reputation of her people for curiosity and plunges head-first into everything- including my terra cotta Jack-O-Lantern and reproduction mercury candle cups. To avoid singed whiskers and fur, I have replaced the live flame wicks with a battalion of battery-fired candles. Their random flicker pattern is pretty but leaves something aesthetically wanting...but at least the cat is safe and free to explore at will. It has been 12 years since her predecessor was euthanized due to age and infirmity, something I still have momentary regrets over, even though I know it was best for both of us now. Cat-proofing the apartment has been on-going, with all of my live plants being re-homed, and being more mindful of leaving things out that could be harmful. ( My Himalayan Salt Lamp is resting in a large Ziploc bag, it's fate undetermined at this writing.)

Thanksgiving is a couple weeks away. I'm always perplexed by it's contrasts. On an American national holiday set aside for giving thanks for our many blessings, we whip ourselves into a frenzied exhaustion fixing a blow-out meal containing items we don't fix any other time of the year; the doors to our houses of worship that used to host ecumenical or interfaith services are for the most part closed on both the eve before and the morning of the holiday; Thanksgiving Day Parades featuring a drum major cartoon turkey, comic book heroes, marching bands and skimpily clad female baton twirlers...and Santa Claus... are anything but that. Unless it's done at the table, there is nary a word of thanks involved. Our impersonal giving is limited to dropping a few coins in the bell ringer's kettle outside the local grocery store. I have yet to figure out what the hell football has to do with it, other than there being a captive audience of bored family members sitting in front of the tube in a tryptophan induced coma. With the decline of the family farm in this country, there is no harvest home to raise a song to, and once more, Christmas has become a creeping malignancy thanks to savvy  marketing.

As much as I have become disenchanted with living in a place that is ten miles beyond the "There Be Dragons" mark on the Flat Earth map, I am thankful to have this remoteness available at times. I love being able to wake-up to the sound of pigeon's wings flapping, rustling leaves in the wind,and occasional owl, and train whistles in the distance. I love seeing the landscape that defines the heart of Appalachia. I ache over the number of abandoned buildings falling to ruin around me, but at the same time those places have become like old friends ( or at least landmarks). There are days when I am even thankful for the gonzo, typically Southern, over-the-top, annoying Christian fundamentalists that surround me because they remind me of what I could conscientiously never be, which in turn, makes me embrace and define my personal form of spirituality even more.

The inner journey continues...

Deep Into Winter

I don't post here often. In fact, I probably don't post here often enough. It seems this stretch has gone on four months now-four months of silence here, four months when I haven't wanted to share what's going on in my head. For some of this time I can plead I have been busy; it was the holidays, you know.

First it was Autumn, and I am always drawn in by the colorful drama of Nature. Autumn was busy here in the little ghost town I call home. We have agrarian-based festivals-pumpkin festivals, for heaven's sake-and I am all about anything that involves that bright orange globe. I have quite the Halloween collection, and most specifically, Jack-O-Lanterns.

In the blink of an eye it was Thanksgiving. I think Thanksgiving gets a raw deal in our modern day life, sandwiched as it is between Halloween and Christmas. The general public seems to cruise right by Thanksgiving. When I was a kid, it was the gateway to Christmas. You didn't see anything about Christmas until after Thanksgiving because once upon a  time in America the day was actually reserved for giving thanks...and they went to church. I am a huge proponent of liturgical ritual, and Thanksgiving is just about the only time you you are going to hear me carping about public worship.
Up until the beginning of the last decade, churches held interfaith services where the community came to give thanks for the blessings we enjoyed and shared in as Americans. Usually this was the night before Thanksgiving because the next day was filled with meal preparation and visiting relatives. Even before that, individual denominations would sponsor a Thanksgiving service early on Thursday morning- and we all actually got ourselves out of bed, cleaned ourselves up, and trotted to the nearest house of worship to sing a round of 'Harvest Home'. I'll grant you that the majority of us no longer live or work on farms, but we certainly profit from the activities of those who do, and I believe it's a right and decent thing to give thanks at least once a year for the bounty they provide.
After all, it is Thanks-giving Day and not National Sleep-in-Front of the Football Game Day.

As soon as I cleaned off the remains of Thanksgiving dinner from the table, it was, quite literally, Advent. I am one of those people who actually observe the four weeks of waiting and don't just pop into church to watch them light the candle of the week. Somewhere int here I remember Hanukkah to honor my Jewish ancestors and the Winter Solstice-because axial tilt is the real reason for the seasonal celebration before it was co-opted by the early Christian leadership who realized they were never going to completely eradicate  the merriment of Saturnalia and other year end celebrations.
The meaning of Christmas has changed for me over the years; now it is a time of  remembrance of relatives who died years ago and carrying out the few family traditions they left. Christmas reminds me where I came from and who I still am at my roots. It's a time to breathe a sigh of relief that I've gotten through one more year and am heading toward another with hope.

So much for the last four months. The point of starting this blog was to talk about my journey, not that of others. It was to show how imperfect being human can be. And I am an imperfect being, no doubt about that. It is something I am willing to claim and be responsible for: here I am, warts, scars and all. Limping into the New Year, weighed down by more baggage, blinking after emerging from the ever present darkness and in search of  the Light.

Robin Williams

Robin Williams is dead, and apparent suicide.There's a huge hole tonight in the Universe and in many hearts where Robin Williams use to be, including mine. The world always feels very strange to me when someone I have had an emotional connection to dies. It feels hollow; the absence echoes in a low vibration that affects my equilibrium. Everything feels just a bit off and unreal, the way it feels when first awakening from a dream state. And always-always- the memories come. Not in a rush or flood, but more  the way rain fills cracks in a sidewalk.

When Dead Poet's Society was filmed in Middletown, DE, they used St. Andrew's School on Noxontown Lake as the location. Spent a lot of childhood summers there because my folks rented a cottage across the lake from the school; later I became a Bishop's Chaplain through the Episcopal Diocese which owned the school. A team from the diocese was sent to St. Andrew's as technical advisors, and I was among them. Later I was an extra in a crowd scene in front of the Everett Theater, too. We didn't work directly with Robin Williams, but after our scenes, he took the time to thank us...and the point is...he didn't have to do that. The good guys in the industry do things like that, they're aware of the details and are sensitive to others' contributions, no matter how small. He was a caring and dynamic person.

I often have a feeling before this type of thing occurs-when bad things happen. Not exactly in the traditional way we think of premonitions. I do not get up in the morning thinking, " Someone is going to die today." It's more in general terms, that things around me begin to feel heavier and quiver. It feels the way I imagine cats and dogs are said to sense an impending earthquake that they can do nothing about. I just dig in and wait for it to hit. Perhaps it's a signal from my own Darkness that things are about to be "shaken up". I do not like sudden change because like most people, I do not do well with it. It is one of the triggers of for my depression. It pulls me down into the vortex of emotional upheaval where I do not want to go. Sometimes I can catch myself and only get sucked in a little. Other times it's like I'm walking along and the earth opens up and swallows me. The way I survive is to accept my feelings and go with them, or if I can get a handle on it early, to detach, observe and try to understand what's taking place.The demons of depression thrive on moments when I lack clarity.In fact, they lap it up like fine caviar.  It isn't easy to regain my equilibrium, and I can't always do it effectively. I recognize most of my triggers and have formulated coping strategies which occasionally work but I know can just as easily fail. The first time this happened ( after I was gang raped) the depression I expected failed to materialize right away; I was blindsided when it finally did and found myself standing on a curb determining the exact size of large truck it would take to effectively off myself because I didn't want to be merely maimed, I wanted to be dead, damn it all. Thank God-or Whoever is up there watching out for fools like me- that my rational mind drowned out the small, nasty voice of my Darkness that was hissing," Do it, you coward". I have beaten the Darkness on quite a few occasions in the past years and  lived to tell the story. But there is always a fear in the back of my mind that someday I will not....and I will tell you why. Because the Darkness is always there, waiting. Anyone who tells you that they woke up one morning and they're depression was miraculously gone through the power of positive thinking or any other little trick is either a fool or outright lying. It is never completely gone, and there is no way to cure it permanently. Panacea and the medicinal belief in unicorn farts are both simply theories.  

The authorities are labeling Robin Williams' death a suicide, but the truth is that he died as he result of his battle with depression. Using the word 'battle' is not being overly dramatic; somedays it's nothing short of hand to hand combat. I read somewhere that he went back to rehab numerous times for treatment of his drug addiction,and for that he should be commended. I'm not being judgemental when I say that it's a sad fact that the combination of the two were the demons that took him over. Sometimes,no matter what you do or how hard you try, how hard you have faith and pray, or how hard you hope, the demons win. The very best you can do is to occasionally push them into the background and try to live your life as well as you can until something lets them loose to fuck with you again. It doesn't take much; I know from personal experience. Depression takes away your joy and stomps your spirit into the ground, and often, it makes you feel worthless and puts you into a place of self-loathing. The hole you're pushed into is abysmal, and you're not only left looking at that tiny point of light at the top, you wonder what the hell you did to deserve feeling the way you do. There is no answer, and no matter how much cognitive therapy you engage in, no matter how many medications you take, no matter what kind of wonderful support system you have, no mater how good your coping skills are...you're swept away...and the Darkness wins. Depression kills, and today it killed one of the greatest comedic geniuses of our time.

I have come to the conclusion that my acquaintance with the Darkness part of my life's journey. It will allow me to live functionally in fits and starts- but it is always, always waiting just around the corner to trip me. I have learned to manage the ups and downs with the knowledge that the feeling will not last ...and the twisted comfort that suicide is a reasonable option if things get to be too much. I suspect by  his actions, Robin Williams shared that twisted comfort. Most of us subject to major depressive episodes, or whatever they're calling it in mental health circles these days, have this ideation. It is not unique or original and it underscores why it is necessary for our society-and even those in the field of mental health-to take the symptoms of depression very, very seriously. True depression is lifelong illness and that fact must be accepted and dealt with.You do not choose it, it's not something you just snap out of, and you cannot cure it, no matter how much medication prescribed or New Age snake oil you subscribe to. I will never be free from the Darkness, but I will constantly be figuring out new ways to kick it's ass.

Some Days Are Diamonds...

"Some days are diamonds...some days are stones."

~ Dick Feller

Some days it's difficult for me to tell which are which. That's what clinical depression does. It screws with your head so much that you don't know when you're having a good day. I can't recall when I had a really good day, one where I've looked back and said, " More, please." Usually it's the other way around, " No more, please."

Last Friday was one of those " No more, please" days. It began well enough with laundry and house keeping with a little niche cut out for writing, and then time for catching up on social media. I was about to sign off when a message from a close friend in North Carolina popped up. I am always happy to see something from Laurel, who is bright and fun and insightful. Her note to me began," Please hold Arthur in the light..." Which was normal enough, because we are always keeping close this way, if not in those exact words. What came next was unexpected, one of those things that speed by, side swipe you and leave you feeling slightly light headed. Laurels words were:" He died in his sleep."

The Angel of Death and I have become old friends over the years. We greet one another with a respectful nod of the head when I walk into hospital rooms or the homes of the terminally ill. We give one others' black outfits a cursory once-over, and I am always envious of his robes, which fall into neat folds. " Hello, Mal'ak." I greet him by his Semitic name because it seems more cordial. He is usually quick and goes about his work quietly, and I mine. The personification I have of him is tall, sleek and graceful, with a somber expression, deep-set dark eyes and long black hair. At times the hood of his robe is drawn up to shield his face, and at others he appears with huge, black wings. For all that is dark about him, it he is oddly radiant.

I don't know if Arthur knew he was coming, but I'm sure he leveled knowing gaze at Mal'ak when they were finally eye to eye. Arthur may have Allowed Mal'ak to free him from his mortal body, but he hung back just at the edge of our realm to wait until we knew he had left us...and then he boarded the golden crescent boat that would take him to misty Avalon,to the Isle of Apples, to walk among the Sunflowers forever. Mal'ak stood on the shore watching with the rest of us as Charon poled across the silvery waters. He stayed just long enough for the news to be spread through our circle of friends, then he, too, disappeared.

Arthur was one of those people who could fill  a space with his presence, and that presence was always welcoming,gracious and most kind. Our friend Paige pointed out that when Arthur told a joke he was capable of " looking blandly innocent and elegantly unrepentant all at once". He had a wicked sense of humor and was master of the pun. He was so well-read that he could authentically converse on nearly any subject brought up in conversation, and if it happened to be something he was unfamiliar with (a rarity), he would find out as much as he could.

When I lived in Raleigh we spent many Sunday afternoons together; we went out for coffee and conversation, then to the place I lived to comb through my library and listen to music. We shared a love of books, music, theater and art. We found that because we'd both spent our formative years in the Episcopal we shared numerous mutual friends. At different times in our lives we'd each explored Buddhism and still kept Buddhist principles. We wrote and performed liturgy together, infusing it with male/female polarity, but without the sexual baggage.

In the space of a breath, it was all gone.

It's not always true that we don't know what we have until it's gone. I know what I had in Arthur. We were always careful to say goodbye, and in hindsight,maybe that was because we somehow knew we wouldn't have one another for very long in this incarnation. Or maybe it was because we sense how long that goodbye was going to have to last before we saw each other again.

.

My Country...And Yours...And Yours...And Yours.

In this blog I keep mentioning what I love about living in this part of the country...the mountains that heaved into the sky thousands of years ago, valleys that are tucked in between and creeks that seemly bubble up everywhere to satisfy a thirsty Earth. All such a gift of Nature which I believe gives us a glimpse of the nature of God.

I use the word 'God' generically to describe both male and female parts of the Divine Creator. 'Goddess' would also be correct, but it's a bit awkward in some situations and we are more comfortable with the use of the former. In some Eastern Orthodox religions, the feminine divine is named Sophia (Holy Wisdom).  I believe there must be both within the nature of the Universal Source in order to understand His/Her character and our human selves.

I also believe that the names we have for the Supreme Divine Being are intended to be the personal understanding each of us has of that element of our individual spirituality. The holy names are intended to be used in those quiet times of personal communion; they are an endearment between loved ones. I think it's staggeringly wrong to shout these names from the rooftop because Holy Scripture makes it clear that we are to address God in private (Matt.6:5-6) Devout Jews wear a prayer shawl which is called a talith, talis, or talit ( depending on your preference), which means, "little tent". When the prayer shawl is in use, it is drawn up over the head and shoulders to literally form a private space for the person to address the Divine Being. Muslims must pray in a clean place and spread a prayer rug to use between themselves and the ground, thus creating a place set apart for praying. Nowhere in any of the three great books of the Abrahamic religions does it state that anyone should stand up in public and shout out the Name of God. Rather, there are plenty of verses that advise the contrary. Time spent between you or I and God is not only sacred and should be set apart, it is not to be done to showcase our religious beliefs in front of others. Which is exactly why I am stymied when I hear about situations where there has been a conflict arising from public prayer where a specific Name of God has been invoked prior to a municipal or fraternal meeting (And usually by monotheists, and most specifically, by Christians.)

I was raised in the Christian Church, and that is where I first met God. I am not anti-Christian and I do not hate Christians because I do still hold the teachings of Jesus to be sacred among those of others. Over the years my religious beliefs have changed and I now embrace a more universally spiritual understanding which is not only non-denominational, but interfaith. It transcends the limitations of Christianity and monotheism. There is much to learn and apply spiritually from all forms of religion, as well as from the Humanist and Atheist Traditions. Together they make a beautiful bouquet of knowledge and understanding. We can apply this toward the work we need to do toward tolerance and inclusion. My own personal belief is that the Imminent Divine-whatever you prefer to call the Source of your spirituality-is not one that exclusions others from the table of the Universal banquet.

I may not believe the same things you do, but I most certainly will not discount it and I will respect and defend your right to whatever you believe. What I will not do, however, is defend those who self-righteously stand before an assembly and assert their religious dominance.Assuming that everyone in the audience believes the same as you- or should- is simply the height not only of arrogance, but ignorance. The First Amendment to the Constitution-what is commonly known as the separation of Church and State-clearly says that making of any law establishing the creation of a federal religion ( an official religion of the State) is prohibited, and guarantees the free exercise of the religion of choice among the people. Well meaning individuals who insist that this is a nation founded on Christian values are mistaken, because that was never the intention of the framers of the Constitution.Many, who like Jefferson and Franklin, were non-Christian and in fact were Deists who believed that reason and observation of the natural world was sufficient to prove the existence of a Supreme Being. There was nothing implied in favor of nor against the supposed divinity of Jesus Christ. What it did imply, however, is that any federally supported institution or other entity would be religiously neutral under Constitutional Law.

Some members of religious sects-specifically ultra conservative fundamentalist Christians-are historically bad at recognizing this, and their interpretation of the First Amendment is bent in ways it was never intended to support their personal belief system at the exclusion of all others. Essentially they believe their concept of how and whom to worship is the only way, and many of them will attempt to persuade others not only through vigorous proselytizing, but by any force available to them, including emotional and psychological manipulation. ( On the other hand, according to the Book of Acts in the Bible, when Jesus sent his disciples out into the world, it was to offer a message of hope through a New Covenant with God-not threaten or force others to submit to religious cohesion. In fact, he pointedly instructed that if anyone rejected the Gospel, they were to be left alone and the disciples were to depart that place in peace.) So, in effect, what this particular group is actually doing is being disobedient their own God, and denying His words of instruction. They are willfully acting of their own accord and outside the Gospel they hold so near and dear.


Now I'm going to tell you about one of the things I don't like about living here.This part of Appalachia is host to a cluster of ultra conservative fundamentalists. Even as traditional mainstream denominations are shrinking at an alarming rate, these small autonomous groups have taken a foothold under the premise that THEY are not only the true (and only) definition of what it is to be Christian, but of what it is to be American. I don't mind telling you that I am personally sick and tired of the hubris and noise these people make when-like spoiled children- they don't get their own way. Their favorite battle cry is, no matter the situation, if you disagree with them you are not only discriminating against the Christian,s you are also being un-American in the process because America is a Christian country. Nothing could be further from the truth, and furthermore, it never was intended to be. This is a country that was founded on the idea of equality and justice. The only reason religion was ever mentioned in the  Constitution was because a provision for the separation of the United States as a country from the Church of England as a political entity had to be noted; the King/Queen of England rules not only the country, but is the titular head of the church as well. The framers of the Constitution wished to make clear that not only did Americans not want a monarchy, they also didn't want an official state religion.
America is truly a melting pot of many cultures and faith traditions. We are free to worship as we choose as long as we don't infringe on the rights of others in our society. That includes those who eschew religion and choose to decline affiliation with a specific religious denomination, those who wish to identify as "spiritual" (whatever form that takes), and even those who choose to not believe in any deity at all.

You Get Bigger As You Go

Logging onto Facebook on Saturday evening, I found that someone who'd been a huge influence in my life had died unexpectedly during the previous night. The announcement came in the form of a video posted by another friend with a brief comment. Time seems to not only stand still but expand in moments like these, and I found myself inside a bubble that insulated me from the blaring TV and chatter in the background. Joe was dead, and suddenly I was encapsulated in a place where everything was suspended while I searched my feelings about his passing. I have written and re-written this post for the last week because I wanted it to say everything I felt about him. I have stopped now, because I realize that words are inadequate and will never be enough-and so I will allow these words to stand as they are.

Strangely, there were no tears. I didn't even have the urge to cry.Perhaps it's because of my personal understanding of the death of the body simply being a continuation of the life of the soul in spirit. I did find myself missing our friendship and thinking about all that had transpired during the many years since we'd met. Literally, a lifetime has gone by. We'd both moved around the country teaching or serving new congregations, and our personal spiritual practices had changed from the one we shared in the beginning of our relationship. Our paths cross-crossed from time to time: there were a lot of near misses when we could have sat down for a meaningful conversation, but we just nodded and smiled knowingly instead.

Now Joe was gone, and the flood of memories began. I want to remember everything we did together, every little nuance, because in the back of mind I know this is it for our earthly relationship. I tend to compartmentalize events in my life (I think we all do), and so for me reviewing a relationship it always seems like I've taken out a VHS tape with the person's name on it and punched the "play" button.

And so the my personal version of "Life With Joe" flickered across the movie screen in my mind: Our first lunch in a very hip bistro; the exhilaration and exasperation of me teaching school for the first time and bouncing ideas off one another for graduate school; fussing over the minute details of worship services and the idiosyncrasies of older colleagues in the clergy we deemed
politically less aware than we were-and therefore, less cool ( Ah youth, the time when you're pretty sure you know everything!);
being frustrated when our personal differences and viewpoints collided and we couldn't change the other ones mind no matter how we tried; and finally,the things we both did that the other couldn't quite understand but accepted out of unconditional love.

Joe came along when I was in my early 20's and I still felt very much like a little flat dot with nothing to distinguish who I was yet. As a member of the Chad Mitchell Trio, he had quite literally been one of the people I watched on TV and listened to on the radio who sang the politically infused folk music I grew up on, and I was thrilled to be able to expand on those ideas during our conversations in person. Joe had been there marching on Selma for equality and during all the demonstrations concerning the Vietnam War, and later speaking out on fair housing and women's issues a generation before mine, and I idolized him because he not only taught me so much about the injustices in the world he inspired me to figure out real solutions in order to be of service to others.

He also taught me how to honor the irreverence and humor within me. In a particularly inspired moment one Christmas Eve, I whipped up a feline-sized cope and miter on my sewing machine for his cat Cardinal Fang ( his moniker came from Monty Python, all the rage then) to wear during one of Joe's infamous parties. Fang, I'm sure, was unimpressed, but everyone else reveled in my divine madness, and much to his chagrin, he made numerous appearances at parties to bless the masses with milk and Friskies and raised paw. It was during one of these Bacchanalian fests that I smoked some very fine-quality hash for the first time and discovered after a marathon session of barfing in the backyard that my future in the fine art of toking would be non-existent. Thereafter I would be forced to retreat to the kitchen where I was safely out of reach of the plumes of Demon Weed. I honed my skills at pot scrubbing while everyone else mellowed out.

It wasn't all politics, religion, and socially pretentious parties-we had our quiet moments, too...The day Joe returned from officiating at a funeral and nonchalantly dropped the most exquisitely perfect red rose bud that I had ever laid eyes on into my hands."Thought you'd like this," he announced cavalierly," Don't get gooey about it". I still have that rose carefully wrapped in a tissue and pressed in a Bible. Joe was demonstrative and lavish with his friends; my treasure trove of birthday gifts included a copy of a Byzantine cross from the Met Gift Shop, a vial of pure attar of roses from a trip to Romania, and a wonderful silver Lookenbooth brooch. The material things, as special as they are, simply underscored the depth of our mutual affection at that time; what I find most endearing was the thought that was behind the selection of those things. It was more important to make the other smile than to try to be impressive or pretentious. And the greatest gift of all: he rescued me from a life of abuse and set me on the path to a courageous (and not entirely misspent) life of adventure. Thank You, Dearest Joseph.

The open letter that Joe wrote when he left us included the lyrics from a Bruce Cockburn song, "...You get bigger as you go, no one told me...I just know." And so it is: we live and learn and grow-up and grow old. Our consciousness and understanding of social justice, our spirituality and our journey all expand and get bigger as we travel along life's highways and paths less taken. Because of this and through it all, we, too, get bigger...bigger than our limitations, our dreams and our plans. Bigger, because we expand with the Universal Source. Bigger, until we expand beyond our temporary mortal shells and once again become the dust of our earth and the stars.

Early Spring

Officially, it has been Spring for the last eight days. Apparently, no one has informed Old Man Winter of this fact and advised him to move on, because the day before yesterday it snowed... again.
The enjoyment of Winter in the country lost it's charm for me a few weeks ago. Curse you, Currier and Ives!

I saw a lone robin this morning braving the remaining piles of snow in search of breakfast. I suppose any self-respecting earthworm is still in hibernation far down in the soil under the ice and snow. I hope the crocuses I planted last Autumn are, too.  There have been more than one day that I wished I could join them both in this suspended slumber,only to awaken when the Earth is once again warm and green.

Those "in-the-know" weather wise have said this has been the coldest and longest Winter on record in years. Personally think there is a deeper message: Nature, the Divine, or Whom or Whatever turns the seasons and sustains Life has sent us forgetful humans a little reminder that we are not in charge of everything. All of our wondrous scientific discoveries and other expressions of our supposedly advanced intelligence pales by comparison when stacked up to the miracles and power of the Cosmos.  On the occasions when we are slapped back into line by the Source of Life, we are pulled up by the shorthairs and then somewhat amazed. We are in shock and awe of what Nature in its fullest fury can unleash on us...and furthermore, we are forcibly humbled by the realization that there really is nothing we can do about it other than hang on for the ride on this whirling ball in space we call home.

We are so smugly self-aware of our position in the food chain that we forget we are not the lords and masters of All;  actually, we are far from that. We may understand the scientific dynamic of a tornado, but unlike Pecos Bill, we cannot lasso or stop one. We have little control over the rise of stream or river, and we cannot stop the Winter with a date on the Gregorian calendar.

The seasons are no respecter of mankind. We knew this earlier in our history when we were an agrarian culture. Our very existence depended on what we reaped and sowed...and upon what the weather would allow us to do. We had a better relationship with the Earth then; it's a pity we've lost that connection. We were more sure of who we were and our place in the Bigger Plan.

We were more apt to accept our discontent with a lasting Winter with grace. It made the arrival of Spring something that was appreciated than expected...as it should be, because we are owed nothing.
We are not guaranteed Spring; we are not even guaranteed to make it through Winter.

American folksinger John Denver wrote," If I could have one wish on Earth, of all I can conceive, t'would be to see another Spring...and bless the falling leaves."*

*Falling Leaves ( The Refugees),© words and music by John Denver, Cherry Mountain Music, 1988

Waning Days Of Winter

There's snow in the weather report...again. Or should I say, yet again. At higher elevations it snows frequently during the winter. I know this and wish everyone around me would quit complaining about the snow and cold. We need snow and cold temperatures, it's a part of Nature's yearly plan to heal and restore the Earth. Vegetation needs to rest. The animals need to rest. So do humans.

I like the cold, long nights of Winter; I get a lot of reading and writing done while I'm bundled up in a blanket with a hot cup of tea to sip. In Winter I feel less obligated to be out and about, a lot of which is busy work meant to please others. Winter is Me time. Crisp Winter air clears my head, and I'm free to plan out my life with less mental chatter. Winter is the season to dream. Maybe that's why we chose it for the time of year to live out the Nutcracker: bring on the sugarplums and  fairies! We hang up the gold and silver decadence that would be garish at other times of the year.

Winter allows us to become someone and something else- if only for a moment- before returning to the harsh realities of daily life and the life-draining impossibilities we heap on ourselves through self-imposed drudgery. We are all in costume on Halloween to hide from our demons and later have a part in the Christmas play. We stand at the door begging for sweet treats, delighted by the candy and fruit cake. The last festive blow-out is Carnival, when we again wear the masks, dress for fantasy and indulge in decadence of body and spirit. ( Is it any wonder that the root origin of this festival's name is carnal? It is a celebration of  worldly pleasures).We push the boundaries for the last time before settling back into the reality of how we really live. Our own celebration of Mardi Gras-Fat Tuesday- reflects this last grasp at self-indulgence.

The sparse first days of Spring sweep away any of the glitz and glitter of Winter and we get back to the business of living our reality. We grudgingly chew on the first shoots of life while yearning for the fatness of Winter's feasts, our corporate memory of the Harvest later in the year a communal amnesia.

And so here I find myself, on the brink of these last few days of seasonally blessed restfulness, wishing for one more day to cuddle in the blankets and have another biscuit with my tea. I try not to listen to those who scorn Winter and to enjoy these last days. For what is more radiant than these days when the branches are heavy with diamond drops of icicles and the Earth is softened by a mantle of  undefiled snow? All the better, I say, to go deep within and wait in the dark Earth for the day when the Light breaks us free to bloom in our very own colors.

Moving On

My favorite place to be late on a Summer afternoon is out on the screen porch of the place where I currently live. Being close to Nature-watching the birds at the feeder, and the foxes as they cross the yard hunting for food, and the squirrels playing is one of the many small things that make living here bearable for me now. Nothing, as they say, lasts forever. I am standing at the door of change, eager to cross the threshold.

Life in North Carolina has been extraordinary. I've never felt quite so at home as I do here. I realize that may have everything to do with living in the South. I was born in South Carolina, but raised in the North. All of the schools I attended-save for one- were Northern schools ( seminary was distance learning from a university in Chattanooga, Tennessee). When I was younger, I liked the never-ending barrage of sights and sounds that are the hallmark of large cities. It really is true that New York City never sleeps; when I was a student, I appreciated finding a place for coffee and a bite to eat at two a.m and interesting characters to talk with. But I am older now, and while the occasional foray into the night in search of coffee and pie in the wee hours of the morning is still stimulating, I prefer the inky blackness of a still night so I can think if I'm writing, or as a blessed blanket for sleep.

When I moved to North Carolina (after 40 years in the Northeast Atlantic seaboard) I instantly fell in love with the city of Raleigh-it has everything, at the slower pace I was looking for at the time, but not so far out of downtown that I lost touch with a progressive lifestyle. Friends were made easily, and I found a spiritual community where I could minister and be of service. It's a beautiful state to visit and vacation in, and I've thoroughly enjoyed the people (well, most of them), but the backward politics of the conservative legislature and the over-the-top clamoring of aging hippies circa 1960s protesting everything gives me a slightly sick feeling and has really thrown a damper on my enthusiasm. It's all just so much of a waste of the precious energy I need to conserve nowadays.

This has lead me to once again to look outside of my comfort zone for a place of contentment and ease.In the last month I've been looking at a small mountain community in Virginia about two hundred miles slightly northwest, and the prospect of this place becoming my next new home is good. In my secret heart of hearts, I have always envisioned myself in Norman Rockwell's version of a small town. There is a part of my heart dedicated to apple pie and Americana, and I'd like that experience while I can still enjoy it. I'll let you know how that goes when I get back.

We Need A Little Christmas...Now

Haul out the holly

Put up the tree 

Before my spirit 

falls again...
Fill up the stocking
I may be rushing things
But-!Deck the Halls 
again now...
From the Broadway musical 'Mame',composed by Jerry Herman,1966

I start checking the calendar for the date of the first Sunday in Advent by Thanksgiving. If you aren't familiar with it, Advent is the season of waiting when Christians prepare spiritually for the birth of the Christ Child. The word
Advent means " the arrival of something important", according to Websters Dictionary.

So... for the four Sundays in Advent, we in the interfaith community wait for the Divine Child ( the name changes according to personal spiritual practice: for some it's Jesus, for others it's Sol Invictus (the Invincible Sun), for others it's Mithra...or we wait for an occasion: the Winter Solstice,Yule, the Wild Hunt, a visit from Father Christmas or Santa Claus. There are many reasons for the season, because there are many days of celebration.
Celebrations such as Festivus, Saturnalia, Misrule, Yuletide, Wintertide...and a few I know I've forgotten.

We do it mainly to wind up the end of the old year and ring in the new, right up through New Year's Eve smack dab in the middle, and continue for six more days until the 12th day of Christmas or the Epiphany.

I'm no longer considered a Christian in mainstream religious circles. Technically, I'm a neo-Pagan. I still believe the teachings of Jesus have deep moral and ethical meaning, but I also ascribe to the wisdom of the Torah,and the Buddha. I am comforted in the compassion of the Dalai Lama; I find strength in the teachings of many ancient religions, including the Celtic spirituality of my ancestors. Because I have integrated all of this into a devotional practice that is tailor-made for me, I can still celebrate Christmas comfortably to a point. To be perfectly honest, I do it to honor where I came from- to remember Christmases past- and as a way of staying connected to my roots.

 I don't rush right from Halloween into Christmas the way the marketing folks would like; I take a last leisurely moment to enjoy Autumn and celebrate Thanksgiving for its own merits. Most years there is a few days between Thanksgiving and the first Sunday of Advent; that's when I start to slowly decorate, building anticipation for the season. I haul out my table-top tree and carefully unpack ornaments I've collected or been given as presents over the years; some of these came from my childhood and belonged to my grandparents.

My tree top angel is one of them. She's white molded plastic with clear wings, a relic from the mid-century: a bulb used to fit in her back, but now I tuck the first light of the string into the hole, and she lights up just fine. The Angel has sat on many Christmas trees throughout my lifetime- those in my grandparent's house where I grew up, and all of the places I've lived since then. She's seen the child's wonder in my eyes when I got a certain doll I wanted, and witnessed the years when my grandparents had volatile arguments over my Grandmother's drinking.
She was there for my first Christmas in my first apartment since college, when Tinker the Cat and I were housebound due to a snow storm that dumped three feet of snow on the town where I moved across the state. She spent a couple of Christmases packed in a box with all the other ornaments in a friend's basement when I was homeless, but she triumphantly returned to her rightful place when I rented a room in a house in North Carolina. Today, she rests atop my little tree, that is grandly displayed in the triple window of my new apartment, which sits half way up a hillside. The whole town can see my tree and electric candles-and the Angel who serenely crowns it.

Meanwhile, I am baking fruitcake and cookies on Christmas Day because I was busy making a little money to pay my utility bills as a paid bell ringer for the Salvation Army. ( Yes, I do know they ascribe to a theology that does not accept the LBGT community. And yes, I do  disagree very much with that because I think all of us are God's Children and that the interpretation of the Scripture used to justify that thinking is flawed and misunderstood. But I also understand that in this area of Appalachia, the Salvation Army is more often than not the only charitable organization that genuinely benefits the poor of the community and those in need...and it is the only place that would hire me because of my disability when I needed to make money to survive through this winter. There isn't many places to choose from when seeking employment-and I was desparate. Working in the charitable branch of the organization is not supporting their religious beliefs. That's not rationalization, it's logic...and I have learned the hard way that I cannot eat my idealism. That's another story for later).

Today has been been bittersweet. There are memories of times with friends and loved ones who are still dear to me- some whom I spoke with on the phone this evening. I remember others who have stepped across the Veil to the place where people go when we leave this life.

Christmas is also a time for children, and since I have none of my own, the childhood memories I have are mine. Not all of them are endearing. I can call up particular moments of feeling very cherished by my grandparents...and times when I thought ( and still believe) I wasn't very loved at all. Mornings when all the neighbors came over to celebrate the holiday and marvel at all the presents my grandparents gave me because they " wouldn't take a million dollars for me"( did anyone ever offer them a million dollars for me?), where I was the center of attention and the joy of their very existence...and the time after company left that I was told not to play with a certain toy and not take it out of the box.

Years later, during one of Mom's drunken  tirades, I learned that those toys were returned to the store so my grandparents could get their money back. We were simply too poor to afford the more expensive ones, but our family had to save face in front of our friends and neighbors, so I was gifted with a pretension of gifts purely for show. Pop couldn't live with the thought of others thinking he couldn't provide for his family; he was, in fact, a very good provider. We never went hungry, the bills were paid. We just ate cheaper cuts of meat and spent less. We were poor, but when I was a child-especially at Christmas-I never knew it until years after he died. Now, as I struggle with making a living on my own as an adult, I am saddened at the thought of those years, but I understand the reasons behind what was done. The memories hurt, and I ache for myself and for Mom and Pop, but the years have given me a compassionate understanding of the reasons behind why things were the was they were. The true gift that has come out of all those years is forgiveness.

I'm glad Christmas is 12 days because you can't fit all of the celebration into one day. These days it's not so much Christmas as it is Yuletide for me. I mainly celebrate the Solstice,and the return of the Light. The Light, as I see it, is the spark of life that rekindles the spirit and guides the soul in the cold winter months. The Light is hope. It is the justification for my believing that to the darkest days, the Light will return. We will always have the dark...in fact, we need it. We need darkness to rest and restore our life force, just as a bulb planted in the cold,dark earth in the Autumn will grow and burst through the ground into the light in the Spring. Humans are like that,too. We need one last celebration, to haul out the holly, put up the tree, throw on the glitz, feast and make merry before we get down to the serious business of growing in the light of the new year. Today, I need a little Christmas...and maybe tomorrow, too, and the next day, and the next...

And Now....

It's been a long time since I've posted to this blog. The big news is that I have a new home. Well, not so new actually...I moved nearly six months ago to that little mountain town I mentioned. The area is vast and remote. If you check a 'flat Earth' map, just beyond where the ocean drops off the edge and the caption reads "There be dragons", that's where I moved. It's a  joke I like to tell to describe my new home to friends.
There is a bit of irony in it...and a lot of truth.

The area of Southwestern Virginia/West Virginia is divided by the rest of the region by the Appalachian Mountains, which essentially isolates it. In 1965, the Appalachian Regional Commission was formed to study economic development. Appalachia was then-and still is - one of the poorest parts of America. The Commission designated the area as economically distressed and endangered-and rightly so: it continues to grapple with poverty and population loss.  This is traditionally coal mining and logging country. In the little town where I live, coal mining dwindled out right about the time I was born in the mid-fifties. Little economic development occurs here now and a majority of the townsfolk make a living at minimum wage jobs. A sign at the edge of my new hometown places the official population at 300; it is, if you count all the cats, dogs and pigeons. The population of the cemetery is higher than the current number of residents. It includes 114 miners and laborers killed during an infamous explosion in a nearby mine. Both are on the National Registry of Historic Places. They filmed a Maxwell House Coffee commercial here once, and a movie 20 years ago. Since then the place has gone to ruin and boasts a mind-boggling number of abandoned buildings. Sic transit gloria mundi.

By now you're probably wondering why I moved here. On the darkest of nights, it's a question I ask myself.
The quickest answer is that I wanted to get out of a bad situation. The best answer is because I could find affordable housing easily so I could reclaim my independence. The life I left feels like time in a vacuum. The place I left felt more like home than where I spent the first 50 years of my life. The friends I left were more family than family, and now that the holidays are approaching, I find myself missing them more and more. Not that I haven't made friends here because I have: it's just that those relationships are so new that they haven't had time to develop the depth and richness of those in North Carolina. I know that will come in the passing months and years, but right now I have moments of intense lonesomeness. I'm not lonely, mind you...I just feel the distance between those I'd come to know and love and myself. I miss their presence and constancy. I miss intellectual discussions on Sunday afternoons over coffee, and sharing a spiritual practice with them. I miss the feeling of coming into my own among peers. When I moved I knew that wouldn't actually end because there are ways of staying in contact through phone calls and the Internet, but I do miss the face time none the less.

The mood is not all melancholy, however. There is still a feeling of civic pride that is easy to get swept up in: Forth of July fireworks, Harvest Festivals unique to the area, parades on Labor Day, Veterans Day and Christmas...Scarecrows and Christmas wreaths hung on the light poles in the main section of town. Everything is within walking distance: the tiny library, Post Office, a nice park with picnic tables, a thrift shop that benefits the Christian Action organization supported by all the churches in the area.

About those churches: you cannot throw a rock in any direction without hitting a church dedicated to a mainstream denomination. The Community Church has become a community center, and the synagogue is closed. I wish it weren't. I love the serenity of the Jewish Sabbath, and it would have been nice to have had a Rabbi in town to have religious debates on Scripture. I've already test driven a couple of the churches in town and had discussions with the pastors. Both are men of the Christian faith-one Episcopalian and the other Methodist. The first attended the same seminary as I did, and was ordained under similar circumstances, so we have an instant history...and he's the spiritual advisor of the local paranormal group. That elicited a big smile from me over the lunch we had one day. The second is a man of unshakable faith. I don't always and entirely agree with his views, but I have to admit....he's one hell of a preacher. I am envious of his ability to preach and pray extemporaneously. Both of these men have hearts as big as all outdoors and would agree to disagree within their chosen faith traditions, and yet they do agree one one thing: they believe this town is in its death throes. I don't want to yet believe this, because if or when I come to this decision on my own, it will be time to leave...and I just got here, damn it. I have an inkling there is a kernel of truth in their sincere assessment that the problem with this town is the attitude of its people. They've both been here long enough to know...but I am still yet an optimist. Perhaps because because I am new and have a different perspective, I can overlook the infighting and apathy and still see the beauty and potential of this place that's so steeped in history. My ability to dream has yet to be taken away, and right now I have faith and believe it can rise again. Maybe not to the level of it's glory days, but to a place of a sustainable existence. It will take a lot of elbow grease...or maybe just a lot of elbows...to turn the page before the book closes forever.
 

Reflections on Father's Day

As I sipped at my first cup of coffee this morning and scrolled through Facebook reading all the wonderful Father's Day memories and tributes and memories, I was struck by the fact that my own connection to a patriarchal figure was tenuous at best. I am the result of a one night stand between my biological father and mother who were divorced at the time. Times being what they were in the 1950's, a hurried shotgun wedding was undertaken to legitimize my legal status and satisfy both my mother's father and the Roman Catholic Church. An equally rapid divorce followed, and I was shipped off to be raised by my mother's parents for the next 18 years.

Both of my parents remarried. After my father was discharged from the Army, he married a wonderful older Creole woman of color and was immediately shunned by my mother's side of the family for good. My mother, or the other hand, continued to make marriage into a past time, marrying two more times  (for a total of five marriages, with numerous hook-ups in between). To be brutal about it, some people just aren't cut out to be parents.

My father visited me at Christmas and on the birthday we share up until the time I was thirteen. He had been a cook in the Army ( like my maternal grandfather), specifically a baker. After the military, he went to work in an upscale boutique dessert shop making cakes and candies; he smelled of chocolate when he stopped by to leave the child support check with my grandparents. On our too few visits together he taught me to decorate cakes and hand-dip chocolates. ( The result is that today, I make wicked-good butter creams from scratch.) The last time I saw him was when I was in the hospital after having my tonsils removed. My last memory of him was as a shadowy figure with a nimbus of light around him as he stood in the doorway to my room. I was still too drugged-up from the surgery to remember anything other than he said he loved me.  After that  night, I never saw him again.

My mother's parents raised me in a modest home. Pop was the local fire chief; Mom was a homemaker whose hobbies included crochet and alcohol. Unlike friends my age, there are virtually no childhood photographs of me after the age of five. I suspect it's because I have my father's features: my step-brother and I look exactly like him. More to the point, I do not look like anyone on my mother's side of the family which have very obviously Sicilian. Most of my formative years were spent staying out of the way or hiding from my grandparents to avoid being in the line of fire during one of their epic arguments; saying their relationship was volatile would be a kindness and an understatement. On those rare occasions when Pop took an interest in me-usually during one of Mom's lengthy drinking binges, I would accompany him on one of his side jobs doing general contracting, or we'd spend time in the kitchen. Pop had been a cook in the Army, and it was something he was particularly good at because he'd received an excellent education at the Cooks and Bakers School at Fort Dix. He taught both Mom and I to cook. Our time in the kitchen is my most positive snap shot memory of him, and all the other miserable crap from my childhood falls away when I think of it.

After both my father and grandfather died, two wonderful men were introduced into my life and became my Dads of Choice. Forest and George were both accomplished in their chosen professions, and well respected in the community. They were the fathers of grown biological children when they came into my life, and quite frankly, they redeemed all other males in my eyes. To qualify that statement, I am keenly aware of their faults, but some how that just made them that much more genuine.

I can add my friend John Denver to those who have been influential and gave me insight to the complexity of what it is to be a man. A side from his long, illustrious career as a renowned entertainer, he was the best example I can think of in how to turn fame into stewardship. He was just as much a humanitarian as anything else and he cared-he suffered-for the world. His greatest joy, however, was being a father. Being a father is what drove his desire to preserve the natural resources of our planet, it was behind nearly every charitable endeavor he involved himself in: ending hunger, worldwide environmental causes, serving the disenfranchised, space exploration. His fame became a stepping stone into all of these areas, and he participated not for himself, but for generations to come.

We honor our fathers- whether of blood or choice- on this day which is set aside to give thanks for their support and nurture. I believe it's a day out of time when we should sit back and think about all the things that make a man a Father, and exactly what parenting is.

Good For The Soul: Venting and Rants

               "Honesty is the first chapter in the book of wisdom."~ Thomas Jefferson

I am a little ashamed that I've neglected this blog; it's not that I stopped meditating and making self-examination. Just the opposite; self-examination is never ending and it takes a lot of time.
I confess that I've been writing for my other blog, the one my esoteric alter ego finds fun and which allows be to be somewhat anonymous, because I at times find it difficult to write when I'm the subject.   I'm still fighting that part of my upbringing that whispers in my ear late at night that people who write about themselves are egotistical and narcissistic. Those who know and abide by the rules of etiquette reserve the opportunity to speak up when they have been prompted. Nice girls don't bring attention to themselves, ever, unless they've done something to earn the admiration and praise of others.

Occasionally I need to throw out the conventional, ignore the rules and force myself to have feelings I don't want to face and say things that make me (and others) uncomfortable. Now might be one of those times.

Editing this entry a little while ago made me wonder if I didn't sound just a teensy bit more angry than the situation warranted. The simple truth is that I wasn't angry at all, I was more exasperated than anything else...Since I'm convinced that indulging in venting and rants are good for the soul, here are some of my current pet peeves for you to relate to as they apply and which I suspect you share too:

• I am tired of being a "good girl". I did not choose to be stereotyped as a paragon of propriety, it came with the job. Although I believe being a member of the clergy has a certain debt of expectation to the public ( and I believe I do try to hold up my end when needed), I am an imperfect, complex being with a lot of quirks. There are quite a few chinks in my armor. I was a human being before I was ordained - and by the grace of the God of Understanding, I will retain that gift. Humans aren't always nice to one another or to themselves. My clerical collar is not tattooed on or nailed into place. It comes off during my private time, and yes, I do have private moments. There are days when I don't feel like putting on my game face  and today has been one of them.

• I am sick of being diplomatic when faced with the overt stupidity and blissful ignorance of others. There are days I can barely hold my tongue and want to choke the life out of some people with my bare hands.

• At 200 pounds I am hardly demure and coquettish, so I will skip that pretense on the days my acting skills are limited. Stop trying to guilt me about being fat by pretending you're concerned about my health; we both know it's only to validate  the perverted idea of perfection touted by the media that you've bought into. Don't try to make it about me, when it's actually about you and your unresolved weight issues. Humans come in all shapes and sizes and none of us actually look like supermodels or rock stars without the intervention of a plastic surgeon. Let's just enjoy being together for who we are and drop it, shall we?

• Ditto to all of you who think that being a vegetarian or vegan makes you a superior and nobler member of the species. No one is going to give you a medal for your dietary choices. Live and let live and stop giving the rest of us unsolicited advice about our food choices. You aren't going to change my mind or my eating habits by being smarmy. ( Note: I have been blessed by the friendship of several fine individuals who are one or the other, and none of them feel compelled to inflict their personal control issues about food on the rest of our little circle of acquaintances.)

• I am finding that more and more often I can no longer manage a beatific Mona Lisa smile when someone who should really know better asks me how I managed to get myself gang raped, or how I ended up in a homeless shelter when I could no longer cope with the PTSD from the experience. Instead of conspiratorially whispering about my perceived character flaws or the state of my mental health (which no doubt lead to my circumstances, at least according to the gossip and active imagination of a few at coffee hour.)  Try asking if there is anything you can do to be supportive or helpful toward improving my lot in life. Just because most of you are members of the Care Committee does not mean you are caring. This kind of mean-spirited behavior is probably a contributing factor as to why your children live on the other side of the country and seldom visit.

• I want to fix the person who so casually asks why I'm still dealing with depression when, it's "obvious to them" that I have nothing to be depressed about with a stare that will instantly vaporize them. And yes, there are  still days when I am feeling worthless and have so little hope for the future that I am still considering stepping off the curb in front of a truck. I don't want your pity, but I don't need your lack of sensitivity, either.

• There have been days when I have wanted to be anything but professional and scream at the people who think they are so much more cool, clever and elite  than I am to knock it off and stop acting like conceited assholes. There are no awards for being overbearingly obnoxious, no matter how cute or important you think are. Not everyone thinks you are as irresistibly awesome  and adorable as you do. Try to get over yourself before someone else with even less tolerance for fools comes along and forcibly helps you to do so.

• Like Tartar Sauce the Grumpy Cat,  I want to look at those of you who are insufferably perky and just say "NO". Bombarding everyone around you with warm fuzzies and quoting Oprah does not not make you credible, so wipe that insipid smile off your face. Some times life sucks, so deal with it.

For those of you who have read this and have come to the conclusion that I'm the biggest bitch you've ever imagined, you're probably right...and I'm not apologizing for it...because I am owning it. And  I'll tell you something else...facing all of your faults and hurts and confronting your own shadow is probably the most healing thing you will ever do in your life. It's a matter of faith to be able to look at yourself  and acknowledge that some parts of you aren't so nice and rosy. Life is messy and dealing with your personal baggage is no picnic in the park, because it's not supposed to be. It's a constant battle to sort out what's authentic and to keep your integrity intact. Honesty is not pretty. You may not always like what I have to say, but you will be able to trust me. I have learned that embracing my crap isn't necessarily a bad thing. It's sad that we've been brained washed (again, by the media and pop culture) into thinking confrontation is always negative, when in fact, conflict might be just what's needed to remove the obstacles to your journey.  I don't know about you, but I want to feel and experience my life-even the bad stuff.  I need  the ups and downs, the good and not-so-good to believe in humanity and embrace living authentically. You have to get your hands dirty to plant a garden. You have to dig deep and get muddy before you can put out the seeds of things that will eventually blossom and ultimately nourish your soul.

What No Longer Serves

Every once in awhile, my feelings about things change and I have to adjust my life accordingly. Of course Life in general is eternally in constant change, there is no way of holding that back-nor would I want to. It's an adventure and a journey that I don't want to miss. However, sometimes when I'm in a reflective mood -or I'm forced to examine a particular activity-I come to terms with the fact  that things that no longer serve my growth, enrich my spirit or feed my soul need to go. Things left to molder eventually become more emotionally hurtful and harmful to my psyche. I have had enough of that in the past and have learned when it's time to cut those things loose for the moorings. It's the only way I'm going to be healthy and survive all the other crap that Life throws at me. It's about priorities.

We all need to interact with others; we are by nature social beings. It's a human trait that we  want to belong and be a part of something with the hope that whatever it is, it will be personally satisfying and enriching. That's changed for me over the last few weeks, and I'm no longer in the 'group' mindset because I have found that I can still do many of those things by myself and in solitary practice and it is just as rewarding...and I am happier. So this week I have decided to leave several groups on Facebook because I  find them no longer satisfying, to limit my interaction with other fans of my RockStar Muse because I just don't want to be sucked into the never-ending drama, jealousy and one up-manship, and turn down a call to minister at a church because the philosophy feels more wrong than right to me. Which will leave me with more time to read, study and generally be inside my own head. Unlike the majority of folks, I am more than reasonably comfortable inside my own skin. That  has mostly been a painstaking process, but the end result is that I can live with who I am with very few regrets. That wasn't always the case. Life changes exponentially when you choose to take responsibility and control of your actions and reaction to the everyday business of existence. Within reason and not meant to be a narcissistic statement, I like who I have become. I try to keep the self-doubt to a minimum by not second-guessing my decisions ( but remaining flexible). And I try not to worry what others think about me, because really...Does it matter? Junior High was a long time ago and I'd like to think that it's no longer necessary for Life to be a petty popularity contest. I have little tolerance for the pretensions of others because I have no use for it, those who pretend to be something they definitely are not have no place in my life...and I have an excellent pair of bullshit antennae.

Everything we encounter is influenced by our thoughts and feelings. You don't just see the world through your eyes, but with your heart as well. We become so preoccupied with what we must do in Life that we very often forget what we like to do. There are many more things I want to accomplish and a limited amount of time daily and weekly allotted for me to do them. Casting off things that no longer serve me gives me the precious gift of more time. I will take all that I can so I can continue working on who I am and want to be in the future.

Shine On

First and foremost, life is a fragile. We forget this because of our tendency to rush head-long from one thing to the other, to fall down and get right back up, ignore the bruises, because it's what's expected of us by society. We create a membrane of steel around ourselves,that will deflect the bad things. Mostly we just carry on.

Life is an exciting, wonderful adventure full of Mystery. We never really know what's going to happen next, but we never expect it to be more than we can handle. We don't look too closely or make eye contact. It's better that way. We're less likely to get hurt by Life.

A few hours ago, I found out someone in my congregation died. She was a physically and spiritually beautiful soul who possessed a spirit open to whatever the world would bring. She was tragically killed in a traffic accident. We have questions about the circumstances, for which we may never have answers. Today would have been her 27th birthday.

We believe with our hearts that this life will go on forever, even when we know in our heads that it won't. Dying is the natural cycle of things; we are born and we die. What we do between those points is called living, and we burn with a light from a flame within. Some of us achieve great accomplishments the span of a lifetime; others only burn brightly for a few short years, but the people their light shines on are left feeling warm and good.

Shine on, Sister. Shine on.

Thoughtful New Year

Maya Angelou

In 2012 nature and the mad nature of some human beings caused us to wonder how can we go on. From super storm Sandy to the Colorado movie house shooting and the massacre at Sandy Hook Elementary School, we have been pressed to find some answers to the question, why, me why us, why now? As we come into 2013, we bring with us the need to find answers and the hope to find what can we do to prevent the recurrence of these despairing occurrences. I think we must commit to a commitment to all human beings and a decision to accept our responsibility to nature's outpouring and human misbehavior. I wish that we could say with Horace Mann that each of us should be "ashamed to die until you have won some victory for mankind." I think we must surrender the despair of unexpected cruelty and extend the wonder of unexpected kindnesses to ourselves and to each other. 2013 can bring us the chance to be kind to each other and kind to ourselves. We deserve each other and each other's generosity.

This appeared on my Facebook page tonight. I can add nothing more other than...Amen. So Mote It Be.

Where Was God?

Where was God when children and adults were being injured and killed in Connecticut and China?

The question always arises after one of these tragedies occurs and makes worldwide news.

" Where was God? Doesn't God care?"


Where  was God? Where were you? Where was I? Where were WE when funding for healthcare that covered mental illness was being cut? Where were WE when legislation was being passed that allowed assault weapons to be placed in the hands of ordinary citizens?

Stop blaming Deity for the foibles and failures of humans. WE need to take responsibility for not providing proper healthcare for the mentally ill. WE need to take responsibility for passing laws that allow excessive freewill to those who cannot make rational decisions which results in them harming themselves and others. WE need to to stop using the cop-out that allows dangerous individuals free reign in our society because they have a 'right' to self determination. WE need to reexamine the distribution of firearms in this country and realistically come to grips with exactly why anyone believes assault weapons should be allowed to be in the hands of anyone other than the military or the police... Which leads to a much deeper question, one I'm pretty certain Americans aren't ready to face but must come to terms with:our fear of The Other., because we have permitted special interest groups to play on our righteous corporate ( as in unified, not business ) paranoid after 9/11.

WE need to stand up to political bullies and lobbyists who force legislation, not because they necessarily believe in it, but because someone has crossed their palms with silver.

Placing Blame

Yesterday, twenty-seven people were savagely butchered in an elementary school in Connecticut at the hands of a someone suffering from a severe mental illness. The details of the incident are sketchy, but as they leak out, the very prominent fact that this atrocity was visited upon innocent children and their adult caretakers due to a failure of our society is undeniable.

While others are mourning the loss of lives, I am angry at the inadequacy of our mental health care system. I am furious at politicians who have chipped away at funds earmarked for the diagnosis and treatment of the mentally ill. I am beyond frustrated by constantly having to justify mental illness as a physical illness which requires medical treatment. I am literally sickened by the inexcusable attitude of healthcare practitioners who are undereducated or lack education altogether about the myriad forms of a legitimate disease that is swept under society's carpet...just as it was over a century ago. Some forms of mental illness kills; not only through suicide by the individual, but by other means which makes it a matter of public health. Pretending that someone else is "okay" when it is clear they aren't is nothing short of criminal negligence.

I am tired of those in the "helping" professions which are supposedly responsible for the oversight and welfare of those who are the least able among us to care for themselves begging off with," What do you want us to do?" Grow some fucking cojones, step up and be responsible, that's what I want you to do. That includes families who choose to use the worn cop-out, " We can't make choices for him".

Let me tell you something: When your troubled 'loved one' or client becomes the next  Adam Lanza, or Jared  Loughner, or James Holmes or  Eric Harris or Dylan Klebold, and all you have done is thrown your hands up in frustration, those hands will have just as much blood on them as the one who loaded the bullets into the gun. Or maybe you'll just be the first of many to die.

You wouldn't let frustration with the healthcare or the court system get in your way if the one you cared about were suffering from a 'tangible disease' such as cancer and was mentally unstable and unable to make realistic decisions about their personal welfare. The fact is that an individual's right to self -determination ends when his/her behavior and choices become a dangerous threat to their own welfare and that of the public. Lack of responsibility for proper mental healthcare is a public health issue, period...and we had better become accountable before the next tragedy occurs.

O Come, O Come....

If you stick with with this blog long enough,from time to time you will hear me refer to The Place of Deep Indwelling. It is difficult to describe, but when we are there we instantly recognize it. It is the place where we are most ourselves, where we are the most comfortable simply being. It is the place where we live without the pretension of a mask; we are unafraid to be who we are here, rather than who we feel we have to be in society. I love this place, and it is there in the winter months you will find me hunkered down in the evening, either reading or writing a journal, often just by candlelight. When you have been there, you know what I'm talking about.

There is something very holy about the light of a candle's flickering flame, something very simple yet elegant. The Jewish Sabbath begins with the lighting of candles which sets the tone for winding down from the week. It signals that our life should become calm and we should rest. I have always thought that Advent is a lot like that: a season of restful calm which restores the soul. Many who have a spiritual practice and follow a liturgical calendar are actively preparing for the birth of a Divine Child at Yule or Christmas,others, like the Jews, are celebrating a miracle from so long ago that kept the lamp in the Temple burning. It is a season of Light. Both are places where our spirit thrives and grows.

I was introduced to the idea of Advent in a Christian context, the wreath with four candles, being lit after dinner and accompanied by a time of devotion and prayers. It is a quaint tradition, and I like it. In the past few years, I haven't actually had a wreath; I've laid some cut greens around the edge of an old silver tray in a circle and put the four candles among them. Each Sunday has a particular aspect: Hope, Love, Joy and Peace. I usually meditate on each aspect on its day, thinking about what those words mean to me.

It has been years since I participated in a proper Advent service in a church. Those prayers and hymns in that particular form ended for me with the last note played by the organ....except one, which I hold particularly dear, O Come, O Come Emmanuel. There is something that sounds very ancient and wondrously strange in that music, and the words of entreaty, and they have stuck with me over the years, particularly when it is sung in Latin, the sacred language of the soul. There is a yearning and a promise woven in the music which transcends Christianity, because I believe we are still searching for something we know will eventually come to us. Seek and find: walk the path with Hope and all the rest-Love, Joy and Peace will come to us.

Thanks Living

I have not shopped on Black Friday for years. A stint of working retail on Black Friday several years in a row was a real eye opener as to how cruel and selfish people can be to one another in the frenzy of greed and mob mentality...considering especially it's happening less than 24 hours after a day supposedly set aside for being thankful and targeted for a day celebrating the birth of 'the Prince of Peace' ? It shows just how insidiously selfish society has really become.

Stay home with your family on Thanksgiving and be grateful you have a family, a home, warmth, food for the table. Live and breathe thankfulness for just one day without the intrusion of the outside world....And please, reconsider giving your money to the 'big box' chains and staying out of the malls on Black Friday. Who needs the crowds, the pushing, shoving or angry vibes to start the celebration of a season of the birth of a child who ultimately stood for peacefulness and the renewal of life? Go to a farmer's market and check out the handicrafts, or a church crafts fair, or the shop of a local artisan...or make something yourself.