If I Were a Rapist...

If I were a rapist-- a serial sexual predator bent on destroying as many women's independence and control over their own bodies as possible-- and an omnipotent one at that, with the power to create my custom rapist's utopia in which I could move and act freely, I can imagine the sort of society I would create.

In my imaginary society, women would be trained from a young age to disconnect from their own needs and feelings, and to focus instead on meeting the needs of others. They'd learn that what they really want in life doesn't matter so much, and that they always have to be polite and nonconfrontational, and that it's better to let someone else be "right" than to be too assertive. I'd make sure they saw plenty of examples of assertive, independent women who look out for their own needs being labeled "bitches," too, to remind them of what happens when women step outside the meek and accommodating mode and learn to stick up for themselves. Just to make sure they got this message loud and clear, I'd make the popular media be full of caricatures of women-- hard, assertive, mean characters, and modest, pleasing, timid characters. Maybe then they'd never figure out that real women can be both strong and vulnerable, both assertive and compassionate, both humble and accomplished.

I'd make sure women didn't know how to discern and protect their own boundaries. From the time they were small, I'd hope for their parents to make them kiss and hug relatives they don't want to kiss or hug-- "Awww, come on, kiss Aunt Ruth goodbye-- don't you want to be a nice girl?" "I know you think he's weird, but it would really make Uncle Keith feel a lot better if you gave him a hug." I'd want their caregivers to dismiss their feelings, making them believe that children's emotions don't really matter and aren't really real-- "I'll give you something to cry about," and "Quit whining-- it's just a toy." The younger we begin to teach kids to disassociate from their feelings, their pain, their discomfort, the easier it will be to maintain this training all through the rest of their lives.

By the time they were teenagers, their boundaries might be so completely blurred and unstable that they'd be primed to begin to engage in consensual, but unwanted, sex, having sex they don't want to be having for reasons ranging from "he expects it on the third date" to "she'll leave if I don't do this" to "if I do this, he'll know how much I love him." They'd continue to have sex that leaves them feeling empty, whether or not it is truly enjoyable and pleasurable and fun for them. I'd make sure that our society sends them messages letting them know that they're doing the right thing by being "sexually empowered" in having sex frequently, doing my best to obscure the part of the message that "empowerment" involves claiming power, not giving it away. And to make sure they were left feeling further confused and isolated, I'd want society to send messages of shame and judgement, so they'd know that they were doing something dirty and secret, that they were "sluts" for engaging in risky sexual behavior, and "bitches" if they made it about their own sexual gratification, and "prudes" if they wanted sex to be about real love and connection.

I'd make sure that married and partnered women and men knew that putting out on schedule-- some arbitrarily assigned number of times per week-- was part of their "job requirements," whether they felt like having sex or not. Then, they'd be more likely to continue the pattern of dissociating sex from passion and pleasure that was begun in their youth. And just for kicks, I'd pound into their minds the belief that you can't be raped by your spouse-- that he has "rights" to your body because of marriage or past sexual encounters, and that you don't have to consent or agree for him to take you when he wants.

I'd make sure that entire classes of people could be oppressed, and that all of us would be culturally trained to see other types of people as "less than." Further, I'd make sure we were all so scared of being labeled "prejudiced" that we'd be scared to even examine or admit our areas of judgment, staying blissfully unaware of how we contribute to the problem. I'd want a society that sees sexual harassment and battery and rape used as a instrument of subjugation, in military and war and corporate settings. I'd want a society that uses ritual degradation as a rite of passage or entry, like a form of hazing, because once degradation of another human becomes a norm, the door is open for sexual degradation to be part of that ritual.

I'd want every child who comes forward claiming sexual abuse to not be believed, because a child who is not believed will learn to expect that nobody is there to protect him, that nobody will believe her, that there is nothing that can be done to stop violence and violation and betrayal. I'd want grandparents to side with family members who are abusers rather than with the victim, so the kid learns that speaking out results in people turning their back on him. I'd want parents to tell the kids to quit making up stories-- that there's no way grandpa could be an abuser. I'd want parents to be so ashamed that sexual abuse may have touched their family that they'd refuse to report it to law enforcement for investigation, hesitate to get their child needed counseling and treatment, and live their lives in a false world in which nothing ever happened and none of it exists. Kids who are abused and ignored learn that being ignored is what happens when you try to make something of it-- I'd bet they'd make prime targets for me once they are older.

In my rapist's utopia, I'd make sure that women's bodies were used to sell EVERYTHING, and that half-dressed women in sexy poses, airbrushed and photoshopped to perfection, were on the covers of almost all the magazines in the stores. Then women would compare their bodies to the women they're seeing on the magazines and TV commercials and movies, and realize they could never measure up. Thin, beautiful women might work excessively at staying thin and "beautiful"-- doing everything they could to look like the women in the media, hoping to gain some sort of acceptance, while all along learning to use their beauty and superficial sexuality to make gains in life, win attention, and make life easier. Then they'd come to view themselves not as whole women, competent and with great potential, but as shells to be polished and presented, whose worth depends completely on a specific set of ephemeral physical qualities that may or may not last through life. I'd make sure that women who don't fit that narrow definition of socially approved physical "beauty" doubt themselves, and constantly think that nobody could ever find them sexy, so that when they are offered less than ideal sexual experiences that are degrading, devastating, or dismissive, they'll readily accept, having been taught that to be found sexy and attractive is an ideal to aspire to in and of itself, with or without the empowerment that comes from having your sexuality honored by a caring and attentive partner. And I'd definitely want children to see these media images from a young age, so that little girls learn that their value comes from their ability to use their sexuality, and little boys learn that women are objects to be used.

If I were a rapist, the concept of the sex industry would THRILL me as a key component of my utopia because it sets the precedent that women's bodies and sexuality can be bought and sold, and anything that can be bought and sold is fair game to be stolen. I'd want strip clubs galore, where young women barely out of their own childhoods and still experiencing the poor judgment of adolescence would come when they felt that they didn't have options, to take their clothes off for men of all ages. I'd make sure that there were no other entry-level jobs in my society that pay very well, to ensure a steady flow of desperate young women who know they can't make as much money in any other business. In the strip clubs, they'd see that they can make more money based on the degree of graphic nature of their performance, and that the more they DID, the more they'd MAKE. They'd probably end up meeting up with a girl or two who did pictures and videos, and these porn stars would be glamorized! Every "feature" dancer brought into the club would bring in a huge crowd, and be fussed over like a celebrity based upon appearances in a number of magazines and movies. So the girls might branch out into some nude pictures or "soft" video porn.

Eventually, they'd discover that if you go beyond pole tricks and lapdances, you can move into working for escort services and prostitution. The pay would up the ante, with sex itself (instead of just sexuality) being the commodity, opening the door for sex to be stolen. Women in prostitution would learn that sex is sex and that empowerment is empowerment and that pleasure is pleasure, and that they rarely ever go together, lowering her expectations for what sex should be. She's already learned how to suck it up and engage in a sexual act while dissociating somewhat from her own pleasure and sensuality. At some point, she realizes that exchanging sex for money brings a level of attention and identity that she may have been missing before. Perhaps this is the first time she's really been shown a lot of attention, or made to feel sexy, or whatever. Perhaps she has been doing soft porn, and discovers she can make even more money based on what she's willing to do on camera. So, she may branch out into harder porn, eventually engaging in sexual acts that she herself might find offensive or undesirable, simply to make money and "protect" or promote herself in some way.

If I were a rapist, the sex industry would be like an exquisite, gift-wrapped present at Christmas, bringing me precisely the kind of cultural phenomenon I would need to make potential victims have no real connection with their own true power, drive to be empowered, and genuine sexuality; all while making potential bystanders and accomplices learn to see women as bodies, as sex acts, as personal gratification, instead of as sentient, intelligent, independent beings with emotional needs and dreams and desires. The sex industry, particularly the parts of it that encourage violence or brutality as norms, would serve to desensitize my entire utopia to the objectification and victimization of women. I guess if I'm really omnipotent, I'd make sure that thinking people who object to the objectification of women were portrayed as anti-sex, or crazy, or not in touch with reality.

In my imaginary society, people who wanted to "justify" their sexual domination of another person could travel out of country, so they could take advantage of foreign, "different" children, and still consider themselves to be upstanding citizens, because they don't hurt "real" women or children. I'd make sure that every school child in my society was taught about the "end" of slavery, and how awesome our current society is for not allowing slavery, while ensuring that they never learn about the illicit sex slave trade that is alive and well, even in our society. I'd do everything I could to make sure that rape, and child sex abuse, and prostitution, and sex slavery were all things that we could not speak openly and comfortably about in our society, so that more and more people would remain unaware of what was going on in their own families and communities-- right underneath their noses.

And these same qualities of my imaginary society that would make women ideal victims would also serve to make men ideal victims. After all, if women are constantly portrayed as weak, sexual objects ripe for the taking, thus making them easy victims, men are portrayed as strong, unemotional conquerors. What man who has been assaulted and raped wants to admit to being in the same league as weak sexual objects? Men who have been raped are even less likely than women to come forward, to demand justice, and to admit what happened to them.

With all these pieces in place, I'd be damn near guaranteed that I'd have an unlimited supply of victims who would ignore their boundaries long enough for me to make a move, who would have mixed expectations about their own sex lives, increasing their accessibility and vulnerability to me for acquaintance rape. And when I committed a rape, acquaintance or stranger, extremely violent and brutal or simple and straightforward, this utopia would make it extremely unlikely that victims would come forward. Some might not even define what I did to them as "rape," afraid that it implies some degree of ignorance or self-blame on their part. Some might consider it rape, but worry deep down inside that others wouldn't believe them, would blame them, or would say they are lying. After all, these "others" have been seeing the same societal messages, received the same cultural training, and heard the same rape myths. Some might know it was rape, want to come forward, and still feel shamed into submission. Some might come forward and have well-meaning but ill-informed friends, authorities, and professionals question what they did to cause it-- after all, we have all been trained to mistrust the inherent wisdom of women's bodies and to doubt that women are capable of understanding the truth about their lives, much less speaking honestly and directly about their sexual experiences.

If I were a rapist, this is exactly the kind of society that would lead me to feel safe weaving in and out of different circles of people, always being able to hone my craft, never truly worrying about getting into any situations I couldn't talk my way out of. This is exactly the kind of society that I know would be more likely to blame or not believe my victims.

This is exactly the kind of society in which we live.

Giving and Helping

I'm still working on that other post (it's got some big stuff in it), but wanted to share that over the past few days I've been thinking a lot about human nature, giving, taking care of each other, and love. We live in a society that holds up giving/helping/compassion as an ideal, but rarely ever expects it of anyone. We think of those who are generous with their time, talents, and treasures as somehow better or different than the average person, instead of realizing that we all have it in us to give in one way or another (and, if I can say this without being too simplistic, that we SHOULD). What stops us from giving?

In the midst of pondering how it all fits together, something happened two nights ago at the restaurant. An elderly woman in the restaurant began to choke a few tables over from my section. I quickly went and grabbed another server who I know is also an EMT. When I said to him, "a lady is choking at table 12," he immediately dropped everything and literally ran to be there. By the time he got there, a doctor from a neighboring table was with her, assessing the situation and helping. My server/EMT friend, being the kind of guy he is (a natural helper and giver at heart), stayed in the part of the restaurant near the choking lady until he knew everything was okay. As I went back to check on my next table (which was just on the other side of a small barrier from table 12), the woman commented that she was a nurse, and had been about to go over and help when the doctor had walked up and introduced himself. I was struck with the fact that whatever is our skill, blessing, or ability, most of us want to be able to help. When I took CNA training (while considering nursing school myself), I remember the instructor (a registered nurse) saying that she kept a small emergency pack with rubber gloves and basic medical supplies in her car at all times, so that if she ever happened across a medical emergency (car wreck being the most likely), that she would always stop and help.

I don't know why this warranted a post, except for me to say that the beauty of giving, of compassion, and of human generosity, when it's put into action (which isn't usually as often as it should be), is overwhelming in its goodness.

Sunday Jazz Brunch thoughts

I'm sitting on my favorite part of the patio at my favorite natural foods co-op, enjoying nice music, pleasant weather, and the laid-back, friendly feel of Sunday Jazz Brunch. Turns out, I got some kind of employee recognition at yesterday morning's biannual all-employee meeting, and since my managers know I love this place, they got me a gift card for here. :-) So, I'm enjoying some Moroccan cous cous salad and tabouli, and about to head in to pour myself a nice cup of El Salvador Dali blend coffee.

It's a nice morning.

In fact, it's been a nice few days. Sometimes, I think when something has begun to eat me up inside, just saying it out loud-- admitting it to myself and to whomever needs to know it-- ends the drama for me. Within 10 minutes of saying what needed to be said, I was over it. I still want to apologize to my friend, but no longer really feel an ounce of irritation or anger over the situation at all. I've had a wonderful few days, although very sleep deprived.

I closed the restaurant Friday night, and didn't get out of work until after 1:30 am, and wasn't able to get to sleep until almost 2:30 am. Then, I got up at 6:30 Saturday morning to get to the aforementioned employee meeting (which, due to the nature of the business, must necessarily be at weird hours when the place is otherwise empty). One cheesy video, 50 gift card dollars, and 60 minutes later, I was loading into the car to head to a volunteer training. After training, I had some time with my kids, and then found time to squeeze in a 15 minute nap, which almost seemed to make it worse. Then, back to the restaurant to close again, and I got into my bed at almost 2 am this morning.

(It is interesting to point out at this point in my writing that the "jazz" band has shifted to playing middle-eastern-sounding music and there are about 40 people hooping and pseudo-bellydancing on the lawn not far from me as I write.)

But, gift card aside (because I love me some WSM), the training was the major highlight of my day.

Backstory: Back in May, I began a training program to be a volunteer at a local rape crisis center. In mid-June, we were fairly certain that we'd be relocating to a town just over 30 minutes away, out of the zone within which I'd need to be when on call. We even had a place lined up and everything. So, I dropped out of the training. Then, after touring the schools in the other town, I just knew I couldn't give up our local school district. But by then, I had missed two weeks of the training that I couldn't make up. So, I asked them to let me know when the next training would be, and it started back up yesterday.

So, the previous training I attended, being over the summer, had been a very small group (5 or 6 women). Most of us (all but one, if I remember correctly) were in the 25+ age range. It had been a very intimate group-- perhaps a little too much so, full of incredibly heady and intense women.

Yesterday's training was awesome. I would guess there were about 30 people there, and that there were maybe 10 of us in the 25+ range, including one really cool guy. The rest were all undergraduate students at the local university. Can I just say that hearing some of them speak-- being witness to their passion and their intelligence and their compassion-- has lifted my already lifting spirits tremendously? My oldest will be a teenager in a couple of months, and my oldest daughter has a birthday this week that will place her fairly firmly into the realm of preteen-hood. I'll have a child in high school next school year, and the countdown in my mind has already begun until I'll be sending my children, one by one, off into independence, perhaps to include their own time spent at university.

I remember my first attempt at university studies, by the way. I remember it too well. I remember confusion and anxiety and trying to find my place, being surrounded by alcohol and drug abuse, making questionable life choices. I remember events that led me to first become painfully familiar with the kinds of experiences that make rape crisis centers such an imperative. I remember all of the fun, and all of the angst. I remember dropping out after a few years, amidst a whirlwind of intra-and interpersonal confusion. And I know, no matter how strongly I work to equip my children with faith and confidence and power and strength, they are going to face their own battles that bring them into adulthood-- battles that I will not be able to fight for them, battles that I should not fight for them because they are THEIRS to win.

And in the midst of my worries, thoughts of where my children will be heading and who they are becoming every day, yesterday, I had the privilege of walking into a room full of intelligent, empowered, thoughtful and funny college students-- the kinds of young women I would love to see my daughters become, the kinds I'd love to see my sons grow up to respect and honor and count among their friends.

I left the training yesterday not only hopeful as a mother, but energized and empowered as a woman, knowing that although there may always be crimes against certain categories of people deemed "disposable" or less than, there will always be small groups of thoughtful, committed people working to change the world. In this is some small reassurance.

Emotions

I tend to be a very intense, emotional person. And while I like the intensity and it has gotten me far, and I appreciate and honor my nature as a sensitive, feeling, and compassionate person, I do not want to be ruled by my emotions. This is something that I've thought about over the past few years, and that in the past few weeks-- weeks that have been incredibly emotional for me-- has become a more pressing issue in my life.

Today, I became frustrated with a very dear friend. While I was not specifically angry at that friend and did not blow up at the friend, I let my emotions get the best of me. Focused on my own emotions regarding a situation in which I currently find myself-- a situation I may have created for myself to some degree-- I allowed my feelings of frustration, guilt, hurt, worry, and heartbreak to spill out in a way that was not very controlled, considerate, or fair. I truly and humbly feel regret over this, and hope that my friend, when we talk, will forgive me for giving myself over to the tumultuous and unpredictable emotions circling me during this time. I am sorry.

Over the past few weeks, being drawn to philosophies and practices that offer practical tips on managing emotions, I've been once again drawn to Tibetan Buddhism. A few weeks ago, I bought An Open Heart by the Dalai Lama at one of the many local used bookstores. From the inside cover: "In this book the path begins with simple and clear ruminations on the advantages of a virtuous life and moves on to practices that can temper destructive and impulsive emotions. Such practices can be undertaken at odd moments of the day, at once transforming the aimless or anxious mind into a disciplined and open mind." Sounds good, right? Yeah, and my husband thought so too, immediately taking up this book to begin reading it himself (which, if I'm honest, makes me very happy).

So, today, I went to the library and picked up How to Practice: The Way to a Meaningful Life by the Dalai Lama. While waiting on my shift to start, and for a short while after my work shift this evening, I read the first few chapters. It is wonderful, and very helpful. He discusses the three practices as the discipline of morality, concentrated meditation, and manifest knowledge (or wisdom). Morality, he discusses, is the foundation upon which the other two are built. And I was reassured in reading this because I feel that the first step-- practicing morality-- is one in which I am strong. I am easily compassionate and sensitive and empathic by nature, and hold to high standards of integrity and authenticity in my life. That part of practice will be a honing and broadening for me, rather than an introduction. Adding in a stronger appreciation for and practice of the other two will provide the pieces I've been missing off and on over the past little bit of my life. I am looking forward to working through this book, as well as the other one (once I get it back from my husband). I hope to always remain a compassionate, sensitive, loving person. Just one in which the passion part of the compassion is a little more controlled.

And speaking of my husband, have I mentioned lately how much the last few weeks have made me appreciate him more? He has supported me completely through a process in which I have done something very difficult because he knew I needed to do it. He has loved me enough to allow me the freedom to explore some ideas and thoughts that may not have always been comfortable for either of us. He has acknowledged who I am, how I relate to others, and that life isn't always neat and tidy. And because he has been so supportive and open through every challenge we've ever faced together, instead of responding to uncertainty with jealousy, threats, or defensiveness, he remains my confidante, my best friend, and my sounding board. He has never put me into a position where I have felt the need to hide from him-- not myself, not my thoughts, not my actions. I'm only recently realizing how precious and rare that might be.

Tired of Speaking Sweetly

Had a wonderful afternoon with the family today, a great dinner date with my husband, and a relaxing night off hanging out at home. I am blessed! Tomorrow, I drive in to Raleigh to head to the Girl Scout Shop to pick up some things Sassy Pants needs for her first meeting as a Junior tomorrow afternoon.

Tonight, though, I'm still reflecting on the role inner turmoil plays in our lives, and how sometimes when we've allowed ourselves to be something that, at our core, we are not, the only solution is to shake it all down. I was reminded of this poem I came across a while back...

TIRED OF SPEAKING SWEETLY
—Hafiz

Love wants to reach out and manhandle us,
Break all our teacup talk of God.

If you had the courage and
Could give the Beloved His choice, some nights,
He would just drag you around the room
By your hair,
Ripping from your grip all those toys in the world
That bring you no joy.

Love sometimes get tired of speaking sweetly
And wants to rip to shreds
All your erroneous notions of truth

That make you fight within yourself, dear one,
And with others,

Causing the world to weep
On too many fine days.

God wants to manhandle us,
Lock us inside of a tiny room with Himself
And practice His dropkick.

The Beloved sometimes wants
To do us a great favor:

Hold us upside down
And shake all the nonsense out.

But when we hear
He is in such a "playful drunken mood"
Most everyone I know
Quickly packs their bags and hightails it
Out of town.

(translated by Daniel Ladinsky)

Change, growth, and rebirth

Earlier today, seeking counsel from some wise women I'm blessed to count among my friends, I shared some of the stories that influenced my last blog post-- stories that had been directly confronted in the last post, along with some other issues with which I've been struggling the last few days. As mentioned before, I do deal with a great deal of self-blame and sadness when I feel I've done anything that is potentially harmful to another person, whether or not the harm was ever intended. It's just the way my heart is wired-- to worry about others, and to hope that I can be a positive influence, and only a positive influence (to the extent that is possible) in the lives of those people I meet, particularly those I love. When I feel I may have made a mistake, usually out of nothing but the best of intentions, it eats me up inside and I am consumed with worry and heartache until I find a way to see the good in it.

So my wise women friends all had incredible insights and loving things to say, knowing me well enough to know that I almost always have good intentions (even if I am at times confused or awkward). One statement in particular was the source of an incredible awakening in my heart-- something I needed to hear, but perhaps had been a little scared of knowing.

"There's a reason the Hindus created the goddess Kali to represent the magnificent forces of destruction and rebirth that God offers."

After reading that statement, I had to stop and take a moment to reflect on my current situation, and on many difficult situations I've faced in the past.

More on that in a minute. But first, for those who aren't familiar with Kali...

From http://hinduism.about.com/od/hindugoddesses/a/makali.htm:

Kali is represented with perhaps the fiercest features amongst all the
world's deities.... Kali's fierce form is strewed with awesome symbols.
Her black complexion symbolizes her all-embracing and transcendental nature.
Says the Mahanirvana Tantra: "Just as all colors disappear in black, so all
names and forms disappear in her". Her nudity is primeval, fundamental, and
transparent like Nature — the earth, sea, and sky. Kali is free from the
illusory covering, for she is beyond the all maya or "false consciousness."
Kali's garland of fifty human heads that stands for the fifty letters in the
Sanskrit alphabet, symbolizes infinite knowledge.
Her girdle of severed
human hands signifies work and liberation from the cycle of karma. Her white
teeth show her inner purity, and her red lolling tongue indicates her omnivorous
nature — "her indiscriminate enjoyment of all the world's 'flavors'." Her sword
is the destroyer of false consciousness and the eight bonds that bind
us.... Her three eyes represent past, present, and future, — the three
modes of time — an attribute that lies in the very name Kali ('Kala' in Sanskrit
means time).
The eminent translator of Tantrik
texts, Sir John Woodroffe in Garland of Letters, writes, "Kali is so called
because She devours Kala (Time) and then resumes Her own dark formlessness."
.... The reclined Shiva lying prostrate under the feet of Kali suggests that
without the power of Kali (Shakti), Shiva is inert.

From the bastion of "must be true" (but still good enough for the purposes of a relatively casual blog post) knowledge that is Wikipedia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kali):

In spite of her seemingly terrible form, Kali Ma is often considered the kindest
and most loving of all the Hindu goddesses, as she is regarded by her devotees
as the Mother of the whole Universe. And, because of her terrible form she is
also often seen as a great protector. When the Bengali saint Ramakrishna once asked a devotee why one would prefer to worship Mother over him, this devotee
rhetorically replied, “Maharaj, when they are in trouble your devotees come
running to you. But, where do you run when you are in trouble?”[30]

According to Ramakrishna, darkness is the Ultimate Mother, or Kali:
My Mother is the principle of consciousness. She is Akhanda Satchidananda; indivisible Reality, Awareness, and Bliss. The night sky between the stars is perfectly black. The waters of the ocean depths are the same; The infinite is always mysteriously dark. This inebriating darkness is my beloved Kali.
-Sri Ramakrishna

....From a Tantric perspective, when one meditates on reality at rest, as absolute pure consciousness (without the activities of creation, preservation or dissolution) one refers to this as Shiva or Brahman. When one meditates on reality as dynamic and creative, as the Absolute content of pure consciousness (with all the activities of creation, preservation or dissolution) one refers to it as Kali or Shakti. However, in either case the yogini or yogi is interested in one and the same reality — the only difference being in name and fluctuating aspects of appearance. It is this which is generally accepted as the meaning of Kali standing on the chest of Shiva.[37]

....Gopi Krishna proposed that Kali standing on the dead Shiva or Shava (Sanskrit for dead body) symbolised the helplessness of a person undergoing the changing process ( psychologically and physiologically) in the body conducted by the Kundalini Shakti.[39]

Okay, back to your regularly scheduled blog post.

So, to recap. Kali represents destruction and violence, although in a way that leaves her viewed by many as a protective mother figure-- one who turns her wrath on those who threaten her devotees, or those she loves. She also represents one aspect of the cycle of death and rebirth-- she is the destruction that clears the way for growth, rebirth, and spiritual development. She is the fall/winter that prepares the earth for a more glorious spring/summer. She is the decay and rot that season the soil, preparing it to produce new life and beautiful growth. She is the downward portion of the inward spiral that promises to bring us back up again, each time closer and closer to Center. She is the emotional upheaval and internal violence we all feel just before the most incredible periods of intense growth and renewal, and the complete dismantling of what we believed to be our lives, our purpose, that happens just before our lives can be reassembled in beautiful, synchronistic, serendipitous ways we had never expected. She is fearsome and terrifying and disorienting, but only because we do not (in our human ignorance) understand what it is that she is preparing us for.

Please don't think I'm comparing myself to Kali, by the way. Although some of you who have seen my temper first hand might be inclined to differ, I genuinely am thinking in this moment of Kali as a force acting on and in my life with regard to my past and present experiences. Every time I've experienced what felt like a complete and total dismantling of my reality, it has hurt. It has been painful. And it has, without fail, been followed (usually sooner or sometimes later) by one of the most intense periods of spiritual and emotional growth imaginable. The broken bone that healed poorly sometimes must be broken again in order to heal more fully. The broken heart that has never allowed itself to be open again to genuine love sometimes must experience that brokenness once more to open it back up. The refiner's fire heats us to the point where we think we can no longer take the heat in order for the impurities in us to rise to the surface, where they can be gently lifted away by the refiner who loves us, never leaves us, and sits by us through every burning pain.

And in the end, we come out better and stronger. We have to. I can't imagine a world in which trials do not lead to further knowledge, growth, and strength. I cannot conceive of a God who does not allow difficult times in our lives to contribute to our good, often proportionally to the degree of suffering that creates the good.

This is my reality: Life brings challenges. Challenges help you grow. Growth is good, and helps to shape you more and more into the person you are called to be, equipping you with skill sets and characteristics and strength you will need to do what you are meant to do, once you realize you are meant to do it. This is not a bad thing-- this is just life.

And this post-- this train of thought-- is an incomplete work for me. This is something to which I've devoted much thought in the past, which has been presented to me in a new light in the wee hours of this morning, and to which I will certainly give much more thought as the days advance. But for now, this is a start. Hopefully a good one. A new beginning. For me, for those I love, and for those they love. Good things, even if it may not seem like it now.

Interpersonal skills are not my friend.

Imagine with me for a minute that a person exists with a tremendous natural gift for music which has been honed through years of practice, education, and experience. This person has a fair amount of talent, and her friends often comment that she is able to find the most unusual, but beautiful, harmonies for even unexpected melodies. Over the years, she has educated herself in all things musical, both with self-education found in her hours of practice and listening to the beautiful music of others, as well as a smattering of formal lessons and education along the way. She finds the beauty in almost every song she hears, no matter how unusual it may be, and her mind is constantly filled with some song or another-- replaying something beautiful or haunting that she's recently heard, or imagining up some melody of her own to keep her company.

She loves to have time to play or sing, but is still enough of a technician to easily read almost all of the sheets of music placed before her. In a symphony setting, playing off the same sheet of music with a group of friends equally committed to technical integrity, and with similar appreciation for musical beauty, she shines as a musician, combining both skill and artistry, enjoying the experience, leaving the concert full of energy, awe, and joy. Playing on her own, she is even more able to be lost in the experience, transformed by it, grown through it. With a small group of close friends, she's even able to improvise, lose sight of the technical details and just make music, play, share in the common experience of joy through music, no sheet music required.

But taken out of her comfort zone, placed into a group of people she is only now getting to know, things are more difficult. Attempting to get lost in the free-flow of playing together, she's never quite sure what she's supposed to be doing, not having the benefit of a few years of jamming with each other to draw upon. She knows she can fall back on using the sheet music and technical know-how as her cheat sheet, but then she's so busy following along that she misses out on much of the passion and beauty of the music, and leaves more mentally exhausted than emotionally refreshed. And it sucks, because she knows she's really damn good at music-- technically and casually-- and should be better than this.

And she knows that she can read people like a sheet of music, and craves social outlets, and loves experiencing that connection, no matter how momentary, or realizing that someone else is playing along with you, joining you in the joy of it all, and that the few of you are lost together, for the moment, in each others' company, and it is wonderful. It's wonderful, that is, when you know who you're playing with, and there's a comfort level there that precludes any need to censor or fear, and you can just put away the technical notes penciled into the margins of the sheet music, and Play. Be. Live. Love.

But for whatever reason, playing with the new crowd, she can't seem to get her footing to feel safe enough to put that stupid sheet music away, quit trying to figure out where things are going, and stop herself from over-analyzing every comment, every glance, every omission, for clues as to where things really stand (since most people, if we'll admit it, aren't often very transparent or straightforward about our intentions or opinions). It's exhausting.

Maybe I will become a hermit. Maybe I'll allow myself to slowly start turning into one of those crazy old cat ladies who lives in the house with the darkened windows, about whom all the neighbor kids tell ghost stories, and whose friendly "hello" to the kids as they pass by is enough to send them scattering in fear because she's just so damned WEIRD. Maybe I'll wear the same creepy gold lamé sweatsuit every day, with matching sequined slippers, and sip appletinis on my front porch all day long, every day, stopping only occasionally to cat-call the lawn guys. Maybe I'll just hang out with my husband, and do the best I can with my kids, and accept that in spite of my intense craving for friendship, that I am just destined to be a recluse.

Or maybe, if I'm lucky, things will get better. I just want some normal damn friends. Friends who are in similar places in their lives. Friends I don't have to keep secret. Friends who tell me what's going on so I don't have to intuit. Friends who treat each other with integrity and kindness.

Personal writing, seam rippers, and my new song

In the process of working on my new writing project, part of which involves some writing about painful experiences from my past, I'm realizing something. Writing, at least writing with passion and authenticity, about past challenges and experiences is a bit like taking a seam ripper to old wounds, some of which healed jagged and lumpy in the first place, and trying to open them up again, carefully enough not to rip, but deeply enough to bleed, to hurt, to feel it all again. Only from that place of raw energy can I seem to conjure the genuine emotions of the situation, again to re-enter my life, recreating the feelings of fear, lack of control, and sorrow.

Also, I can't get enough of this song lately.

Haunted by Poe.

Come here
Pretty please
Can you tell me where I am
You, won't you say something
I need to get my bearings
I'm lost
And the shadows keep on changing

And I'm haunted
By the lives that I have loved
And actions I have hated
I'm haunted
By the lives that wove the web
Inside my haunted head

....

Don't cry,
There's always a way
Here in November in this house of leaves
We'll pray
Please, I know it's hard to believe
To see a perfect forest
Through so many splintered trees
You and me
And these shadows keep on changing

And I'm haunted
By the lives that I have loved
And actions I have hated
I'm haunted
By the promises I've made
And others I have broken
I'm haunted
By the lives that wove the web
Inside my haunted head

Always... always

I'll always want you
I'll always need you
I'll always love you

And I will always miss you

....

Come here
No I won't say please
One more look at the ghost
Before I'm gonna make it leave
Come here
I've got the pieces here
Time to gather up the splinters
Build a casket for my tears

I'm haunted
By the lives that I have loved
I'm haunted
By the hallways in this tiny room
The echo there of me and you
The voices that are carrying this tune

On ass-kicking, genetics, and being a grown up.

I have taken on a long-awaited writing project, and much of my energy is directed into that at the moment. However, today reminded me of a few facts about myself-- facts I work daily to keep in check.

First reminder of the day: I am descended from some badass genes.

That's my Mema and Papa, out for a day on their motorcycle, back in the day when it was a bit more rare to find badass bikers with their hot chicks rambling the countryside wearing their leather boots and zippered shirts. I don't know exactly when that picture was taken, but probably sometime in the late 1930s or early 1940s.

And while my Mema was prone to feisty antics of her own, Papa was clearly the prize fighter. Tall and lanky, he was the skinny kid who'd rather pop a guy upside the head than continue to argue when he knew he was right.


Exhibit A:

That's him on the right, grinning like the cat about to eat the canary. I know it's silly to bet about things that have already passed, but if I had to wager on the outcome of this fight, all my money's on Papa.

Is there any other proof needed? His face, gleefully anticipating a good ass-whoopin', says it all.

When I was really little, we lived near the town where he lived, and I saw him and Mema all the time. I even lived with them for a little while the summer before and for the first part of my kindergarten year. And even after my mom got married, I spent a lot of time with Mema and Papa. When my mom's little sister found out I had gotten pregnant while in college, her words, though they stung, were not a surprise to me.

"This is going to kill them. Everyone knows you've always been their favorite."

I was their favorite. Papa always wanted to have a grandson, and didn't have the kind of relationship he wanted with my older cousin (his only grandson when I was born), and so he poured all that ass-kickin' boy energy into me. I had his big ol' field to play in, and he got me a go-cart (purchased second hand off of another aging finagler, I'm sure). When I wanted to go fishing every day, he converted their old concrete pool into a freshwater pond, stocked it full of bream, and made me a fishing pole out of bamboo.

And then there were the boxing gloves. Papa kept a couple of pairs of boxing gloves hanging on the wall just inside the big, open hallway. Having been a bit of a prize-fighter back in the day, and watching boxing matches every time one came on TV, he loved few things more than a good match. I was one of the things he loved more, and so he never shied away from an opportunity for us to don the boxing gloves and go at each other, him letting me get in a few KO's every now and then, in the hallway while Mema shot the occasional mom-comment from the kitchen. When we got a little older, my sister (who, like me, also inherited the ass-kicker genes) convinced him to let us bring the gloves back home, and we'd often work out our annoyances by beating the crap out of each other in the hallway at home, with our own mom shaking her head and muttering curses about her dad's influence.

Whatever the cosmic connection between me and my Papa, one thing stands for sure. I love few things more than the adrenaline rush of a good, dramatic battle.

Second reminder of the day: Loving to fight does not lead to an ideal life.

So, I knew this before today, but this is just to say that yes, I am aware that I cannot simply beat the crap out of everyone who pisses me off. I get that part. I am aware of my innate tendencies towards ass-kicking, and it is something I work on daily, and am getting better with all the time.

Third reminder of the day: My words are my greatest, and favorite, weapons.

I'm not exactly sure where she got it from, but I sure did inherit my mother's sharp-tongued genes and gift with words. Mom was an incredible writer, whether she realized it or not, and though she never fully honed her craft, she was undeniably a wordsmith. I thank her for passing along to me the ability to take words and put them together in way that creates an emotion.

Unfortunately, my mother's gift with words paired with my Papa's instinct towards ass-kicking have created within me a sharp-tongued monster, eager to make the verbal kill, taking out anyone in its path. It's a monster I've fairly reliably learned to tame, and to only allow to come out for the occasional play tussle, like baby tigers tumbling around, playing the hunt. But it's in me, part of me, yearning to be put to good use now and then. I usually save it for my activism and advocacy efforts, when sharp-tongued criticism and exposé can be a part of accomplishing the good.

This means that usually, when I'm inflamed over something, the mouth flies off before anything else. Most people who know me well understand who I am, and as long as the verbal lashing isn't directed at them, they give me space to vent when it's needed.

Fourth reminder of the day: Angry hives are like the odd behavior of the forest creatures, predicting the arrival of a terrible storm.

One of the strange things about me and my body is that I tend to break out in hives when I'm extremely upset. Most of the time, this is precipitated by a long period of uncontrollable crying. In the past decade, I remember the hives coming along with my sobs over things like the loss of my Papa, the discovery of a betrayal by a man that I loved, and the discovery that one of my children had faced an inconceivable pain, one from which I had hoped to always shield my children. Farther back, though, before I really began to work at gaining control over my anger, I can remember two times in which the hives were brought on by not tears, but uncontrollable rage.

In one instance, it was my desire to protect my child from a potentially life-threatening situation. As I took my child to leave a dangerous (for my sick baby) setting, a man grabbed me by the arms refusing to let me leave. Like an animal fighting capture, I flew into instinctual action, arms flailing, punches flying, with the startled man retraining his grasp from keeping me from leaving to keeping me from hurting him. When I finally got my son buckled into his car seat, I noticed the flame-hot burning on the skin on my face, neck, and chest. A quick glance in the rearview mirror confirmed a splotchy red rash growing all across my upper body.

In the other, my sister (who, as you may recall, also carries the prize-fighter gene) escalated an argument to the point where she was up in my face, chicken-necking and carrying on like a crazed fool while ranting about how I didn't control her. I asked her calmly, not once, not twice, but three different times, to please leave the room. She (being sixteen years old at the time) thought I was telling her to leave because I wanted to boss her around. In actuality, I was telling her to leave my presence because I was becoming slightly scared of the urges that were growing within me. A few seconds after her last rebuff, she was picking herself up off of the floor, taken down by one strong blow to the side of the head, reeling from the physical and emotional confusion. It was Christmas day. As I took my child and left the house, I recognized that same hot feeling growing across me, and as I passed the mirror in the hallway, I again saw the familiar red splotches, confirming the overwhelming adrenaline flowing like lava through my veins.

Fifth reminder of the day: You can do a hell of a lot of growing in a dozen years.

Today, I had an unusual situation in which someone's misunderstanding of the intent of my words fanned the flames of my anger, sparked by being accused of an intent that I would not-- could not-- own. Perhaps misreading his own intent, I felt as if he were calling into question the one thing that matters more to me than almost all others-- my integrity. I allowed the razor tongue to fly, defending my intent, explaining my meaning, but the more the accuser argued, the less rational I was able to remain. Finally, emotionally exhausted by the continuing argument, I left the room and found a quiet place to regroup. When I passed by a friend a few minutes later, she pointed out to me that I was breaking out in a rash. I ran off to the bathroom and saw the evidence in the mirror-- hives. There had not been enough tears to bring this on out of grief, only anger, only irritation. I splashed some water on my face and chest, trying to cool my skin down enough to help them go away. I fanned myself with a nearby piece of flat plastic. I even disappeared into a giant walk-in cooler for a while, hoping to soothe the heat I could still feel burning across my face and chest. But it was still there, and I was dumbfounded-- "I'm breaking out in freaking hives over this!" -- like I couldn't believe it was really happening over something so stupid. It's never comforting to be betrayed by your own body.

Eventually, it went away and I made my peace with my accuser, and things all went back to normal. But it wasn't until later in the evening that it hit me.

The last two times that I remember breaking out in hives over my own anger and frustration, it escalated into me getting physical.

And while the mental image of me tearing into someone, flying fist-first into someone's chest to the reaction of their complete shock and surprise, is a strangely amusing one to me (for reasons I can't really explain, and for which I should probably feel shame), I'm thankful, for myself and for my family and friends, that a hell of a lot can change in someone over the course of a few years.

I'm still a genetically-predetermined badass. Just one with a little self-control.

Friday Night Frolicking

I sang karaoke, multiple times, Friday night.

Okay, I'll admit it. I love to sing karaoke, almost as much as I love to go out dancing, neither of which I get to do very often. Those of you who read this blog back in the dark ages, when dinosaurs still roamed the earth, may remember that my lack of opportunities to sing and dance like a crazy person has been a running theme in my life. I love to think about life and meditate upon its possibilities, and am a first class navel-gazer. I am also terribly silly with a performance streak and love to dance!

So, now that I'm around a group of young party people on a regular basis, I have plenty of opportunities to live it up, if I so choose. And I don't choose to all that often. But every now and then, it's nice to blow off some steam.

Friday night, Hubs and I went to the bar to hang with some people there and have a few drinks. And afterwards, he went home to avoid the spectacle, and I went with a few friends to karaoke night at the local pub. I started with a little Gretchen Wilson (everything sounds country when I sing it, so might as well work with it). My loud, yeehaw voice, paired with some phenomenal hip action (if I do say so myself), drew a little attention, some of it from a crowd of fun and rowdy lesbians across the bar. Then, I sang some Meredith Brooks as a duet with a friend, sharing a microphone and again making a scene. Then, a duet with a friend's boyfriend. And later, we put in a request for me and my three girl friends to sing Lady Marmalade, and we waited.

While we waited, two guys came up and sang "Hey Ya" by Outkast, which of course necessitated the kind of crazy dancing from me that made my friends all think I was drunk (which I wasn't, as I had quit drinking around an hour earlier). But it's Outkast, people. It's one of the laws of the universe that you MUST shake it like a polaroid picture when that song comes on, especially when all the other cool people in the bar are.

At some point, feeling all happy and full of joy, I went around and started inviting women I had seen having fun earlier in the night to come sing with us when we get called. I invited a few of the Outkast duo's backup dancers. I invited a woman who had been sitting with her boyfriend, quietly but happily lip-syncing along all night long. And I went over to the studded-belt ringleader of the lesbian crew and invited her. She put her arm around me and said, "You want me to sing with you, baby?" Yeah. That would be fun, actually!

Anyway, we never get called, and eventually all my karaoke friends (except for one guy I know, who seemed thoroughly disinterested in karaoke) went home. As luck would have it, within 10 minutes of everyone leaving me there, the karaoke dude gleefully calls me *and all my friends, who are no longer there* up to sing Lady Marmalade (the Moulin Rouge version). I giggle uncomfortably, being thoroughly sober at this point, and shuffle all alone up to the karaoke stage, a little bit nervous about the spectacle I was about to have to make all by myself. Before the music starts, I mutter into the microphone something along the lines of, "all my drunk friends left already." As if drawn by the inexplicable force of sisterhood in self-humiliation, the entire crew of rowdy lesbians (who had been making spectacles of their own all night singing Dixie Chicks and some old school rap) come out of the woodwork-- weaving through the crowd, jumping the railing, and crawling through the bar to make their way to the stage with me.

Before the first beat of the song began, I was surrounded by what has to be the most awesome, funny, live-it-up crew of tipsy, fun women that this progressive college town has to offer. We made a spectacle, alright, and it was SO. MUCH. FUN!

A little later, after the bar had thinned out a bit, a few other friends (who had just gotten off work) came and joined us, and I got to shoot a little pool with a couple of guys from work (something else I haven't done in YEARS).

.....

I sang karaoke and blogged about it back in January of 2006. Once, maybe almost two years ago, we lived in an old farmhouse across the highway from a biker bar, and I went to the biker bar to sing karaoke with the hellraisers. I need to get out more often. Friday night was fun, and although Hubster, being the strong and silent type, isn't much for karaoke and doesn't necessarily want to have to go party with me, he is enjoying second-hand all the benefits of having a life partner who (for the first time in many years) feels alive, youthful, playful, and fun, and it's all rubbing off on him as well. I don't think I want to be a crazy party person all the time, but if getting out every now and then keeps me feeling young and alive and silly, I might have to up my biennial karaoke night to make it something a little more standard.

My family, my marriage, my continually growing relationship with God-- those are my priorities. But I'm starting to think there's a way to keep those as priorities while still giving myself regular outlets for silliness and spunk, which nurture my heart and feed my spirit as well, albeit in much different ways from spending time with my family or in meditation. There is room in my Reality for a much wider diversity of celebration and joy, both of which I seem to need more of in my life. Don't we all?

Ubermondo Interview

So, remember my awesome conversation a few days ago with an old friend? It's now available online at his podcast:

www.ubermondo.com

I had a great time talking with Dieter again, and hope it's as much fun to listen to as it was to record.

Subscribe via iTunes

The Fine Line

Yesterday, I did an interview with a friend for his podcast. Much of what we talked about was change, how you know you need a change in your life, and how to get the ball rolling on that change once the need has been established. We talked about feeling that itch that your life simply isn't going where it should be, and how to respond.

Since then, I've been thinking about it even more (which is, of course, the way you can tell that a conversation was awesome, productive, and meaningful), and realized that one thing we didn't discuss was that before you can move on, there has to be a sort of blessing of the place in which you currently find yourself. You can't get to a place of being emotionally healthy about letting the current situation go until you are at least at peace with it (even if you aren't exactly happy with it). Even if you find yourself free of the old situation (job, relationship, city), it still will follow you, heavy on your hearts, until you make peace with it. Wouldn't it feel better to make that peace before the transition, starting your new situation with a clean slate and a freed heart?

When we first moved to South Carolina, there was a deep restlessness about the move. We love being near my family, and enjoyed being back up in the Carolinas, but knew that we were not where we should be. We fought it, tooth and nail, thinking of ourselves as outsiders-- travelers passing through, for at least the first two years. And somehow during that time, in spite of all our frustrations and determination to get out of the small town, two years after moving into small town South Carolina, we found ourselves moving not to a larger city, but to an even smaller neighboring small town with a population of 2000. Our drive to get out at any costs had led us even farther into small town South, leaving us a bit bewildered.

Realizing we weren't going to be going anywhere any time soon, we began to make efforts to see the good in where we were. We developed a closer relationship with my father and his family, began to make friends with a few families in the natural living underground of our community, even though their views differed from our own, finding the common ground wherever it presented itself. We began to embrace small town life, realizing that whatever our plans, God's plan was obviously for us to be there, for that time. We learned to garden and grew much of our own food. I learned to can, to pickle, to cook, to sew, and we all boned up on our carpentry skills. I threw out our crayola kids paints and filled the craft closet with pastels, oil paint, acrylics, charcoal, beads, wool yarn, quill pens and india ink. We put tiki torches in the backyard and hosted cookouts for friends, enjoyed our telescope in the backyard (since the town was pitch-black at night and the sky was crystal clear and beautiful), and ate the occasional hotdog at the town's only oil and lube shop, which also claimed to have the best hot dogs in the country (??). We began to love and bless where we were, even though it wasn't where we knew we wanted to be, and after a while, it grew on us.

This is where the challenge presents itself: Somewhere in the process of loving and blessing where we were, which I believe strongly is a necessary part of change, we began to take our focus from where we were going. In the mix of everyday life, there is a fine line between loving and blessing where you are, and muddying your focus. This is where I think we got off course, at least for a little while. I do believe, very strongly, that blessing where you are (working hard and with integrity at that job you can't stand, or making the most out of a temporary illness) is a necessary step before you can fully move on, at least without carrying the baggage and negativity with you into your next experience. Yes, see where you're going, envision it, imagine what it will feel like, and know you are moving in that direction. But also, enjoy where you are now, bless the space, feel it, love it, grow in it.

And somehow in the midst of living in the moment, blessing where we are, we are supposed to remember that it is not where we're going, that it isn't our final destination.

How do you remember to do one, while not forgetting the other? This is a fine line, and one which I'm exploring more in my life, as I currently realize that as blessed as my life is at the moment, this is still not the finish line, not my final destination. I am now (and will likely always be) in process, an unfinished but ever-growing work, breathing in the possibilities. I think I'm okay with that.

Dropping Keys

In high school, I carried around a book of poetry by the medieval Persian poet, Hafiz. Strangely, the copy of Hafiz' poetry that landed in my life had been translated from the Persian into French, but I remember reading words that were at the same time deeply sensual and profoundly other-worldly. The past few weeks, I've been considering my role in life, and how I can best reflect brilliance (not my own, but radiating brightly from the Light of God through me) into a world that sometimes cowers in darkness. Tonight, for whatever reason, I'm once again led to Hafiz, and these two poems speak volumes directly into my heart.

The small man

Builds cages for everyone

He

Knows

While the sage,

Who has to duck his head

When the moon is low,

Keeps dropping keys all night long

For the

Beautiful

Rowdy

Prisoners.

.....

and

.....

We have not come to take prisoners,

But to surrender ever more deeply

To freedom and joy.

We have not come into this exquisite world

To hold ourselves hostage from love.

Run, my dear,

From anything

That may not strengthen

Your precious budding wings.

Run like hell my dear

From anyone likely

To put a sharp knife

Into the sacred, tender vision

Of your beautiful heart.

We have a duty to befriend

Those aspects of obedience

That stand outside of our house

And shout to our reason

"O please, O please,

Come out and play."

For we have not come here to take prisoners

Or to confine our wondrous spirits,

But to experience ever and ever more deeply

Our divine courage, freedom, and

Light!

.....

God, in this time of transition, I am learning to see myself empowered, strengthened, and inspired by Your love. May the words You put into my mouth and the actions You place upon my heart lift me ever higher, fully out of the cages once forced upon me by others-- cages I once accepted out of my own fear of love. As I grow, God, allow me to leave keys along the way-- keys You've gifted me throughout my own journey-- that my life may be a blessing, in some small way, to those who journey with me for this time on this path. Bless those whose sweet spirits have found their way into my heart, that they may be uplifted, strengthened, empowered, guided, protected, released, and at peace. And encourage us all to reach outside our own understanding, even into the darkness of what we do not yet know, and play, ever so sweetly, in the mysteries of You.

Thursday of Rest

So, I came home all fired up to write again (I'm falling in love, all over again, with the art and release of blogging).

Unfortunately, Wonder Girl heard mommy clacking around on the computer keyboard, and came and crawled up in my lap and didn't want me to put her down. And since I'm gone a lot, working, doing, I just sat around and soaked it all in-- her little curly, baby-shampoo-smelling hair up under my face, her tiny fingers gently stroking my arms, her weight sprawled across my lap. These sleepy moments do so much to undo a day's worth of stress. I am blessed.

However, I'm not up for another marathon, all-nighter, sleep-depriving post, but still wanted to offer a little something to chew on. Tonight, it's courtesy of my super-awesome, incredibly smart, awesomest of awesome buddy, Crunchy Mama, a fellow twin mama, thinker, and lifelong seeker. We've only met online and via telephone thus far (a reality I hope to one day change), but I would consider her no less of a best friend than anyone I've ever known. Few people earn the keys to all my honesty and adoration-- Crunchy Mama is among the few.

Turning to a book is nothing new in the human spiritual experience. There are holy books for every dogmatic path. But what if every book had the potential to be holy? For me, the line between secular and spiritual is blurring and I’m much more comfortable with that than I would have been previously. This is where the questioning has led me. And for now, I really like it here. Let Holy Curiosity abound! I’ll be grateful for every relative moment of it.

Read More: Holy Curiosities

My "Bucket List"

Not that I'm planning to kick the bucket any time soon, but I've been thinking it would be fun to start collecting some ideas of things I want to do in my life, just as a reminder in case the opportunity to do one of them comes my way. Some of them I've already done, but I'm still listing them here, just because I wanna.

1) Bungee Jump
2) Learn to Bellydance (the right way-- I can already suck at it pretty well)
3) Learn to play the bagpipes
4) Get my Ph.D.
5) Sing in an all-girl bluegrass band
6) Live in a eco-friendly home that is highly self-supporting in terms of energy
7) Raise chickens for eggs
8) Learn to jar and can (pickles, especially)
9) Learn to sew
10) Get a story published in a national magazine
11) Get a story published in a major national magazine
12) Get a book (or a few) finished
13) Get said books published
14) Speak to a crowd of thousands about positive life change
15) Do that indoor skydiving thing (my son tried it a few months ago and love it!)
16) Learn to hoop like Beth

That's about all I can think of for now. I'm sure I'll add things as they come up!

Loving the Death Bot

When we first moved to North Carolina four months ago, we did so with little money, no jobs, and an incredibly strong faith that we were doing what we knew we were supposed to be doing, all outward appearances aside. So far, no regrets! Shortly after arriving here and in accordance with our pre-move plan, I went and rounded up a job that would provide some income while we sorted out the other details of being here. The benefits of this are, of course, income, as well as the opportunity for a seasoned people-watcher to have a virtual national geographic special of co-workers and guests by whom I am constantly reminded of the complexity of the human journey. Some of them are even becoming friends, little by little, like the prince taming the fox, awaiting the secret. The down side to having a joe job, other than the amount of physical exhaustion, would also, however, be having a virtual national geographic special of co-workers and guests by whom I am constantly reminded of the complexity of the human journey.

Last Friday, we spent all day moving furniture into the new home. By Friday evening, exhausted, and hours past our children's normal bedtimes, I sat down to play with my children a little before finally putting them down for the night. And when Wonder Girl (age 2) came running up to jump into my lap, I first noticed a HUGE lump on the right side of her neck. She had been working through a little cold for a few days at that point, but wasn't acting all that sick or like it hurt, so we decided to wait out the night before getting her checked out. Saturday morning, after returning our moving van, I was sitting in the office of the local urgent care. We signed in, and Wonder Girl went to check out the toybox.

With three older brothers (if we count Wonder Boy as older, which he technically is by just over 2 hours), she immediately picked up a hard, plastic, evil-looking black robot/transformer/terminator-looking action figure-- the kind I don't even let my kids have in our home-- and which had a button on the front that, when you pushed it, made it pretend to walk while red lights flashed in its eyes. CREEPY. I could not, for the life of me, figure out why she liked that silly robot death machine better than some of the other toys in the toybox, but she did. "Yook, mama, it's a PIRATE!" She carried that silly toy around, every now and then declaring it to be a pirate, which from her experience (having recently watched Muppets Treasure Island) was a fun and funny and delightful thing to be!

And after a while, she went from mechanically pushing the buttons and making it do its death march, to holding it and cuddling it, and reading books to it. Pretty soon, she was even expecting me to get in on the action. She ran up to me, pushed the red-eyed robot up against my chest, and grinned. "Wuv it, mama! Wuv da pirate!" Amused by her innocence and irresistible cuteness, I did a lame snuggle, trying to appease her sweet nature. Apparently, my feeble attempt was not enough, and she pressed the death bot harder into my chest-- "Don't you wuv it, Mama? WUV IT!!" So, with all the sincerity I could muster, I snuggled and cuddled her silly toy. "Oh, yes!" I said, "What a wonderful pirate you are! I love this pirate!"

Sitting there in an urgent care office on the weekend, knowing I had to be at work that night, sleep-deprived, stressed out, and unsure of what was wrong with my baby, I snuggled that silly macho toy, declaring to love it, and watching the way my daughter's eyes lit up as I did. The funny thing?-- The more I snuggled it, the more I actually liked that toy, and the better I felt. I am 100% positive that "cute, cuddly, snuggly, and loveable" were not words that the designer of that toy would have thought of when designing that toy. I'm sure their intent was not to foster practice for loving relationships, or to give toddlers the chance to "wuv" and cuddle a new favorite toy. But for her, that didn't matter, and allowing myself (even for a few minutes) to get into her world, where the only intent that matters is her own, I did kinda wuv her pirate, and just for a little while, it was real.

We could learn a lot from a two year old.

I think part of why my relationships with my co-workers (most of them, anyway) aren't as complicated and prone to annoyance might be that usually (not always, but usually), I see the best in them. If they say something stupid, or do something annoying, or act in a way that doesn't on the surface seem to be kind, I do my best to assume positive intent, even if the outer expression of that intent comes in the form of a red-eyed, evil-looking, hard, plastic death bot. Most of us have good intentions, after all, especially when we feel that we are important to others, and that they're interested in seeing us for who we are.

And even if they had bad intent and were trying to frustrate or hurt me, what good would it serve to acknowledge that with either anger or hurftul behavior of my own? What good would it do to tear someone down, to insult them, to play mean-spirited pranks? Would it improve the relationship? Would it solve the problem? Would it make me feel better? What if we allow ourselves to imagine, if only for a few minutes, a situation in which someone DID call you out with specific intent to hurt you, and instead of being hurt and reacting from that hurt, we simply assumed (incorrectly) that it wasn't intentional, continued on our way with a cheerful spirit, and refused to hand over to anyone else the strings and buttons that control our emotions? Would we feel stupid for not fully understanding their ill intent? Or could we simply continue to be at peace with a positive assessment of the situation? What if, instead of getting pissed off, we simply let it roll off, continued to see that person as an overall good person, and refused to get caught up in the emotional drama that permeates our lives (not just at work, but in every sphere of our lives)? In the end, what is our goal? To avenge every wrong, no matter how small? Or to live a life that is fun and vibrant and fully alive? Can we be okay with being wrong about someone else, even if it means our own lives are happier? Can we simply ignore the hard, plastic shell and red, glaring eyes, and love the death bot in spite of it all?

Don't get me wrong-- I'm not always a ray of sunshine. I have my moments when I am full of rage, disappointed in humanity, and convinced that another person is a waste of space. I'm human. But I'd like to think I have many, many more moments in which my love for others outweighs my displaced anger, which assumes that they took my power from me, when in fact, I have to give it away to allow someone else to make me angry.

I guess what it all comes down to, for me, is intent. God's intent (for you to live a life that is constantly frustrated by others, or for you to live an empowered life that is full of joy and meaning), your intent (revenge and hypercriticism, or acceptance and love), and the intent of others (which often, in cases where someone else is coming out against you, boils down to their own self-protection amidst inter- and intra-personal uncertainty).

So what's it going to be? Can we be that patient with others, forgiving of them as we'd hope them to be forgiving of our own shortcomings? Do we stick around long enough to know the fox's secret?

Voici mon secret. Il est très simple: On ne voit bien qu'avec le cœur. L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux.

When the outer is throwing us off, messing us up, and keeping us frustrated, remember that The Essential is only found with the heart.

Making Frozen Moments Fluid

Larry Losey. That was his name. He was a member of a church where I was working as a youth and children's ministries director, and was not your stereotypical children's ministries volunteer. A former rock-and-roller, long haired, and into eastern spirituality and meditation, he had no children and had never (that I know of) been married. Somehow we clicked and became friends. What struck me about Larry was the strength of his integrity. Integrity is something that is very important to me in my own life, and seems to have been the defining characteristic of those people I've chosen to become my friend-- not just acquaintance, but real friend with access to my heart and emotional energy-- over the past few years. Larry was who he was-- no small task in our modern society-- and seemed content to just be.

At that time in the church, the youth ministry (middle and high school) had been struggling for some time, and believing very strongly that the preteen and teen years were crucial in helping to establish a connection to something greater than oneself, I made it my mission to grow the youth group. I put out a call for volunteers, and personally invited a few friends to join in the effort. Larry was one of those friends. When I asked whether he'd rather work with middle school or high school, his response was that he wanted to serve wherever he was needed.

Through the experience of working together on youth group events, Larry and I developed a closer friendship that was based on time together, and lengthy talks about the nature of the universe. He came to our kinda-annual murder mystery party, bringing a bottle of non-alcoholic wine with him (he didn't drink). It was a 60s themed party, and he was probably the only one there who had been alive in the 60s! And when Jesus Christ Superstar came to Tampa and he had incredible box seats for the performance, he invited me and the Hubster to join him. It was wonderful, and our conversations with Larry (and the Catholic priest he also invited) were amazing that night! In any case, we didn't spend tons of time together, but there was still a mutual respect and mutual admiration between us, and I thought he was an incredibly interesting and unique person.

After leaving my job at the church and preparing to move to South Carolina, I decided to have a final get-together with my friends before the move. I invited a handful of people to join me at Applebees for karaoke (Hubs volunteered to keep the kids so I could have a night out-- he hates crowds and noisy places anyway)-- Larry was one of those people. That night, free from the yoke of having been bound by a volunteer-supervisor relationship, and with me free from the pressure to "say the right thing" as a representative of the church, we talked.

All night long, we talked between songs, talking about Paramhansa Yogananda, whose teachings had been influential in Larry's life, and about each other's histories. We talked about Roy Eugene Davis, chosen successor of Paramhansa Yogananda (who left the monastic life and gave up his successorship to be married), whose retreat center I had visited and with whom I had spent a little time. I learned things about Larry that night that I had never known before-- how he had lived his life before placing integrity and growth before other, less important desires, and about his recovery story from a painful past to a place of peace. He learned things about me, who I was, and some of the events that had shaped where I was going in my life. We talked about God, relationships, family, our pasts, our presents, and it's only in retrospect that I realized how little talk about futures there had been. We talked about karaoke, and friendships, and bungee jumping, and being silly.

And at some point in the night, shortly before I sang my last karaoke song, Larry became very serious. He looked me squarely in the eyes and said, "You are something special, you know. Just really, really special." My usual awkward and giddy self, I looked away and tried to change the subject. He focused in more closely on me, with a gaze I knew I couldn't escape, piercing right through to the core of my being. When he knew he had my attention again, he smiled a little, with the same look of sincere caring and amusement of a loving father. He added, "You are such a free spirit! Just really a free spirit, and I think that's awesome. Don't give it up. Don't let them get you down."

There was something in the way he looked at me that night, and the way he said what he did, that has been permanently burnt upon the film of my life and the story of my soul. It wasn't that he admired me or my free-spirited nature that stuck with me, but rather the overwhelming sense of longing I felt from him that night as he called me out for who I was. He wasn't telling me anything that was completely an unfamiliar idea to me-- I've always considered myself a bit quirky and free-spirited. But it was the nonverbal, the part of his communication that extended beyond his simple words and held me out in the open where I couldn't hide from myself, that made an impression. I knew that night when he said what he did that there was something more than a simple interaction going on, but I wasn't sure what.

And then my family and I moved to South Carolina, and I never saw Larry Losey again.

Shortly after the move, a friend and youth group volunteer from the church back home called, crying, to tell me the news. Larry had just passed on, and I believe she said it was from a rare form of pancreatic cancer. At that moment, on the phone, I understood what I had felt from him that night at karaoke. I still can't put it into words, but I recognize fully the emotion, the longing, the realization he was placing into my heart and for my future, from his own place of staring into the stark reality of not getting well again. For a few months, I saw him in my dreams. And then he just went away.

...

Our move to small town South Carolina in 2004 was initially a good one. The first year we were there, we realized we didn't fit in very well, but were okay with that, thinking it would be short term. Then, as our time there continued, I began to try to preserve my spunk, my uniqueness, in little ways, including using this blog as a creative outlet and emotional sounding board. And then, somehow, over time, I began to give in, in little ways, to the banality of stereotypical family life in a small town and to those who would do me harm. I quit singing karaoke, quit dancing in my living room, talked less and less about my past (even though that involved talking less and less about some of my life's most awesome lessons and insights), quit saying things that might not be socially acceptable, focused my blogging on more light-hearted and less personal things, and began to worry a great deal about fitting in and what other people thought of me. I willingly gave up so much of who I was in the name of maintaining connections-- ANY kind of connections-- with the people around me and the culture in which I was immersed, and left all my free-spirited parts behind. From talking to my husband about our lives and how the move impacted us, it seems we were going through different, but parallel, experiences of feeling we had to choose between being outcasts in our community (or at least oddballs) and giving up huge parts of who we were.

And so, last year, after the quest to become like all other nice families in our area had sucked the Life out of both of us, worried about what we were providing for our children, feeling like our integrity had been sacrificed, we decided we needed to move. Neither of us wanted to be in a big city, but neither of us wanted another super-small town, either. We wanted somewhere progressive, where we wouldn't be the oddballs, and where spontaneity, intellectual curiosity, and spiritual seeking were the norm, and where we could more fully express who each of us wanted to become. We researched, and inquired, and prayed, and finally settled on a smallish (but not too small), crunchy town in North Carolina near a major university. We planned for a few months, and then made our move on a short term lease, which we knew would be up on June 22.

Since moving here, we've become familiar with the local culture, local opportunities, and love where we are. We were feeling the gentle nudgings of Spirit, urging us to once again become comfortable with who each of us is, flaws and all, as long as we were being real, honest, kind, compassionate, and maintaining our integrity. In spite of nudges, however, neither of us was really sure what to do, or experiencing any major life changes or shifts in the past four months.

Until the day we signed the lease on the new place we knew would be a more permanent home. Somehow, over the course of that day, I began to think of Larry Losey and our connected talk at karaoke night years ago. I remembered the way he looked at me when he declared me to be a free spirit, and felt like a disappointment for having become someone so different over the past few years, someone so predictable and boring. I felt as if my spirit had become bound up so greatly in my own fears of disappoinment, of rejection, of loneliness, and of failure, and seeing Larry in my mind's eye, smiling as he reminded me of who I was, tugged at me day and night for several days.

This one moment, frozen in my memory, reminded me of how un-fluid everything in me, everything in my life and soul and spirit and being had become over the past few years-- years that began with one betrayal and were quickly followed by another-- years in which I realized that even those people I had trusted the most and loved the most might be flawed and imperfect and leave me hurt and bewildered. The past few years were years in which I began to feel the need for something outside of me to be stable and steady and predictable, and tried to make it that way by making everything within me as stable and steady and predictable as I wanted my environment to become. Thinking of Larry and his simple assessment (one made with a delight and appreciation I haven't felt from anyone other than my husband in recent years) reminded me that this one moment has become so crystallized in my memory because it is one of the last times that someone else (other than my husband, who knows me through and through, better than I even know myself, and loves me unconditionally-- craziness, quirkiness, intensity, and all) took the time to really get to KNOW me, and further, to encourage me to be comfortable in my own skin, without having to pretend or meet a certain standard of "good"-ness before being accepted.

It's been a long 5 years, and very lonely in many ways.

And frankly, I'm glad to be moving on.

I think I realize now why Larry has been so ever-present in my thoughts over the past two weeks. I'm being reminded that we are here now, not there. I am free now, not bound. I am allowed now to open up, to explore my reality, and to become who I am. I am being reminded that deep down inside, under the wounds and scars and anxieties, there is a free spirit. Someone who is very, incredibly special and unique, and who I'd like to get to know again. Someone who, perhaps, other people might want to get to know, and come to love, and want to befriend. Someone who has something to offer that isn't tied up in social appropriateness but is nonetheless powerful and exciting.

Thank you, Larry, for the reminder. Then, and now.

Justice?

Praise God, from Whom all blessings flow;
Praise Him, all creatures here below;
Praise Him above, ye heavenly host;
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

I'm a few branches over on the tree, but I can only imagine the relief felt by a mom and dad who've lived for almost two years without their youngest daughter, or by a sibling whose heart has been wrenched and torn out by the criminal (and inhuman) acts of this man. My heart breaks for the girls, to struggle with the knowledge that their mother was killed by their father. My heart breaks for my husband, and also for his mother, who struggled to protect someone without really even knowing the threats she faced.

I'd like to think I'm not the type to revel in someone else's pain or misfortune, but there's something deeply satisfying about seeing someone face the consequences of their horrible behaviors. After two long years of seeing the suffering of those left behind while the guilty one went on with his life and reputation relatively intact, it's truly satisfying to imagine what must have gone through his mind as he began to watch it all crumble around him.

And at the same time, I know justice isn't always served-- not on earth anyway. Sometimes, for whatever reasons, victims wait too long to report, or evidence is destroyed, or fear is employed to buy their silence for a time. Sometimes, sadly, we can't see the perpetrator fully and publicly punished for what they've done. In those times, we just have to rest in the knowledge that deep in the heart of most people who commit heinous crimes is the knowledge and full understanding of what they've done. They carry with them in their spirits the secret anguish and guilt over what they've done, the inability to confess such sins tearing them apart inside day by day. No matter where they go, they are never, and could never be, free.

And the ones who don't have that conscience... Not much to say about that.

I hope Tim Tillman gets the legal consequences he deserves. Only then can those who loved Janet begin to work on forgiving him, and praying for his soul. It's hard to forgive someone who refuses to admit or apologize or pay for their crimes against the innocent.