I read Teruo Higa's book, An Earth Saving Revolution yesterday and he said exactly what I was trying to say in my last blog post. I quote:
"By its very nature, the practice of medicine should fall into the category of what can be described as a declining industry. By that I mean if the medical profession were doing its job efficiently and actually curing patients, by rights there should be a decline in their number to such a degree that physicians might be brought to the point where it would be touch and go whether they could stay in business or not. The medical profession should be considered noble and highly respected, and self-sacrificing professionals a matter of course. As such, it should be one where it would be appropriate for the state to take responsibility for providing medical treatment for its nationals and special support for the physicians and others working in the profession, who, as I have already said, if they were doing their job properly and keeping people healthy, would constantly be under the threat of finding themselves unemployed. In my opinion, it's time to return to the true origins of medicine and healing, and to appreciate them once again for what they really are."
Saturday, December 15, 2012
Friday, December 14, 2012
Obsessing on Doctors
I was just thinking how doctors have absolutely no incentive for their patients to be healthy. Did you ever think about that?
I was talking to a distributor of EM and he said that EM is not approved for human consumption in the United States or Japan.
There have been very few studies of EM in humans, but many studies in farm animals, where their immune systems and weight gain improve markedly.
People with Crohn's disease and celiac disease have gone into remission, virtually cured, from taking daily doses of EM, and have posted their success stories on the web.
It is tragic to think of all the people who are currently living with a colon full of disease-causing micro-organisms who could be given sweet relief with EM, but there is no way to tell them. On top of that, there are so many other "cures" that individuals would have no way of knowing that this one works. And no doctor, no doctor who cares about their reputation, would get behind this stuff, since it is not approved for human consumption.
This blows my mind.
But on top of that, there is an insidiousness inside a hospital. An unsaid impetus to keep moving the patients through the system. When I was in the hospital there was never any discussion of how to heal. Healing is just assumed? There was no discussion of how a body falls ill. It is so strange that there was a belief that clipping off the appendix would solve the problem of whatever created the inflammation to begin with.
And then today I looked up "too many appendectomies" and found out that just like mastectomies and other "omies" that there are way too many. That was depressing. But it fits in line with the way that a hospital business would work. "Omies" are the bread and butter that keep those places humming, after the elderly with their debilitated hearts and lungs.
There is not any incentive for a surgeon to promote simple gastrointestinal health through an amazing probiotic, EM.
Ironically, where EM is growing the fastest is in agriculture. In agriculture, there is incentive for the farmer to have healthy crops that don't require massive interventions with all the -cides. And EM makes their job so much easier, that it just makes sense. Same thing for the farm animals. The sick animals are the bane of the farmer. They have every incentive to use something efficient and easy, and EM provides that for them.
You see? You see how the medical industry is not set up to heal, but to keep the sick coming through the doors? I hope that at age 34 was the last time I ever set foot in one of those corrupted places. I hope I never forget again that I have a simple cure right here at home.
This world is making me crazy. I don't know how I'll make it through until I'm 100! It feels like too much poison and greed.
I was talking to a distributor of EM and he said that EM is not approved for human consumption in the United States or Japan.
There have been very few studies of EM in humans, but many studies in farm animals, where their immune systems and weight gain improve markedly.
People with Crohn's disease and celiac disease have gone into remission, virtually cured, from taking daily doses of EM, and have posted their success stories on the web.
It is tragic to think of all the people who are currently living with a colon full of disease-causing micro-organisms who could be given sweet relief with EM, but there is no way to tell them. On top of that, there are so many other "cures" that individuals would have no way of knowing that this one works. And no doctor, no doctor who cares about their reputation, would get behind this stuff, since it is not approved for human consumption.
This blows my mind.
But on top of that, there is an insidiousness inside a hospital. An unsaid impetus to keep moving the patients through the system. When I was in the hospital there was never any discussion of how to heal. Healing is just assumed? There was no discussion of how a body falls ill. It is so strange that there was a belief that clipping off the appendix would solve the problem of whatever created the inflammation to begin with.
And then today I looked up "too many appendectomies" and found out that just like mastectomies and other "omies" that there are way too many. That was depressing. But it fits in line with the way that a hospital business would work. "Omies" are the bread and butter that keep those places humming, after the elderly with their debilitated hearts and lungs.
There is not any incentive for a surgeon to promote simple gastrointestinal health through an amazing probiotic, EM.
Ironically, where EM is growing the fastest is in agriculture. In agriculture, there is incentive for the farmer to have healthy crops that don't require massive interventions with all the -cides. And EM makes their job so much easier, that it just makes sense. Same thing for the farm animals. The sick animals are the bane of the farmer. They have every incentive to use something efficient and easy, and EM provides that for them.
You see? You see how the medical industry is not set up to heal, but to keep the sick coming through the doors? I hope that at age 34 was the last time I ever set foot in one of those corrupted places. I hope I never forget again that I have a simple cure right here at home.
This world is making me crazy. I don't know how I'll make it through until I'm 100! It feels like too much poison and greed.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Do not look up your ER surgeon on facebook
Because then you will see how your titanium stapled colon pays for their kids' horse jumping events in Del Mar. Which is totally cool, but pulls at all kinds of strings.
Then you start looking at who their friends are. Then you come to this page. A face of a little smiling girl who has been diagnosed with "gastritis caused by bacteria and anxiety". Which is basically what I had. But I had a cure in my house and I didn't take it. While I was in pain. I don't know why. Because I forgot, how weird is that?! But when I came home from getting shot with a titanium bullet, I knew that nothing had changed inside me when they clipped off my appendix---nothing! If I didn't do something quick I could end up with much further damage to my colon, and they would just keep going in and snipping more things out, eventually.
EM-1. Essential micro-organisms. Such a simple, benign, strange brew. But it could have saved me from going through that ridiculous, obnoxious event. When I came home from the operation, I still had the same pains that I had before I went in, just for shorter duration because the EM eliminates the pain of GI inflammation. It really is a silver bullet. IF ONLY I HAD REMEMBERED! But now it is seared into my brain how important it is, and also mineral solutions made by infusing certain herbs (nettle, oat straw, red clover, red raspberry)--- in order to maintain the balance of the nervo-immune system---they are so closely connected by hormone fluctuations as to be together as one.
If someone suffers from any form of chronic gastritis, they have nothing to lose by trying this stuff. If the alternative is surgery, save your gut by coating it with the most beneficial mixture of bacteria around. These guys are like a power surge of positive digestion, balancing out the corrosive effects of the negative microorganisms that are causing inflammation and acidosis, allowing your body to regain its balance, while you ensure to feed it plenty of nourishing broths and mineral solutions to rebuild your body.
It's funny thinking of all the GI doctors who would lose business if their patients used EM-1 instead of suffering interminably. The societal position of doctor is quite interesting. The image of the horse as plaything of the upper class is so stamped on my consciousness now. I don't think I would ever want to own a horse, for that upper level world is one that I try to stay away from. It is not my element.
I would like to describe this doctor for you, just for a moment, because this doctor had quite the apparition. It helps to first imagine in your head a "typical doctor". First, male, of course. Now you can choose old or young. Now the hair. Short, conservative. The face and skin color just run the full gamut. Now the nurses. Old and tired. Young and tired. Young and sweet and learning English. All faces and races. Now fill the hospital with all these myriad doctors and nurses criss-crossing. Now here's my doctor. Bonnie Raitt, but with black instead of red. Twinkly eyes and twinkly smile and rockstar attitude. Navy scrub pants, but not a scrub top, a grey hoodie pull-over, presumably over the scrub. Bonnie fucking Raitt. Her hair was dark dark slate and it had almost a wiry quality to it as it tumbled over her shoulders, perfectly framing her twinkly face. Her bangs were white, and they fountained out of a forehead swirl before parting ways as two white swooshes that blended into the rest of the dark flow. I remember thinking that that was a lot of fluff for a person who is supposed to be ultra-sanitary. No more hairnets and buzz clips for doctors, I suppose!
When I saw her at the follow-up appointment, the grey hoodie was replaced with a perfectly fitting denim jacket. Rockstar again. With flowing mane. Mane. That is the best way to describe the hair. It had a wiry quality to it the way a horse's mane has a wiry quality to it. And it split over her shoulders every time, with the same amount allotted for front and back every day. It knew where to lay to perfectly rockstar frame her face.
I envied her. Oh yes, I did. I envied her sanity. Her even-temperament and ability to bring home coin. I thought about how she was not able to stay home with her children, but it didn't matter one lick. I thought about how she had not been able to watch every moment of her child's baby and toddler-hood, but how that didn't matter. She is able to give her children anything, and so they travel to adventurous places and drive horses all around the country during their weeks of vacation time they get throughout the year. Their children will be perfectly groomed to continue on in a professional position that keeps their family comfortable and happy. So good for them, right?
Isn't this what makes the United States such a great country? That people can have beautiful lives and play with horses?
And what do we down here think about for our kids? That they will have some kind of talent that will allow them to create or produce works of art, or talent to start a business. Otherwise, will they be just like us, working for someone else just to pay the rent their whole life?
Maybe I should go back to University. Just to satisfy my ego's need for status.
My doctor's social status made me all jittery. And that's nothing. Nothing! Compared to the even higher classes. My nervousness around money and class is curious. Peeking into other people's lives is dangerous.
Then you start looking at who their friends are. Then you come to this page. A face of a little smiling girl who has been diagnosed with "gastritis caused by bacteria and anxiety". Which is basically what I had. But I had a cure in my house and I didn't take it. While I was in pain. I don't know why. Because I forgot, how weird is that?! But when I came home from getting shot with a titanium bullet, I knew that nothing had changed inside me when they clipped off my appendix---nothing! If I didn't do something quick I could end up with much further damage to my colon, and they would just keep going in and snipping more things out, eventually.
EM-1. Essential micro-organisms. Such a simple, benign, strange brew. But it could have saved me from going through that ridiculous, obnoxious event. When I came home from the operation, I still had the same pains that I had before I went in, just for shorter duration because the EM eliminates the pain of GI inflammation. It really is a silver bullet. IF ONLY I HAD REMEMBERED! But now it is seared into my brain how important it is, and also mineral solutions made by infusing certain herbs (nettle, oat straw, red clover, red raspberry)--- in order to maintain the balance of the nervo-immune system---they are so closely connected by hormone fluctuations as to be together as one.
If someone suffers from any form of chronic gastritis, they have nothing to lose by trying this stuff. If the alternative is surgery, save your gut by coating it with the most beneficial mixture of bacteria around. These guys are like a power surge of positive digestion, balancing out the corrosive effects of the negative microorganisms that are causing inflammation and acidosis, allowing your body to regain its balance, while you ensure to feed it plenty of nourishing broths and mineral solutions to rebuild your body.
It's funny thinking of all the GI doctors who would lose business if their patients used EM-1 instead of suffering interminably. The societal position of doctor is quite interesting. The image of the horse as plaything of the upper class is so stamped on my consciousness now. I don't think I would ever want to own a horse, for that upper level world is one that I try to stay away from. It is not my element.
I would like to describe this doctor for you, just for a moment, because this doctor had quite the apparition. It helps to first imagine in your head a "typical doctor". First, male, of course. Now you can choose old or young. Now the hair. Short, conservative. The face and skin color just run the full gamut. Now the nurses. Old and tired. Young and tired. Young and sweet and learning English. All faces and races. Now fill the hospital with all these myriad doctors and nurses criss-crossing. Now here's my doctor. Bonnie Raitt, but with black instead of red. Twinkly eyes and twinkly smile and rockstar attitude. Navy scrub pants, but not a scrub top, a grey hoodie pull-over, presumably over the scrub. Bonnie fucking Raitt. Her hair was dark dark slate and it had almost a wiry quality to it as it tumbled over her shoulders, perfectly framing her twinkly face. Her bangs were white, and they fountained out of a forehead swirl before parting ways as two white swooshes that blended into the rest of the dark flow. I remember thinking that that was a lot of fluff for a person who is supposed to be ultra-sanitary. No more hairnets and buzz clips for doctors, I suppose!
When I saw her at the follow-up appointment, the grey hoodie was replaced with a perfectly fitting denim jacket. Rockstar again. With flowing mane. Mane. That is the best way to describe the hair. It had a wiry quality to it the way a horse's mane has a wiry quality to it. And it split over her shoulders every time, with the same amount allotted for front and back every day. It knew where to lay to perfectly rockstar frame her face.
I envied her. Oh yes, I did. I envied her sanity. Her even-temperament and ability to bring home coin. I thought about how she was not able to stay home with her children, but it didn't matter one lick. I thought about how she had not been able to watch every moment of her child's baby and toddler-hood, but how that didn't matter. She is able to give her children anything, and so they travel to adventurous places and drive horses all around the country during their weeks of vacation time they get throughout the year. Their children will be perfectly groomed to continue on in a professional position that keeps their family comfortable and happy. So good for them, right?
Isn't this what makes the United States such a great country? That people can have beautiful lives and play with horses?
And what do we down here think about for our kids? That they will have some kind of talent that will allow them to create or produce works of art, or talent to start a business. Otherwise, will they be just like us, working for someone else just to pay the rent their whole life?
Maybe I should go back to University. Just to satisfy my ego's need for status.
My doctor's social status made me all jittery. And that's nothing. Nothing! Compared to the even higher classes. My nervousness around money and class is curious. Peeking into other people's lives is dangerous.
Friday, November 30, 2012
Appendicitis, or Death By Puppies
I am a self-proclaimed doctor-phobe. So when I had a pain inside my GI tract that I could not figure out, accompanied by fever for 30 hours with no let-up I went to the ER.
Something strange is that during that whole entire time I was in pain I never drank Effective Micro-Organisms or Kombucha Vinegar, both of which I had plenty of. Neither did I take colloidal silver. My mind forgot that I ever knew what to do in such a situation. I wonder if it was because of the puppies.
My mind had gone temporarily insane (again, I know, sigh) with a desire to find a little brother for our dog, Izzy. I fantasized about a palm-sized pup, a rat terrier, that would be like a miniature version of Izzy, so that we could form like a russian nest of dolls when we cuddled. Imagining myself with Micah and Ana in their footsie pajamas, and then Izzy with a miniature Izzy tucked in there, all warm and snuggly on the couch was a beautiful, and powerful image to me!
Erik said he only wanted a rat terrier. So I scoured PetFinder. But I also was looking at ALL of the dogs, especially the small ones, and the pit bull ones, and the puppies for a long time. I felt pulled, called. When I finally felt like I had honed in on the puppy that was "the one", I became like a bloodhound. Each time I would think I found *the one.* Erik could tell I was in a bit of a frenzy, and said, maybe he would consider a rat terrier. So I finally searched late into the night and found the perfect puppy in San Diego. But I had stayed up way way too late in the night to be able to fill out an application.
The next morning I woke up and after taking Noah to school, worked like a mad woman on the *perfect* application. I studied the rescue organization's website, read all the profiles of the people who run it, looked at all the pictures of the animals available for adoption---which didn't include the one I was interested in! I convinced myself that there were other dogs that they had that would work just as well. Dogs that were young, small, good with cats and kids. But Erik said only a rat terrier. So that narrowed it down to the one that I really wanted (already adopted, but at the time I didn't know that) and one that I was less interested in.
All this web surfing and application filling out took time, and I was also feeding Ana and Micah in between time. I was so focused, madly, on the puppy situation that I did not eat anything or drink anything until well after noon. The first thing I drank was milk!!!! I am shocked at myself! Kefir would have been a much smarter choice. I could already tell that a cramp was going to set in, just based on the knowledge that so much time had passed since I woke up at 7am without my ingesting anything. I thought that if I put more food in my stomach that would help to avoid the cramp.
I ate a half an avocado and a boiled egg yolk. I drank some water too. The cramp started up almost right away. I figured it was gas and it would pass as the food went down. So I just waited for the food to go through me. It made it out the next morning, but the cramping was so bad all night that I couldn't sleep. Just fits of sleeping. Usually sleeping made it go away. Then I thought pooping would make it go away and it didn't. THAT was when I should have realized, oh shit, you have an infection----massive probiotics and colloidal silver back and forth-----but ideally, I should have done that from the get-go!
I have a beautiful dark brown bottle of Effective Microorganisms that has been left languishing on the top shelf of my pantry. I have kombucha vinegar, one of the most potent immune boosters on earth, the effect of ignoring my kombucha for a couple of months, and I did not take any of that while I was in pain. Why not?
Why did I forget about any possible herbs that could have soothed my irritated GI: slippery elm, turmeric, neem, all of which I have.
I don't know. Fear, I guess. Fear paralyzed my brain. I couldn't separate my pain from my experience. Kombucha and nettles had been out of my daily regimen for so long. Ironically, it was in neglecting the kombucha that the vinegar was produced, which is helpful for my healing now, and could have possibly prevented this whole occurrence. I don't need any more of my GI tract removed to know that I have access to deep therapy through EM and kombucha. I don't need to feel helpless in such a situation again.
........................
Erik and I were musing on what if someone had appendicitis 100 years ago? And we agreed that it likely meant death. I found out that my paternal grandmother, Mary Jane's, father died from appendicitis in 1921, down in Mexico, where he was working for his church. I hope he wasn't doing something as trivial as I was when his got set off. I wonder if he felt stressed out that day. Did people feel responsible for their health back then? Did he ever tell himself not to work so hard, to slow down, to take care of himself?
Because I certainly felt that this was my body's way of demanding space. Now no one can ask me to do anything. But if I had mistreated myself that way, by eating poorly and ignoring my body's signals, less than a hundred years ago, i would be dead. I bet the same is true for you for some illness you've had. This is profound.
"You're *just* now realizing this? Honey! Get with the times!" I can hear my husband say to all this.
But truly, illness is a kind of little death. The body breaks, but the mind says, no, we can fix this. Death changes. Being in the hospital, you know that it is a common death conduit. You can see how we all keep going back there, like a mothership. And how easy they make it for someone to feel comfortable dying with them. If I never see them again, I will be happy. I want to learn, to be wise. They got me this time, but I can do it, I can stay away. I can remember powerful medicines.
Death by puppies. They got me with puppies. Erik told Izzy that we can only handle one of her kind at a time. Her kind is too powerful. They made mom sick. It is true. One dog is too much power already. And one cat works to balance that one dog. two spinning around works just right for us.
for now. ;)
Something strange is that during that whole entire time I was in pain I never drank Effective Micro-Organisms or Kombucha Vinegar, both of which I had plenty of. Neither did I take colloidal silver. My mind forgot that I ever knew what to do in such a situation. I wonder if it was because of the puppies.
My mind had gone temporarily insane (again, I know, sigh) with a desire to find a little brother for our dog, Izzy. I fantasized about a palm-sized pup, a rat terrier, that would be like a miniature version of Izzy, so that we could form like a russian nest of dolls when we cuddled. Imagining myself with Micah and Ana in their footsie pajamas, and then Izzy with a miniature Izzy tucked in there, all warm and snuggly on the couch was a beautiful, and powerful image to me!
Erik said he only wanted a rat terrier. So I scoured PetFinder. But I also was looking at ALL of the dogs, especially the small ones, and the pit bull ones, and the puppies for a long time. I felt pulled, called. When I finally felt like I had honed in on the puppy that was "the one", I became like a bloodhound. Each time I would think I found *the one.* Erik could tell I was in a bit of a frenzy, and said, maybe he would consider a rat terrier. So I finally searched late into the night and found the perfect puppy in San Diego. But I had stayed up way way too late in the night to be able to fill out an application.
The next morning I woke up and after taking Noah to school, worked like a mad woman on the *perfect* application. I studied the rescue organization's website, read all the profiles of the people who run it, looked at all the pictures of the animals available for adoption---which didn't include the one I was interested in! I convinced myself that there were other dogs that they had that would work just as well. Dogs that were young, small, good with cats and kids. But Erik said only a rat terrier. So that narrowed it down to the one that I really wanted (already adopted, but at the time I didn't know that) and one that I was less interested in.
All this web surfing and application filling out took time, and I was also feeding Ana and Micah in between time. I was so focused, madly, on the puppy situation that I did not eat anything or drink anything until well after noon. The first thing I drank was milk!!!! I am shocked at myself! Kefir would have been a much smarter choice. I could already tell that a cramp was going to set in, just based on the knowledge that so much time had passed since I woke up at 7am without my ingesting anything. I thought that if I put more food in my stomach that would help to avoid the cramp.
I ate a half an avocado and a boiled egg yolk. I drank some water too. The cramp started up almost right away. I figured it was gas and it would pass as the food went down. So I just waited for the food to go through me. It made it out the next morning, but the cramping was so bad all night that I couldn't sleep. Just fits of sleeping. Usually sleeping made it go away. Then I thought pooping would make it go away and it didn't. THAT was when I should have realized, oh shit, you have an infection----massive probiotics and colloidal silver back and forth-----but ideally, I should have done that from the get-go!
I have a beautiful dark brown bottle of Effective Microorganisms that has been left languishing on the top shelf of my pantry. I have kombucha vinegar, one of the most potent immune boosters on earth, the effect of ignoring my kombucha for a couple of months, and I did not take any of that while I was in pain. Why not?
Why did I forget about any possible herbs that could have soothed my irritated GI: slippery elm, turmeric, neem, all of which I have.
I don't know. Fear, I guess. Fear paralyzed my brain. I couldn't separate my pain from my experience. Kombucha and nettles had been out of my daily regimen for so long. Ironically, it was in neglecting the kombucha that the vinegar was produced, which is helpful for my healing now, and could have possibly prevented this whole occurrence. I don't need any more of my GI tract removed to know that I have access to deep therapy through EM and kombucha. I don't need to feel helpless in such a situation again.
........................
Erik and I were musing on what if someone had appendicitis 100 years ago? And we agreed that it likely meant death. I found out that my paternal grandmother, Mary Jane's, father died from appendicitis in 1921, down in Mexico, where he was working for his church. I hope he wasn't doing something as trivial as I was when his got set off. I wonder if he felt stressed out that day. Did people feel responsible for their health back then? Did he ever tell himself not to work so hard, to slow down, to take care of himself?
Because I certainly felt that this was my body's way of demanding space. Now no one can ask me to do anything. But if I had mistreated myself that way, by eating poorly and ignoring my body's signals, less than a hundred years ago, i would be dead. I bet the same is true for you for some illness you've had. This is profound.
"You're *just* now realizing this? Honey! Get with the times!" I can hear my husband say to all this.
But truly, illness is a kind of little death. The body breaks, but the mind says, no, we can fix this. Death changes. Being in the hospital, you know that it is a common death conduit. You can see how we all keep going back there, like a mothership. And how easy they make it for someone to feel comfortable dying with them. If I never see them again, I will be happy. I want to learn, to be wise. They got me this time, but I can do it, I can stay away. I can remember powerful medicines.
Death by puppies. They got me with puppies. Erik told Izzy that we can only handle one of her kind at a time. Her kind is too powerful. They made mom sick. It is true. One dog is too much power already. And one cat works to balance that one dog. two spinning around works just right for us.
for now. ;)
Friday, November 23, 2012
Finding Peace with the 2012 Apocalypse
Through a CNBC show about the 2012 I finally understand a way to think about the 2012 apocalypse. Breathe.
What??
Yes, I feel affected by the shift in the Mayan calendar! There, I said it.
But here's what I understand. That having a deadline is good for human culture. It gets people thinking and focusing on change and results.
That is what the role of these kind of events is. To stir up people's sense of motivation. To stir the coals under the fires of humanity.
We are inherently slow, which is generally a good thing. We don't want to be changing at the whim of popular thought. But sometimes change is needed at a deeper level. At a moral and ethical level. Where people choose to stand on the side of a kind of idealistic truth, in the face of potential political backfire. Where people choose to stand on the side of people instead of money.
This shift will be very painful and very messy. Families pulled apart, and new families created. People making wrong decisions, but thinking they are making the right ones, and people making the right decisions, but thinking they have it wrong. Then seeing the destruction that they have unknowingly sown in their wake. But seeing people more clearly now as they start to separate themselves from people who shade them and link up with those who illuminate. Apologizing to those they have hurt, but without the self-effacing martyrhood, just acknowledgment of behavior and moving on, into a supportive community.
Also, noticing the complete tragedy of human existence. Each of us attempting to subdue the world by categorizing people into good and evil. The hippies attempted to remove the evil, and say Love is All. Evil sins are just human ways, we all do this stuff because we are all just wild and free apes, like Jane Goodall's clan of Flora and Frodo and Figg. But if I am offended by evil, then I am equally offended by the good angels. If the devils are humans then the angels are too. If someone comes across as morally superior then I have to question that. If someone comes across as ethically superior, then I have to question that. Doesn't that go against human nature? Then I have to see peaceful warriors, like lamas, as special humans, outside the realm of normal humans. Normal humans act like grumpy jerks and snappy bitches to their spouses and children. Monks and murderers are both outsiders. And yet they are both humans.
Also, Buddha's teachings would be meaningless if he meant them to be for only special humans with special abilities. Same thing for Jesus' teachings, but the Catholic saints are supposed to be extra special, outside of human nature. But I digress.
What??
Yes, I feel affected by the shift in the Mayan calendar! There, I said it.
But here's what I understand. That having a deadline is good for human culture. It gets people thinking and focusing on change and results.
That is what the role of these kind of events is. To stir up people's sense of motivation. To stir the coals under the fires of humanity.
We are inherently slow, which is generally a good thing. We don't want to be changing at the whim of popular thought. But sometimes change is needed at a deeper level. At a moral and ethical level. Where people choose to stand on the side of a kind of idealistic truth, in the face of potential political backfire. Where people choose to stand on the side of people instead of money.
This shift will be very painful and very messy. Families pulled apart, and new families created. People making wrong decisions, but thinking they are making the right ones, and people making the right decisions, but thinking they have it wrong. Then seeing the destruction that they have unknowingly sown in their wake. But seeing people more clearly now as they start to separate themselves from people who shade them and link up with those who illuminate. Apologizing to those they have hurt, but without the self-effacing martyrhood, just acknowledgment of behavior and moving on, into a supportive community.
Also, noticing the complete tragedy of human existence. Each of us attempting to subdue the world by categorizing people into good and evil. The hippies attempted to remove the evil, and say Love is All. Evil sins are just human ways, we all do this stuff because we are all just wild and free apes, like Jane Goodall's clan of Flora and Frodo and Figg. But if I am offended by evil, then I am equally offended by the good angels. If the devils are humans then the angels are too. If someone comes across as morally superior then I have to question that. If someone comes across as ethically superior, then I have to question that. Doesn't that go against human nature? Then I have to see peaceful warriors, like lamas, as special humans, outside the realm of normal humans. Normal humans act like grumpy jerks and snappy bitches to their spouses and children. Monks and murderers are both outsiders. And yet they are both humans.
Also, Buddha's teachings would be meaningless if he meant them to be for only special humans with special abilities. Same thing for Jesus' teachings, but the Catholic saints are supposed to be extra special, outside of human nature. But I digress.
Monday, November 19, 2012
Get a Job, Part II
I didn't apply for the job, because I realized, after reading the listing, that the hours are not evenings and weekends, but include evenings and weekends. The job is leading nature walks around county parks for senior citizens and stay-at-home-folks who like to be talked to about nature-y stuff. Mostly these walks take place during the daytime, but sometimes they take place on evenings and weekends. Of course, that wouldn't work since I am the child watcher, which I prefer anyway.
So thinking back to my earlier thought conclusion that my life is ugly when viewed through the lens of an ambitious, career-oriented person. First off, today i really don't care at all if it is viewed by someone else as ugly, it's my life and i don't have to apologize to anyone for anything.
I think, that I felt that my own husband viewed my life that way (he doesn't).
Yesterday I asked him, "How will you connect with all people? This is the Shift, and if you don't expand yourself to be connected with all humans, you will miss out and you will continue the rest of your life shackled."
His face so beautiful when he receives the truth, radiates a sprite-ish smile, like a child who has been tickled, I laugh. He is bent over, reaching into the fridge, looking up to his left side, so his face is even pinker than usual as the friendly creases appear, but without the laugh I expect in return.
"I can't. It's not normal. It's not natural. It's not who I am. Read Cormac McCarthy and you'll understand who I am."
Later that night we are clearing dinner and Old Nebercracker (think Eeyore) is watching 60 Minutes, during the commercial breaks of some football game of course, and the story is about the innate bias of baby humans. The experiment was elegant. Offer baby (age appeared to be around 6-months) cheerios or graham crackers. Baby chooses cheerios, for example. Then show two different colored cat puppets, each eating either cheerios or graham crackers, to baby. Offer baby to play with one or the other cat. Baby chooses the cat that eats cheerios. Next show baby the cat that ate graham crackers trying to open a box. Two toy dogs, each wearing different colored shirts, either help or hurt the cat. Which toy dog would baby like to play with? The one that hurt the cat that ate graham crackers! The researchers concluded that it meant that the babies wanted to punish the cat who chose a food unlike their choice. The way the blue-shirt-dog punished was by stomping on the cat, who flew through the air before landing on his head. I wonder if babies thought that looked like fun, rather than punishment, but that is not the point. Babies prefer people who like the same things as them. This is a survival mechanism, no doubt, to be appearing at such a young age.
Erik did not miss the opportunity to link this baby study to what we were talking about earlier. That people cannot connect with all of humanity. I told him it was evidence that babies were corrupting our society. Either way, I see his point.
And still I wonder, does this mean I won't make it through the Shift? Pretty sure this means it's a no-go. But I always imagined that I would be one of the ones left behind. I start to look at my life and think that I see patterns that show a tendency toward darkness, like somehow I strove for authenticity and artistry and sublime tendencies and goodlove, but in the end I came up short. "Nah, you just go on," I feel like I'm saying to all my enlightened soul brothers and sisters, "I'll be fine right here." Because I always felt the most connected to the earth dwellers, the mud slitherers, the moles and weasels, the creeping sort.
And this is the point in my thought process where I feel deeply connected with my Catholic Spanish matriline. My mom's mom is a lifelong Catholic and as she is dying she feels that she will never go to heaven because she is such a horrible sinner. How different is *my* thought process from that? Pretty much the same thing. Hmmm... Now I see it, but can I step out of it?
So thinking back to my earlier thought conclusion that my life is ugly when viewed through the lens of an ambitious, career-oriented person. First off, today i really don't care at all if it is viewed by someone else as ugly, it's my life and i don't have to apologize to anyone for anything.
I think, that I felt that my own husband viewed my life that way (he doesn't).
Yesterday I asked him, "How will you connect with all people? This is the Shift, and if you don't expand yourself to be connected with all humans, you will miss out and you will continue the rest of your life shackled."
His face so beautiful when he receives the truth, radiates a sprite-ish smile, like a child who has been tickled, I laugh. He is bent over, reaching into the fridge, looking up to his left side, so his face is even pinker than usual as the friendly creases appear, but without the laugh I expect in return.
"I can't. It's not normal. It's not natural. It's not who I am. Read Cormac McCarthy and you'll understand who I am."
Later that night we are clearing dinner and Old Nebercracker (think Eeyore) is watching 60 Minutes, during the commercial breaks of some football game of course, and the story is about the innate bias of baby humans. The experiment was elegant. Offer baby (age appeared to be around 6-months) cheerios or graham crackers. Baby chooses cheerios, for example. Then show two different colored cat puppets, each eating either cheerios or graham crackers, to baby. Offer baby to play with one or the other cat. Baby chooses the cat that eats cheerios. Next show baby the cat that ate graham crackers trying to open a box. Two toy dogs, each wearing different colored shirts, either help or hurt the cat. Which toy dog would baby like to play with? The one that hurt the cat that ate graham crackers! The researchers concluded that it meant that the babies wanted to punish the cat who chose a food unlike their choice. The way the blue-shirt-dog punished was by stomping on the cat, who flew through the air before landing on his head. I wonder if babies thought that looked like fun, rather than punishment, but that is not the point. Babies prefer people who like the same things as them. This is a survival mechanism, no doubt, to be appearing at such a young age.
Erik did not miss the opportunity to link this baby study to what we were talking about earlier. That people cannot connect with all of humanity. I told him it was evidence that babies were corrupting our society. Either way, I see his point.
And still I wonder, does this mean I won't make it through the Shift? Pretty sure this means it's a no-go. But I always imagined that I would be one of the ones left behind. I start to look at my life and think that I see patterns that show a tendency toward darkness, like somehow I strove for authenticity and artistry and sublime tendencies and goodlove, but in the end I came up short. "Nah, you just go on," I feel like I'm saying to all my enlightened soul brothers and sisters, "I'll be fine right here." Because I always felt the most connected to the earth dwellers, the mud slitherers, the moles and weasels, the creeping sort.
And this is the point in my thought process where I feel deeply connected with my Catholic Spanish matriline. My mom's mom is a lifelong Catholic and as she is dying she feels that she will never go to heaven because she is such a horrible sinner. How different is *my* thought process from that? Pretty much the same thing. Hmmm... Now I see it, but can I step out of it?
Friday, November 16, 2012
Adventures of a Wandering Nun, Continued
When I said that I am a nun, I should clarify. I am not a nun, like what you think of. I don't belong to any church, nor am I a religious person. I am a "nun", which means none. I claim no one as a dependent. I have no children, and I have no affiliation to any company. Kind of like a journey-man. Nuns can be men or women. And there are many different classes of nuns. Musical nuns. Religious nuns. Artist nuns. I am classified as a Wandering Nun because I have no official home. I technically "beg" for all my food and needs, but there are many organizations set up for people like me. Ever since the population started declining there have been safe havens set up for people like me, who are registered peace-makers.
Nowadays, mostly the upper crust have children, the matrons and the wealthys. It is a very difficult process to apply for children, even though the government needs them, because of all the litigation that was in place from back when there were problems with child-napping. Fortunately, there has been much peace, but the government takes a while to change, as you know.
I was born to a very nice couple, the Gats'. My mother was nurse, a Wandering Nurse actually. And my father-mother was an engineer. She worked on perfecting the symbiosphere during her working days, now retired. Technically, she only worked on the biographical interface section, but nonetheless an important role. In her retirement she mostly works on her hobby of broken-fixing, anything broken she fixes it!
I am writing this account to entreat you to take care of your sons, your boys, your men. To care for them and to teach them peace. You see, boys are no longer allowed in our world, they were outlawed in the Treaty of Wallace, back in 2448. It said that no person who actively engages in war of any kind shall be deemed stable for the Peace Process and will be removed from the communal society. Since the discovery of Optional Parthenogenesis we have all been subject to the laws of No Boys, which went into effect soon after the treaty. Even though the population started going down, since boys were proven to be statistically more likely to undergo a psychological transformation that led to violence, they were made illegal in the communal society. All living men were given Matron status, but no boys were allowed to be created any more, since all reproduction acts had to be registered anyway, the government had the ability to approve or deny any babies born. At first the people were joyous at the thought of a peaceful society, even the men were joyous about the thought of letting go of war, but as time progressed there was some change in general thought. There was a revolt and even a secession, which is why Southland is one of the places that is forbidden for even Wandering Nuns, too many Menn, too dangerous.
But I will talk about that more later, before I tell you about what I found, I have to go back to when I first graduated from school, and started out on my journey.
I was the typical age of 27 when I matriculated with my degree. Now my card says, Hipolex Bangle, pod---which means philosopher of doctory. I don't know why they still use those old suffixes, I'm a nun for goodness sake! That means I am eligible for free travel and free healthcare---yea, even that is still something you still have to pay for! As a nun, I enjoy the ability to ride any bus or train for free, with the expectation that I will teach peace wherever I go. If there are children in a town, then I may be expected to teach some lessons before I can move on, but generally I move around with a great amount of freedom. Which is why I chose this profession!
My mom and dad were a little sad that I wouldn't be continuing the lineage, but most people my age are not as interested in continuing the reproduction acts as much as our parents were. I do believe strongly in peace, and I'll be the first to rail off the four agreements of peace----right mind, right body, right morals, right society----but after my existence is over, I am ready for it to end. I see that human stain that my history teacher talked about and I am ready for the great sleep that Gran used to talk about in our evening parables.
One thing that I will avoid for sure is the human love cycle. As a Nun I have taken an oath not to accept any acts that bind me to another human, for I promise (under threat of losing my status) to serve all humans equally. Some people have a hard time with that. My sister, Aloysia, married soon after her matriculation and they are in the process of applying for a reproduction act in this moment. But I've decided to let go of the human cycle after this go-round. All the ones who are here on earth are perfect in my mind. All I hope to do is spread the cycle of peace and then take my piece when I'm done.
More later, I have to go study.
Nowadays, mostly the upper crust have children, the matrons and the wealthys. It is a very difficult process to apply for children, even though the government needs them, because of all the litigation that was in place from back when there were problems with child-napping. Fortunately, there has been much peace, but the government takes a while to change, as you know.
I was born to a very nice couple, the Gats'. My mother was nurse, a Wandering Nurse actually. And my father-mother was an engineer. She worked on perfecting the symbiosphere during her working days, now retired. Technically, she only worked on the biographical interface section, but nonetheless an important role. In her retirement she mostly works on her hobby of broken-fixing, anything broken she fixes it!
I am writing this account to entreat you to take care of your sons, your boys, your men. To care for them and to teach them peace. You see, boys are no longer allowed in our world, they were outlawed in the Treaty of Wallace, back in 2448. It said that no person who actively engages in war of any kind shall be deemed stable for the Peace Process and will be removed from the communal society. Since the discovery of Optional Parthenogenesis we have all been subject to the laws of No Boys, which went into effect soon after the treaty. Even though the population started going down, since boys were proven to be statistically more likely to undergo a psychological transformation that led to violence, they were made illegal in the communal society. All living men were given Matron status, but no boys were allowed to be created any more, since all reproduction acts had to be registered anyway, the government had the ability to approve or deny any babies born. At first the people were joyous at the thought of a peaceful society, even the men were joyous about the thought of letting go of war, but as time progressed there was some change in general thought. There was a revolt and even a secession, which is why Southland is one of the places that is forbidden for even Wandering Nuns, too many Menn, too dangerous.
But I will talk about that more later, before I tell you about what I found, I have to go back to when I first graduated from school, and started out on my journey.
I was the typical age of 27 when I matriculated with my degree. Now my card says, Hipolex Bangle, pod---which means philosopher of doctory. I don't know why they still use those old suffixes, I'm a nun for goodness sake! That means I am eligible for free travel and free healthcare---yea, even that is still something you still have to pay for! As a nun, I enjoy the ability to ride any bus or train for free, with the expectation that I will teach peace wherever I go. If there are children in a town, then I may be expected to teach some lessons before I can move on, but generally I move around with a great amount of freedom. Which is why I chose this profession!
My mom and dad were a little sad that I wouldn't be continuing the lineage, but most people my age are not as interested in continuing the reproduction acts as much as our parents were. I do believe strongly in peace, and I'll be the first to rail off the four agreements of peace----right mind, right body, right morals, right society----but after my existence is over, I am ready for it to end. I see that human stain that my history teacher talked about and I am ready for the great sleep that Gran used to talk about in our evening parables.
One thing that I will avoid for sure is the human love cycle. As a Nun I have taken an oath not to accept any acts that bind me to another human, for I promise (under threat of losing my status) to serve all humans equally. Some people have a hard time with that. My sister, Aloysia, married soon after her matriculation and they are in the process of applying for a reproduction act in this moment. But I've decided to let go of the human cycle after this go-round. All the ones who are here on earth are perfect in my mind. All I hope to do is spread the cycle of peace and then take my piece when I'm done.
More later, I have to go study.
Memory
I suddenly realized how the experience of life consists of experience and memory, and the memory is what get bent, twisted, painted, and formed into art. The shapes, the sequences, the sections all get transformed into something in an attempt to make reality bearable. The memories. Can they get purged, transformed?
Painting is a shortcut way. Sculpting even shorter. Words torment the mind, with their easy availability and their tantalizing waltz when spoken from others' lips.
What is it you want to say? I don't want to say anything, I just want to purge, to evacuate, to exhaust all the memories of the past, to cleanse the unlikeable, the less smooth, the uncomfortable.
Just say it! When I went to therapy I always found my words all tripped up. How to explain what happened over the last week and how it relates to my entire life in one hour felt so immense, so many options, so many ways to go about the task that my mind froze up. Everything that came out of my mouth sounding so pithy, somehow a shell of the original event, unable to accurately cast the proper shade to my emotions at that moment when such-and-such event with so-and-so person made me feel in such a way that revealed some key to unlocking my increasingly insuppressable anxiety.
Then, perhaps it was just in the moment that I could not find the right words. Perhaps, just perhaps, if I were to write everything down I could select the perfect word from a whole basket of words, at my fingertips, but then the memories get chopped up into a salad of bits and pieces, failing to come together into a memorable, savory experience.
Just write it. Even if it's the worst ever. Okay, here goes....
That couch. The material of that couch. If I can start by describing the material of that couch, perhaps we could get somewhere. A couch from childhood. Still you have no inkling of what it looked like. The material was scratchy plaid. Plaid for sure, various shades of tan and brown manmade material threads, acrylic perhaps? Tan and brown interwoven with white. The material was scratchy for sure, but not so scratchy that it was uncomfortable to sit on, the way some wool blankets, like Pendleton blankets, scratch your bare skin. This was scratchy material, but also rough, in the way that a couch salesman might indicate that the material was resistant to spills and stains because it was a rough material. This couch, this rough brown couch, is what could have cradled me into existence. This is my earliest memory. My face pressed against the back of the couch so as to block out any other visual experience in my field. And within this couch is my dad. He might as well BE this couch. Scratchy brown plaid.
This memory of this couch was brought to my attention when I was a teenager and I went to the coffee shop with my high school friend to listen to jazz. We smoked pot in the car, after it was parked in front of a little house in the old downtown suburbs. Then we walked to the cafe to listen to the jazz. I sat at the little table in the cafe, with my little purchased coffee drink, with my face propped up by my right arm resting on my right cheek bone, my jaw slacked with the effect of the cannabis, listening to the jazz and seeing that couch and other long-lost childhood memories washing over me. In some ways, the memories were fleeting, they would barrel down on me and I would be immersed in feelings of joy and confusion, surrounded by old maid cards where I could see every pair, every dole occupation, the fisherman, the carpenter, the florist with her tabby cat, and then in other ways the memories would stamp themselves upon my mind in a way that couldn't have happened without the drug. The very act of recalling them, made them more available to me for later dates.
I'm starting to see the same thing with dreams. If I can remember them then they become so much more a part of my real life. I can relate to them in the same way that I would to a long-lost memory, trying to turn it around in my mind to see the different angles.
But the thing about childhood memories is that they don't have very many sides to them. They remain one-sided, from the side of the child, that imperfect human.
When I ran down that hill to see the neighbor's dog and it jumped on me and I fell under it's great hairy weight, I will always be the one who fell in that memory. But my challenge, as an adult is to see it from another point of view, that of the benign, omniscient adult.
Painting is a shortcut way. Sculpting even shorter. Words torment the mind, with their easy availability and their tantalizing waltz when spoken from others' lips.
What is it you want to say? I don't want to say anything, I just want to purge, to evacuate, to exhaust all the memories of the past, to cleanse the unlikeable, the less smooth, the uncomfortable.
Just say it! When I went to therapy I always found my words all tripped up. How to explain what happened over the last week and how it relates to my entire life in one hour felt so immense, so many options, so many ways to go about the task that my mind froze up. Everything that came out of my mouth sounding so pithy, somehow a shell of the original event, unable to accurately cast the proper shade to my emotions at that moment when such-and-such event with so-and-so person made me feel in such a way that revealed some key to unlocking my increasingly insuppressable anxiety.
Then, perhaps it was just in the moment that I could not find the right words. Perhaps, just perhaps, if I were to write everything down I could select the perfect word from a whole basket of words, at my fingertips, but then the memories get chopped up into a salad of bits and pieces, failing to come together into a memorable, savory experience.
Just write it. Even if it's the worst ever. Okay, here goes....
That couch. The material of that couch. If I can start by describing the material of that couch, perhaps we could get somewhere. A couch from childhood. Still you have no inkling of what it looked like. The material was scratchy plaid. Plaid for sure, various shades of tan and brown manmade material threads, acrylic perhaps? Tan and brown interwoven with white. The material was scratchy for sure, but not so scratchy that it was uncomfortable to sit on, the way some wool blankets, like Pendleton blankets, scratch your bare skin. This was scratchy material, but also rough, in the way that a couch salesman might indicate that the material was resistant to spills and stains because it was a rough material. This couch, this rough brown couch, is what could have cradled me into existence. This is my earliest memory. My face pressed against the back of the couch so as to block out any other visual experience in my field. And within this couch is my dad. He might as well BE this couch. Scratchy brown plaid.
This memory of this couch was brought to my attention when I was a teenager and I went to the coffee shop with my high school friend to listen to jazz. We smoked pot in the car, after it was parked in front of a little house in the old downtown suburbs. Then we walked to the cafe to listen to the jazz. I sat at the little table in the cafe, with my little purchased coffee drink, with my face propped up by my right arm resting on my right cheek bone, my jaw slacked with the effect of the cannabis, listening to the jazz and seeing that couch and other long-lost childhood memories washing over me. In some ways, the memories were fleeting, they would barrel down on me and I would be immersed in feelings of joy and confusion, surrounded by old maid cards where I could see every pair, every dole occupation, the fisherman, the carpenter, the florist with her tabby cat, and then in other ways the memories would stamp themselves upon my mind in a way that couldn't have happened without the drug. The very act of recalling them, made them more available to me for later dates.
I'm starting to see the same thing with dreams. If I can remember them then they become so much more a part of my real life. I can relate to them in the same way that I would to a long-lost memory, trying to turn it around in my mind to see the different angles.
But the thing about childhood memories is that they don't have very many sides to them. They remain one-sided, from the side of the child, that imperfect human.
When I ran down that hill to see the neighbor's dog and it jumped on me and I fell under it's great hairy weight, I will always be the one who fell in that memory. But my challenge, as an adult is to see it from another point of view, that of the benign, omniscient adult.
Get a Job!
I am letting my kids watch more than an hour of television, since the first time I implemented the law, about a month ago---the law of only one hour of television per day. It is under the guise of "applying for a job online", specifically, a job leading nature walks for the county, sporadically and intermittently, on weekends and evenings, which would work perfectly for me. Except that I am writing this instead, because I had a revelation. And it wasn't pretty.
My life is not pretty, not just not pretty, but ugly, from the point of view of someone who is ambitious. If I am spending each moment playing with my children, it appears to come across as lazy. Being in the moment, in those moments of complete imagination, no beginning and no end, requires a rejection of all the voices begging to be listened to---the laundry voices, the food voices, the earning-money voices, the painting-writing-creating voices---in play there is no camera to record. Have you noticed that whenever you try to capture your kids playing cute or peacefully or imaginatively on camera, the effect seems to be a complete dissolution of the height of the moment? Only by staying in it can you experience, and then attempt to recreate it later, if possible, and even then it feels like shoring up a sand castle as the tide comes in.
There is no way to capture that spark of the moment, and yet there is the gold of life, there is the motivation, in that nugget of time where new words and loving emotions pour together in sync, creating a fountain of moments that you drink in readily, attempting to file as much of it away for the difficult moments when everything feels halting and rough.
The reason I felt that my life was not pretty was because my partner, my husband, my soul-mate, my one-and-only brought me a job listing which sounded perfect for me.
Lead nature walks. On evenings and weekends. Pays well. I balked.
"What, are you never going to get a job? Because someone has to stay home and walk the dog and make dinner?" he asked me.
I just stared from under my cocoon of bedcovers. Too dumb, too un-witty, too struck to say anything.
"We had an unsaid agreement when we got married. Both of us are going to work!"
I felt that my life was ugly. That my lack of ambition was unsightly, unseemly, un-something.
"You have to think about your career! You can't be away from work for too long!"
What's a job anyway? Just another way to experience this old world. Why do I feel so separate? Perhaps it's time for me to jump back into that world. I just don't feel ready. Uncertain. But that's kind of normal for me.
My life is not pretty, not just not pretty, but ugly, from the point of view of someone who is ambitious. If I am spending each moment playing with my children, it appears to come across as lazy. Being in the moment, in those moments of complete imagination, no beginning and no end, requires a rejection of all the voices begging to be listened to---the laundry voices, the food voices, the earning-money voices, the painting-writing-creating voices---in play there is no camera to record. Have you noticed that whenever you try to capture your kids playing cute or peacefully or imaginatively on camera, the effect seems to be a complete dissolution of the height of the moment? Only by staying in it can you experience, and then attempt to recreate it later, if possible, and even then it feels like shoring up a sand castle as the tide comes in.
There is no way to capture that spark of the moment, and yet there is the gold of life, there is the motivation, in that nugget of time where new words and loving emotions pour together in sync, creating a fountain of moments that you drink in readily, attempting to file as much of it away for the difficult moments when everything feels halting and rough.
The reason I felt that my life was not pretty was because my partner, my husband, my soul-mate, my one-and-only brought me a job listing which sounded perfect for me.
Lead nature walks. On evenings and weekends. Pays well. I balked.
"What, are you never going to get a job? Because someone has to stay home and walk the dog and make dinner?" he asked me.
I just stared from under my cocoon of bedcovers. Too dumb, too un-witty, too struck to say anything.
"We had an unsaid agreement when we got married. Both of us are going to work!"
I felt that my life was ugly. That my lack of ambition was unsightly, unseemly, un-something.
"You have to think about your career! You can't be away from work for too long!"
What's a job anyway? Just another way to experience this old world. Why do I feel so separate? Perhaps it's time for me to jump back into that world. I just don't feel ready. Uncertain. But that's kind of normal for me.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
I am becoming increasingly uncomfortable with religious people and patriots. This is a problem because that is most of the people in my country, it feels. I also am confounded at how to live with the human problem of seeing the ugliness of human existence and living a peaceful life. On the one hand, I can live my life as a mirror. Only surround myself with positive people, positive thoughts, positive vibrations, and focus on everything good. But the concrete *is* still ugly. And injustices abound. If I don't have some discontent, some anger, then who will work for change? Is change something to be worked for? I feel like seeing the violence of my American culture is so painful, and that speaking out against military hurts people's feelings who are actively serving in the military. So I feel trapped. Helpless again. Violence is such a part of human nature it seems. If I say no to violence, i am not saying no to people, but it feels that way.
I feel uncomfortable with religion for the same reason---it doesn't feel peaceful to me. But I don't speak out against religion because it hurts peoples' feelings.
What do I speak out against? Is it important to take a stand on violence? Or is it important to just live a peaceful life in your own private circle? If you live a peaceful life with your family is that enough?
Buddhism says to love the person underneath the violence and always offer the dharma. Doesn't everyone deserve to listen to the dharma? Feel sadness and compassion for the pain and the struggle that all humans go through and ignore that which you don't agree with. Reject that which is not you?
Much much pondering...
I feel uncomfortable with religion for the same reason---it doesn't feel peaceful to me. But I don't speak out against religion because it hurts peoples' feelings.
What do I speak out against? Is it important to take a stand on violence? Or is it important to just live a peaceful life in your own private circle? If you live a peaceful life with your family is that enough?
Buddhism says to love the person underneath the violence and always offer the dharma. Doesn't everyone deserve to listen to the dharma? Feel sadness and compassion for the pain and the struggle that all humans go through and ignore that which you don't agree with. Reject that which is not you?
Much much pondering...
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Adventures of a Wandering Nun
In the year 2525 the lesbians have almost completed their takeover into the new age. The population continues to decline thanks to steady and firm quotas and all couples have equal access to adoptions all over the world. While genders are typically born as females, some couples elect to have a male, who is promptly castrated at birth. A library of DNA from acceptable males is available to any couple desiring to adopt. Surrogacy is a popular occupation, and many women have risen in this illustrious field.
I begin my story telling you this as it not my intent to sway you one way or another on how you feel about these matters. The legislature that outlawed male life was passed by my own ancestors. It is not for me to say whether or not it is right. I stay out of the whole thing anyway by registering as a nun. Nuns have much more freedom than citizens, even though it doesn't look like it on the outside. For one thing, I am exempt from taxes, but that's a different story.
Where was I? Oh yes, the business of being born.
I begin my story telling you this as it not my intent to sway you one way or another on how you feel about these matters. The legislature that outlawed male life was passed by my own ancestors. It is not for me to say whether or not it is right. I stay out of the whole thing anyway by registering as a nun. Nuns have much more freedom than citizens, even though it doesn't look like it on the outside. For one thing, I am exempt from taxes, but that's a different story.
Where was I? Oh yes, the business of being born.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Make your own million-dollar herb drink
The other day I was at the Herb Store on Fourth Avenue next to the Co-Op. As I waited for the grouchy walrus-y Mo-from-the-Simpsons-y clerk to measure out my selection, my eye fell upon the suggested sales at the register. One was an 8 oz bottle of Herbal Elixir--the sign said to inquire for the drink which is stored in a back refrigerator. $7. There was a motley mix of herbs listed on the back. I asked what the ferment was... kombucha? He said he didn't know but it was kombucha-y.
Kombucha is now adored by legions in America. Time to make your own.
If you can boil water and use a kitchen scale then you can make your own MILLION-DOLLAR-HERB-DRINK!
Homebrewed kombucha plus herbal infusion plus juice. Let it sit overnight so that the kombucha mixes all the components by feeding on the juice and the herbal infusion. You have created your own personalized weight-loss, cancer-slashing, eau de vie.
Kombucha is now adored by legions in America. Time to make your own.
If you can boil water and use a kitchen scale then you can make your own MILLION-DOLLAR-HERB-DRINK!
Homebrewed kombucha plus herbal infusion plus juice. Let it sit overnight so that the kombucha mixes all the components by feeding on the juice and the herbal infusion. You have created your own personalized weight-loss, cancer-slashing, eau de vie.
Monday, May 21, 2012
Confessions of a Reluctant Atheist
In order to believe that all humans are good and ultimately peace-seeking it helps me to believe in both the existence of souls and reincarnation. If I die and it turns out that I am wrong... not much was lost by a lifetime of believing that all people are on the path to peace.
Not very atheist.
Not very atheist.
Problem with Saviors
There is no concept of savior in buddhism. Each person is a complete entity seeking peace.
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Harmonious Remedy
I hadn't meditated for months--maybe four months, because I was caught up in "doing it right." Bodhidharma and his way of meditating is to do it with your eyes open facing a wall. Just now I did some amazing intuitive yoga that ended in a lotus position and it just felt right to meditate with my eyes closed and thumb touching middle finger. And I had the most blissed out meditation in such a long time--and I got a direct teaching from the source. It said:
All styles of meditation are good for you. It is up to you to listen to your heart to understand when to use one style and when to use another style. Bodhidharma was one man whose experience in a cave helped him to lead millions of people to peace, but there are lots of men and women who led people to peace using different techniques. THE TIME FOR HAVING ONLY ONE TEACHER IS OVER. We are now in an era where all the healers are working together at once and each individual balances out the teachings of the peaceful ones in their own lives in order to create their own harmonious remedy.
No one shall ever feel guilty or ashamed for switching religions or churches. It is imperative for people to follow their own hearts now to wisely discern what will lead to peace and what will lead to conflict.
All styles of meditation are good for you. It is up to you to listen to your heart to understand when to use one style and when to use another style. Bodhidharma was one man whose experience in a cave helped him to lead millions of people to peace, but there are lots of men and women who led people to peace using different techniques. THE TIME FOR HAVING ONLY ONE TEACHER IS OVER. We are now in an era where all the healers are working together at once and each individual balances out the teachings of the peaceful ones in their own lives in order to create their own harmonious remedy.
No one shall ever feel guilty or ashamed for switching religions or churches. It is imperative for people to follow their own hearts now to wisely discern what will lead to peace and what will lead to conflict.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
My garden, my love
Yesterday the hubs told me two things about my garden: One, that I have too many romantic notions about plants. And two, that my garden was a dry, dusty wasteland.
The first idea, that I have too many romantic notions about plants may be right. My mind has flipped out on fairies and majikal plant energies. It's because a friend re-introduced me to Susun Weed via her youtube videos. Susun Weed's energy has infected my mind! Or, re-awakened a sleeping spirit in me. I feel compelled to talk out loud to the plants and bees and winds.
This reminds me so much of the energy that swept through me when I lived with the wolves in New Mexico. There I made an extraordinary connection with a man who opened up the spirit world for me to have a peek. Really, it was just his mind, but it was extraordinary, and he reminded me that there are people talking with animals and plants and spirits and having real connections whether I participate or not. I jumped in with both feet and emerged gentler than ever before.
That experience slowly dripped off me until I let it go, or maybe just tucked it away. Because now after watching Susun's videos the old plant spirits are back, calling me to know them more and more and more.
That same dear friend who opened me to Susun Weed gave me a potted motherwort and it doesn't look like it's going to make it, which is devastating for someone who feels opened up to the energies of the plant world!! I say that with a hint of sarcasm because deep down inside, I know that Erik is right to say that I have too many romantic notions about plants. If I think about them too much and get so sad when one doesn't make it then I am projecting way too much onto the plants. Sometimes they just need to be left alone.
Which is what I think killed the motherwort! I should have re-potted it immediately when I got home?!
Who knows the reason... I put the motherwort on a bench under the blossoming orange tree with the chamomile next to it to comfort it. I try not to visit it too often, but is it my imagination or do the newest baby leaves look a little perky? The chamomile has a tendril hovering over the motherwort and it opened a flower on it today. So there is some hope!
So, yes, my notions of the garden are a bit romantic. He told me that I should be cutting all the flowers off the broccoli, but the bees are having the most blissed out time visiting all those flowers. He told me that the seeds aren't worth saving, that broccoli's genes get diluted by wild mustard. Oh well, I just don't care! I'm just letting the bees enjoy the flowers because I think it makes the garden happier. Also, my garden plants are packed so close together that I think if I ripped out the broccoli it would affect the parsley and chard surrounding it.
My notions of my garden are so romantic that sometimes I feel like I love my garden as much as I love a pet. When I see the strawberry plants with their prayer-hand leaves emerging from that bundle of green I feel so much joy. When I see the seedlings emerge their cotyledons from the black soil and open wide for the sun's energy it makes me feel so content and peaceful. I love my garden so much I could marry it!
So why did my husband say that my garden was a dry, dusty wasteland? Because he is encouraging me to pack even more plant-life into the nooks and crannies of the garden. More watering in more places. The garden is infecting us, we are becoming slaves to it, all willingly and peacefully. We are addicted to the rush of seeing food growing around us!
The first idea, that I have too many romantic notions about plants may be right. My mind has flipped out on fairies and majikal plant energies. It's because a friend re-introduced me to Susun Weed via her youtube videos. Susun Weed's energy has infected my mind! Or, re-awakened a sleeping spirit in me. I feel compelled to talk out loud to the plants and bees and winds.
This reminds me so much of the energy that swept through me when I lived with the wolves in New Mexico. There I made an extraordinary connection with a man who opened up the spirit world for me to have a peek. Really, it was just his mind, but it was extraordinary, and he reminded me that there are people talking with animals and plants and spirits and having real connections whether I participate or not. I jumped in with both feet and emerged gentler than ever before.
That experience slowly dripped off me until I let it go, or maybe just tucked it away. Because now after watching Susun's videos the old plant spirits are back, calling me to know them more and more and more.
That same dear friend who opened me to Susun Weed gave me a potted motherwort and it doesn't look like it's going to make it, which is devastating for someone who feels opened up to the energies of the plant world!! I say that with a hint of sarcasm because deep down inside, I know that Erik is right to say that I have too many romantic notions about plants. If I think about them too much and get so sad when one doesn't make it then I am projecting way too much onto the plants. Sometimes they just need to be left alone.
Which is what I think killed the motherwort! I should have re-potted it immediately when I got home?!
Who knows the reason... I put the motherwort on a bench under the blossoming orange tree with the chamomile next to it to comfort it. I try not to visit it too often, but is it my imagination or do the newest baby leaves look a little perky? The chamomile has a tendril hovering over the motherwort and it opened a flower on it today. So there is some hope!
So, yes, my notions of the garden are a bit romantic. He told me that I should be cutting all the flowers off the broccoli, but the bees are having the most blissed out time visiting all those flowers. He told me that the seeds aren't worth saving, that broccoli's genes get diluted by wild mustard. Oh well, I just don't care! I'm just letting the bees enjoy the flowers because I think it makes the garden happier. Also, my garden plants are packed so close together that I think if I ripped out the broccoli it would affect the parsley and chard surrounding it.
My notions of my garden are so romantic that sometimes I feel like I love my garden as much as I love a pet. When I see the strawberry plants with their prayer-hand leaves emerging from that bundle of green I feel so much joy. When I see the seedlings emerge their cotyledons from the black soil and open wide for the sun's energy it makes me feel so content and peaceful. I love my garden so much I could marry it!
So why did my husband say that my garden was a dry, dusty wasteland? Because he is encouraging me to pack even more plant-life into the nooks and crannies of the garden. More watering in more places. The garden is infecting us, we are becoming slaves to it, all willingly and peacefully. We are addicted to the rush of seeing food growing around us!
Friday, March 23, 2012
Moment of Awakening
When I returned from the Solomon Islands, I brought with me a wealth of experience living in a wholesome, integrated environment. I also brought with me the experience of living among people no longer divided by want of resources, but divided by the arbitrary event of which missionary group converted their grandparents.
I met Seventh Day Adventists who lived on separate islands and did not associate with their own family who were Methodist, or Catholic, or Mormon, or whatever other branch reached its tendrils to the Solomon Islands.
I had gone to the Solomon Islands solid in my faith. And left disillusioned--the emperor's clothes were slipping off.
My first job I got after returning was a kennel cleaner for the Helen Woodward Animal Center's kennel for dogs whose owners are on vacations. The first day I was hired I knew it wasn't for me. On my lunchbreak I sat outside a deli in an upscale Rancho Santa Fe shopping plaza. It was a weekday afternoon in fall. The stores and restaurants were mostly empty; the clerks swept the patio to stay busy.
Sitting at a round patio table, on the most pleasant of San Diego days, with an egg salad sandwich and a pickle, I felt uneasy. This job, with the dogs who were ironically so spoiled and loved by their owners, but they were just sad or frantic with homesickness. All the processing of returning to a world of shopping and working and planning from a world of gardening and fishing and being. And I couldn't turn to the church for comfort. I knew now that the church was just a shell game. God didn't help the people of the Solomons. People helped people.
But letting go of God was bothering me. I used to say that one of the biggest miracles of the church was that it brought people together. Even the Solomon people loved church and would be in church all day on Sunday, singing and feasting into the night sometimes. If I let go of God what would be left? What would I cling to? Who would take care of me?
And right at that moment a wren landed in a potted shrub right at my eye-level, and the little yellow glass bead of an eye locked onto mine long enough to burn the image into my mind. And the message from the bird was:
I am you and you are me. We are all one and we have each other to depend on and to help through life. And joy was born in my heart and I did not feel alone. I felt lighter as I allowed myself to let go...
That was the beginning of my atheism.
Today I lean toward Buddhism. It brings me the most comfort. One of the ideas of Buddhism that brings me comfort is reincarnation, which is just as much of a fairy tale idea as God. But I can choose to listen to whichever fairy tales I want to. I think that is a good place to be for me right now.
Friday, February 24, 2012
One is the Loneliest Number
The last frog of its kind lives out the rest of his life in a terrarium in Atlanta.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Sound Energy: Silent Library = Sleeping Baby
Can't remember where I was when I saw this show, Silent Library. It is a teen-age hi-jinks Japanese-style game. Contestants are groups of teen-age boys (were there girls too?) that have to perform silly/loud/disgusting acts as quietly as possible.
I think of this show when I am tip-toeing around the house while Ana sleeps. I have the luxury of being alone with Ana. I can be as quiet as I want! I realize that in order to be cat-burglar quiet I have to listen to all of the noises I make and reduce them. I find that going slowly reduces the amount of noise I make dramatically. I have to find the "middle way" between the sound-producing objects. It is a meditative task.
Ana hears everything. Not just when she is taking her nap. She hears things that I take for granted, like a chair scraping on the kitchen floor, or a screw dropping on the concrete workshop floor. Her language can imitate the sounds, almost parrot-like. I have thought more than once how fascinating it would be to have a baby parrot that is developing language raised with a baby human that is developing language. I am realizing how much of her language development is for me to listen to. I imitate her, not she from me. Then we develop our own language. She has scolded me for trying to interject words for a sound she is making! I am learning to hear again!
Also Micah helped me realize that we don't hold onto her, she holds onto us and we support her. We have been talking a lot about "trapping" recently. What does it mean to "trap someone." Do we sometimes feel trapped? We support each other instead of trapping each other.
I am realizing that we cannot teach children patience. Children help us to learn patience. They teach us how to be patient. They teach us to stop yelling. If the sound of yelling in my ears hurts my mind, then I must stop yelling, no matter what. I can handle it when someone yells in my ears. I choose not to yell back, because that hurts my mind too. I choose not to do things that hurt myself.
Having a moment of silence every day helps in ways beyond knowing. If I can have just a moment, a breath, without any noise, it grounds me. If I can listen to a whole song on Pandora, then I feel energized. I snatch the moments when I can. The luxury to write a blog entry is keenly felt and realized. Alone time is spent in delicious silence whenever possible. As Frances says, "I think I need some me-myself-alone time."
I think of this show when I am tip-toeing around the house while Ana sleeps. I have the luxury of being alone with Ana. I can be as quiet as I want! I realize that in order to be cat-burglar quiet I have to listen to all of the noises I make and reduce them. I find that going slowly reduces the amount of noise I make dramatically. I have to find the "middle way" between the sound-producing objects. It is a meditative task.
Ana hears everything. Not just when she is taking her nap. She hears things that I take for granted, like a chair scraping on the kitchen floor, or a screw dropping on the concrete workshop floor. Her language can imitate the sounds, almost parrot-like. I have thought more than once how fascinating it would be to have a baby parrot that is developing language raised with a baby human that is developing language. I am realizing how much of her language development is for me to listen to. I imitate her, not she from me. Then we develop our own language. She has scolded me for trying to interject words for a sound she is making! I am learning to hear again!
Also Micah helped me realize that we don't hold onto her, she holds onto us and we support her. We have been talking a lot about "trapping" recently. What does it mean to "trap someone." Do we sometimes feel trapped? We support each other instead of trapping each other.
I am realizing that we cannot teach children patience. Children help us to learn patience. They teach us how to be patient. They teach us to stop yelling. If the sound of yelling in my ears hurts my mind, then I must stop yelling, no matter what. I can handle it when someone yells in my ears. I choose not to yell back, because that hurts my mind too. I choose not to do things that hurt myself.
Having a moment of silence every day helps in ways beyond knowing. If I can have just a moment, a breath, without any noise, it grounds me. If I can listen to a whole song on Pandora, then I feel energized. I snatch the moments when I can. The luxury to write a blog entry is keenly felt and realized. Alone time is spent in delicious silence whenever possible. As Frances says, "I think I need some me-myself-alone time."
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Confessions of an Atheist: Letting Go of Blessings
Even though I've been a solid atheist since my moment of awakening in 2002, I have continued to talk about blessings. "My life is blessed." "You are so blessed." "What a blessing!" Benign banter with believers.
I am deciding that the only blessings I want to talk about are those given from person to person. "You are blessing me!" (with some gift of time or object) "He/she is blessing him/her/them!" (in response to some uplifting story).
I am still attached to the idea of luck and being lucky though. Not sure how that fits in. Is luck a useful concept?
I am deciding that the only blessings I want to talk about are those given from person to person. "You are blessing me!" (with some gift of time or object) "He/she is blessing him/her/them!" (in response to some uplifting story).
I am still attached to the idea of luck and being lucky though. Not sure how that fits in. Is luck a useful concept?
I couldn't help it!
Just now Micah quoted a line from No David that struck true.
"I couldn't help it!"
We say this line in the book as gently as we can because it's true! Sometimes a person just can't help themselves and that's ok! Because everyone does it sometimes!
"I couldn't help it!"
We say this line in the book as gently as we can because it's true! Sometimes a person just can't help themselves and that's ok! Because everyone does it sometimes!
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Hermit Phase
Hermit phase is full-on here. I had been resisting it for a while, but now I am embracing it. My personality spectrum falls into hermit phase for part of the year, inevitably. Micah does not talk about going to the park and I avoid the topic. He watches something on repeat (currently this) and I clean, cook, launder, and paperwork. This time of year is common because every day I think about the taxes, while I am doing everything else.
Hermit phase is deliciously repetitive. Helps me hone my skills. Examine the details of daily rhythms. Make discoveries, such as, pudding is porridge and porridge is a little bit of grain cooked in a lot of milk very slowly. Or other liquid. Milk is especially delicious.
I am having a love affair with milk. I envision my goat here at the house some day. She hasn't been born yet, but I am envisioning her coming earthside. Or maybe a miniature cow, because cows are such loverly motherly animals.
Before we can get the milk-giver we have to build up the gardens in the back yard. They have to cover every available spot in the back yard with food plants. That way there will be extra food for the animal.
Speaking of backyard animals giving milk and eggs, I told Micah that when I have my period I am giving birth to an egg. So now whenever I go to the bathroom he runs in to see if I "made the egg". And he looks in the toilet and tells me he sees the egg. I told him that it is too tiny to see it, but he was sure that he saw it.
I was telling Micah the other night that all girl animals have eggs, even Ana-Bees. Erik winced about all the egg and vagina talk. Eggs and vaginas (or cloacas) have a lot of emotions wrapped up in them! ^_^
Hermit phase is deliciously repetitive. Helps me hone my skills. Examine the details of daily rhythms. Make discoveries, such as, pudding is porridge and porridge is a little bit of grain cooked in a lot of milk very slowly. Or other liquid. Milk is especially delicious.
I am having a love affair with milk. I envision my goat here at the house some day. She hasn't been born yet, but I am envisioning her coming earthside. Or maybe a miniature cow, because cows are such loverly motherly animals.
Before we can get the milk-giver we have to build up the gardens in the back yard. They have to cover every available spot in the back yard with food plants. That way there will be extra food for the animal.
Speaking of backyard animals giving milk and eggs, I told Micah that when I have my period I am giving birth to an egg. So now whenever I go to the bathroom he runs in to see if I "made the egg". And he looks in the toilet and tells me he sees the egg. I told him that it is too tiny to see it, but he was sure that he saw it.
I was telling Micah the other night that all girl animals have eggs, even Ana-Bees. Erik winced about all the egg and vagina talk. Eggs and vaginas (or cloacas) have a lot of emotions wrapped up in them! ^_^
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Thursday, February 9, 2012
100 Best Novels
Modern Library has two side-by-side lists of the 100 greatest novels of all time. One is put together by the editors and one is put together by the readers.
I put together in chronological order the editors list. And well over half appear to be drunk perverts slogging through life completely self-absorbed. A daunting task to read so many such books. The editors list starts chronologically with Joseph Conrad in 1899.
I started ordering chronologically the readers list and was halted by the fact the top 10 novels included three--one of those three being a nine-book-series--by L. Ron Hubbard and four by Ayn Rand! The other three were Lord of the Rings, To Kill A Mockingbird, and Nineteen Eighty-Four. Very weird sampling of people to make up the readers of Modern library!
But back to the editors list. I get the impression that reading about suffering seems to be the way to understand literature! Perhaps it's the way that the author presents it that is the jewel. That voice. Those idioms.
So after I finish reading all of the novels in Nabokov's "Lectures on Literature" I will begin reading the editors' list in chronological order. Starting with Joseph Conrad. But then I'll have to do some preliminary Joseph Conrad reading--follow his thread of influence back and start with that. Then go from there. I wonder if I'll make it to the decade of the 1970's... 1960s? I might have to skip some of the books in the first half of the century. The 1930s seem to be especially profuse!
I put together in chronological order the editors list. And well over half appear to be drunk perverts slogging through life completely self-absorbed. A daunting task to read so many such books. The editors list starts chronologically with Joseph Conrad in 1899.
I started ordering chronologically the readers list and was halted by the fact the top 10 novels included three--one of those three being a nine-book-series--by L. Ron Hubbard and four by Ayn Rand! The other three were Lord of the Rings, To Kill A Mockingbird, and Nineteen Eighty-Four. Very weird sampling of people to make up the readers of Modern library!
But back to the editors list. I get the impression that reading about suffering seems to be the way to understand literature! Perhaps it's the way that the author presents it that is the jewel. That voice. Those idioms.
So after I finish reading all of the novels in Nabokov's "Lectures on Literature" I will begin reading the editors' list in chronological order. Starting with Joseph Conrad. But then I'll have to do some preliminary Joseph Conrad reading--follow his thread of influence back and start with that. Then go from there. I wonder if I'll make it to the decade of the 1970's... 1960s? I might have to skip some of the books in the first half of the century. The 1930s seem to be especially profuse!
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Scooby-Doo and the Yowee-Yahoo Vampire
The repetition of motherhood allows easy access to the zen-like tranquility of repetition. I will pick up every little crumb, every stick, every torn paper, every cereal ring, every shoe, every backpack. I will pick up every piece of clean laundry that has been scattered around the house. I will vacuum and sweep every bit of broken glass and broken ceramic. I will do it without hesitation-- most of the time.
I will help Micah watch this Scooby-Doo movie a hundred more times and find something new in it every time, like he does. This cultural tendril that forms a root in his thoughts. How does he do it? If I pay attention to the movie there are new aspects every time. I try to focus in on the music only, or just the sound effects. Or actually follow the storyline.
Laundry is an especially indulgent pleasure of motherhood. It begs to be simplified every time. Let go, let go, let go. And folding is such a naturally contemplative time that it allows you to occupy the moment. Also hanging out the laundry in the most effecient way is a mental treat.
Today as I withdrew the laundry from the clothesline I overheard my parrot-voiced neighbor cawing her usual routine with her squealing toddler grandson/charge, when the tone changed to more threatening on the part of the parrot and more frantic, apologetic crying on the part of the toddler. I won't go into the peeping-tom details of the discipline ordeal, but it *did* leave me feeling like a stick was in my throat. Suffering is real, and sometimes it is easier to recognize it in others.
I realized that I had said and done all the offenses that were presently being hurled upon the pre-schooler, but to my own children, especially my eldest.
Parenthood did not bring out the best in me. More like it unleashed a beast that was a culmination of legacies of poor parenting choices among ancestors on both sides. Noah was my knight who came to help me slay these demons: spanking, yelling, disrespect, teasing, taunting, bullying, harassing, doubting, giving-up-on, tormenting, grabbing, yanking, pushing, ad infinitum.
When I see someone spanking their child today I recoil with acridity. Yet, there was a time when I spanked Noah--frequently. Me! I can hardly believe it myself. The point is that I *know* that beast inside. Intimately. That is the beast of suffering and attachment. Rising up with bat wings through the smoke, not unlike the Yowee-Yahoo Vampire of Scooby-Doo!
The pain of hearing someone else attacking their child amplifies the aggression that I practice on my own children. I *still* count when I want them to do something. WHO DOES THAT TO ANOTHER PERSON? I only realized this *today* when I heard the neighbor counting to the kid. If I can shed all of this stuff by the time Noah grows up, perhaps I will achieve permanent enlightenment!
Micah and Ana-Bees are helping too, but Noah has a knack and is truly forging the way for his younger siblings. He's just so strong--he brings out the worst in me and I am forever grateful to him for it!! Bring it out! Hope I can leave more of it out. Shedding legacies of suffering is a laborious process!
I will help Micah watch this Scooby-Doo movie a hundred more times and find something new in it every time, like he does. This cultural tendril that forms a root in his thoughts. How does he do it? If I pay attention to the movie there are new aspects every time. I try to focus in on the music only, or just the sound effects. Or actually follow the storyline.
Laundry is an especially indulgent pleasure of motherhood. It begs to be simplified every time. Let go, let go, let go. And folding is such a naturally contemplative time that it allows you to occupy the moment. Also hanging out the laundry in the most effecient way is a mental treat.
Today as I withdrew the laundry from the clothesline I overheard my parrot-voiced neighbor cawing her usual routine with her squealing toddler grandson/charge, when the tone changed to more threatening on the part of the parrot and more frantic, apologetic crying on the part of the toddler. I won't go into the peeping-tom details of the discipline ordeal, but it *did* leave me feeling like a stick was in my throat. Suffering is real, and sometimes it is easier to recognize it in others.
I realized that I had said and done all the offenses that were presently being hurled upon the pre-schooler, but to my own children, especially my eldest.
Parenthood did not bring out the best in me. More like it unleashed a beast that was a culmination of legacies of poor parenting choices among ancestors on both sides. Noah was my knight who came to help me slay these demons: spanking, yelling, disrespect, teasing, taunting, bullying, harassing, doubting, giving-up-on, tormenting, grabbing, yanking, pushing, ad infinitum.
When I see someone spanking their child today I recoil with acridity. Yet, there was a time when I spanked Noah--frequently. Me! I can hardly believe it myself. The point is that I *know* that beast inside. Intimately. That is the beast of suffering and attachment. Rising up with bat wings through the smoke, not unlike the Yowee-Yahoo Vampire of Scooby-Doo!
The pain of hearing someone else attacking their child amplifies the aggression that I practice on my own children. I *still* count when I want them to do something. WHO DOES THAT TO ANOTHER PERSON? I only realized this *today* when I heard the neighbor counting to the kid. If I can shed all of this stuff by the time Noah grows up, perhaps I will achieve permanent enlightenment!
Micah and Ana-Bees are helping too, but Noah has a knack and is truly forging the way for his younger siblings. He's just so strong--he brings out the worst in me and I am forever grateful to him for it!! Bring it out! Hope I can leave more of it out. Shedding legacies of suffering is a laborious process!
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Mommy Plants
The collard plants have turned into a riot of yellow-mopped beauties. These seeds are fourth generation wild-hybridized collards. The first seeds were planted in 2008, the variety known as Vates Georgia Collards. The parents and grandparents of these buttery lemonheads fought back against aphid invasions, but this winter they were able to flower early and so there are no aphids.
Today Micah noticed the bright display and commented on how the plants had turned into mommy plants.
"They are tall mommies. They are hairy mommies. I think they are hairy mommies."
Tall hairy hippy greens-lovin' mommies.
I love the greens so so much and they produced so much abundance that I became saturated. I ate an enormous meal of roasted greens the night that every adult in the house came down with a tempestuous stomach bug. So the plants have been left to themselves to complete their life cycle. We got our fill.
I haven't had a green smoothie in well over a week. There has been a cinnamon toast craze gripping the family. We can't get enough cinnamon toast! Just this morning we ran out of cinnamon. A wondrously magical plant.
Someone once told me that as long as I had a garden I would feel peace in my life. Mommy plants.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Confessions of an Atheist
Even though I am an atheist I still adore the god(dess) stories. I slip in and out of those stories without even knowing it through my daily thoughts and musings. Then sometimes I remind myself to just be present without any stories and they shed off like water droplets cascading off a ducks back. The stories always reappear to beg my opinion, of course, and I will engage in them frequently, as many are quite enjoyable.
One story that is particularly enjoyable is that of reincarnation. I have been able to imagine a godless reincarnation where it is just some law of the universe that consciousness continuously slips through different incarnations. It's just so enjoyable to imagine past adventures and escapades with current friends and family!
Another story I love is gratitude for blessings--feeling like special moments were given to me. I realized today that I only want to feel gratitude toward people, not gods or universes. If a moment feels extra special then I aim to occupy that moment freely and if it involves another person to be grateful to that person for their kindness. I aim to be aware of flattering myself regarding blessings and "feeling good." My goal is peace.
One story that is particularly enjoyable is that of reincarnation. I have been able to imagine a godless reincarnation where it is just some law of the universe that consciousness continuously slips through different incarnations. It's just so enjoyable to imagine past adventures and escapades with current friends and family!
Another story I love is gratitude for blessings--feeling like special moments were given to me. I realized today that I only want to feel gratitude toward people, not gods or universes. If a moment feels extra special then I aim to occupy that moment freely and if it involves another person to be grateful to that person for their kindness. I aim to be aware of flattering myself regarding blessings and "feeling good." My goal is peace.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Grand Person's Day
Today was Grand Person's Day at Noah's school and also the Open House is tonight. I am glad I was able to attend this event. Noah told me that he was going to have to "sit on the wall" during recess for talking to CJ. (!!!) I accidentally arrived about an hour early which was actually fine because I got to sit in a room of 30 seven-year-olds! It was like being in a room full of puppies! They all came over and loved on Ana and asked me to watch them do cool stuff or tell me something they know. Then during recess there was always a cloud of girls and sometimes a boy that wanted to help Micah do anything he wanted! They took turns pushing him on the swing. Noah and his best friend C.J. just ran to the opposite ends of the fields pretending to be motorcycles. A little girl that Noah went to a birthday party of told me that her mom had her baby a few days ago and is in the hospital :( I know she was planning a birth center birth.
Anyway! The event at Noah's school progressed after the recess with the arrival of all the Grand Persons. I love seeing the family of the children! I feel so blessed to be a part of their lives and their children's. Also, I am perpetually impressed by the teacher's ability to split her brain in so many ways! Her skills and abilities are beyond my comprehension.
I had been feeling anxiety toward the school when I shaved my head around three weeks ago. I worried about how people's thoughts of me would affect how they interact with my son. Ridiculous!!
I wore a hat. I am not ashamed! I saw another woman wearing a hat and she was also wearing stilletto heels!
Whether or not I wear a hat doesn't change who I am.
After all the melee and intensely short conversations with various parents, I returned home thinking that school is not the worst place he could be during his day. There is a genial feel among students and they interact with their peers in a friendly, amiable manner.
I feel like a balloon letting out air because I can let school be school again. His teacher is a normal beautiful human, not what I have characterized in my mental story of school. I can let school be just school.
I don't know why my emotions get so wrapped up in school thoughts. But being at the school clears them away. Because I can see everything as it is. Blissfully uneventful. Which is especially poignant because one year ago a little girl at his school was martyred for Gabrielle Giffords--an angel went to Noah's School. She is still there, it feels like. People are so kind, but shy to each other. The principal's name is Foster Hepler--he is living his purpose--and that's his educational philosophy--kindness.
Anyway! The event at Noah's school progressed after the recess with the arrival of all the Grand Persons. I love seeing the family of the children! I feel so blessed to be a part of their lives and their children's. Also, I am perpetually impressed by the teacher's ability to split her brain in so many ways! Her skills and abilities are beyond my comprehension.
I had been feeling anxiety toward the school when I shaved my head around three weeks ago. I worried about how people's thoughts of me would affect how they interact with my son. Ridiculous!!
I wore a hat. I am not ashamed! I saw another woman wearing a hat and she was also wearing stilletto heels!
Whether or not I wear a hat doesn't change who I am.
After all the melee and intensely short conversations with various parents, I returned home thinking that school is not the worst place he could be during his day. There is a genial feel among students and they interact with their peers in a friendly, amiable manner.
I feel like a balloon letting out air because I can let school be school again. His teacher is a normal beautiful human, not what I have characterized in my mental story of school. I can let school be just school.
I don't know why my emotions get so wrapped up in school thoughts. But being at the school clears them away. Because I can see everything as it is. Blissfully uneventful. Which is especially poignant because one year ago a little girl at his school was martyred for Gabrielle Giffords--an angel went to Noah's School. She is still there, it feels like. People are so kind, but shy to each other. The principal's name is Foster Hepler--he is living his purpose--and that's his educational philosophy--kindness.
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