As Time Goes By

A long long time ago (532 million years or so) there was an "explosion".  This explosion has come to be known as the Cambrian Explosion.  It is where scientist mostly agree life form that led to us began.

Wow.  Heavy shit right there.  But break it down a little and you will see that the explosion took about 10 million years.  That is one slow explosion.

Even slower still was the time that took place until this very moment when I am writing these words.
We had to change grow, change, grow some more, add some wisdom teeth (that are now becoming extinct, and not by extraction alone.  More and more people are being born without them, they are no longer necessary.)  Cool right?

No more videos on YouTube of post-wisdom-teeth-removal people on drugs claiming to be Mylie Cyrus.  That speaks of evolution right there.

This "explosion" is much like the Big Bang that (obviously) occurred before it.  Without that, there would have been no Ediacarans, and without our Great Uncle Ed (x532 million) there would be no us.

Okay, so the Earth and universe changes.  It has to keep up with the times, and we with it.  So we go from the ooze to the stars to look for answers.

The problem is, that star you wished on as a chid probably did not exist anymore.  It is a dead star.  Not to be confused with a Death Star (which I literally know nothing about!).

So in all innocence  you looked up and wished on nothing.  even if we can see the light, it is just a trick.  We are looking into the far far past.

So where does that leave us?

In the present.  I am deeply grateful that people are dedicating their lives to trying to figure out what "It all means".  By land or by sea, or by stars that do not actually twinkle.

The twinkle in your eye is more real than the twinkle of a star (due to the distance and the earth's atmosphere and our perception.)

Again, I ask, "Where does that leave us?"

It leaves us not alone is the best answer I can come up with.  I am not talking about aliens, or God here.  You can talk amongst yourselves on that matter.

We are left here, surrounded by other people.  We make tribes, families, friends.  We find our tribe mates in gas stations, Universities, online.

We are humans that gravitate to each other for comfort, love, affirmation of our existence.

Out of that some of us create little humans.  Born, chosen, in a dish, from a foreign country.

Or we choose not to have little humans.  We still have our tribes that support us on our endeavors whatever they may be.

I have a friend who is determined to sing karaoke in every single state.  That is just as lofty a goal as a monk who endeavors to find the place where sin does not exist and God resides in him.

Some days my goal is to get out of bed.

We are not done evolving.  We are basic humans.  We make mistakes.  Some call our mistakes karma, some call it sin.  We turn to our books, our computers, and eventually each other for help.

Mapquest will only take you so far, and half of the instructions are just to get out of the neighborhood you already know!

A long time ago I had a philosophy teacher in high School.  One day he drew a long line on the chalk board like this:

_________________________________________________________________________________

He then said the start of that line is the beginning of the World and the end of the line is the end of the world.

Okay.  Cool.  That doesn't seem to hard to grasp.

The he took his chalk and said "I will now show you YOUR lifespan. He did the following:

_________________________________.________________________________________________

Can you see it?  A spec.  Even smaller than that really but I am limited by the keystrokes I am offered.

Whoa.

I better get going and do something!  I am a speck.  I need to gather more specks and make something of this.

But there are bills to pay, relationships to create, break, or fix.  There are ideas that float around in my head that need to be written down.

"A lot of people enjoy being dead.  But they are not dead really. They're just backing away from life."- Harold and Maude

I am guilty of this sin, or karmic avoidance.

I died a long time ago.  I had a wonderful tribe that I put together, and then I exploded it.  Now I am alive again and I have much to do, to say, to think, to observe, to mend.

My tribe contracts and expands continually.

So if I am a speck and there are other people out there worrying about where we came from and where we are going, I am free to concentrate on my tribe.  My family, friends, and others who wander in and out of my sphere.

Is there any calling higher than taking care of the ones you love and allowing them to take care of you?

For some that answer is yes.  Not for me.  For me I choose to use my speck of time pondering people, helping where I can, making mistakes, fixing them or not.

I am deeply grateful for an explosion that took 10 million years in the making.

That time has given me the chance to be gathered up in a tribe that includes writers, lawyers, journalists, artists, lovers of art, cat people, dog people, people who know what a Death Star is, professors, teachers, musicians, hula hoopers, dancers, beer makers, people of faith, athiests, builders, readers, social workers, historians, smokers, drinkers, thinkers, actors, singers, farmers, and more.

530 million years ago we all began to come together and connect.

How cool is that?

Something happened that gave me a tribe, gave me the possibility to make contact.  With anyone.

With you.

Is This the End, My Beautiful Friend?

I once got involved in an abusive relationship.  At first mentally, and eventually it turned physical.  I was able to escape it.  Learn from it and move on.

One thing that was said to me while in that particular relationship was;  I keep writing the same thing over and over and I should just stop.

I have never been able to let go of this sentence.

I spent some time looking over this accusation, to the degree that I could, as part of the abuse she was able to get rid of my previous blog.  Poof.  Gone into the cyber abyss.

From what I have been able to look over, I have to say, she may have been batshit crazy, but she was right.

I do write about the same things.

Am I just running on a treadmill?  Always going forward never reaching any real destination?

I like to think I have gained some insight in me and my place in the world over the years.  Everyday I do manage to learn something new.

Last night I learned I could play cats cradle with my Mala beads.  Not sure that is what Buddha intended but it made me laugh.  "Hey Buddha check this out, I can still do Jacob's ladder!"

That lead me to think who was Jacob and why is it his ladder?

I am also able to see how many people have read my blog.  Not who, just how many.  The highest number to date is 259.  That was my Mom's Eulogy.

259 people curious to see what I had to say about my mother.  259 people that have not returned to see anything else.

Through my writing I live a very transparent life.  I let whoever reads this see my joys and pains, failures, successes.

On average it is about 35 people.

Is that enough to even call myself a writer?  Why am I even continuing to do this if, in fact, I do repeat themes?

The other common thread in how many readers I have is when I post about God, or religion in general.

Are more people as confused and searching as I am and are drawn to my ongoing investigations?

I have written about God, death, life, children, cellulite, family, and the occasional kitchen appliance.

To what end?

I think people today want to read about quick fixes and short answers.  We want a direct connection without pushing buttons or talking to machines.

I can not give you that.  I can give you my insight to my life, which is lived in literally small spaces, and endlessly in my head.

I can give you a few definite things that I have learned:

If you want to lose weight, eat less and move more.  I  have no idea how to tell you to get up and actually do it.

If you are in a bad relationship, leave it.  No matter how hard it may be.

If you want your vegetables chopped, use a knife, or buy some new fangled thingamajig you saw on TV at 3am.

I can not tell you how to fix your relationship with your child, friend, lover, or spouse.

I can't even get my own dogs to poop outside.

Maybe I am not a writer.  Maybe I am simply an observer.

Maybe I am just the updated female version of Hawkeye writing to his father. (I am going to assume my faithful 35 get that reference).

Maybe it is time to stop writing.

Maybe it is time to write more.

Maybe it is time to see what else I can create with my Mala beads.

Being Present is a Present

I notice the multitude of rosaries hanging on the side of my bed are covered in dust.

 I take them off, untangled them, try to recall where each one came from and why it is special.

 After laying them out I dust them off on the the tapestry we now use as a bed cover.

 The prayer beads around my wrist kept getting in the way, reminding me to be present in my present, even if it feels annoying.

I recall that I need to bring in my crystals that have been soaking in salt water under a full moon that recharged them.

On my path to retrieve my crystals, I pass a crucifix on the wall.

Oy.  This should be making my head hurt.

But it doesn't.

I look down at my hands to the ring on my thumb  that has the words "Inhale" and "Exhale" engraved.  I do as they say.

My eyes wander to my dresser.  I look at the photo of my mother and I.  A rosary, purchased from the place where she (and my father) are buried, drapes over the frame.

A small statue of an an angel sits in front of the picture.

The last gift she ever bought me.

My eyes drift further to another small statue; a Dia de Muertos figure riding a motorcycle adorned with shocking blond hair.

A gift to my love from her mother because it looks like my love.  All things being equal she rests on my dresser.

A dish my mother used for soap in her bathroom now holds the recharged crystals, and a small carved turtle.

Meredith's paintbrushes stick out of a vase that is filled with sand and shells from Naples, Florida.

An even smaller replica of sand and shells sits in my bathroom, and one in the living room.

Reaching the end of my visual journey is a photograph of Meredith's Grandmother.  A woman I will never meet.  That fact does not prevent me from conjuring stories about her.

The more I learn of her, the more human she becomes, and my stories become just that.  Fiction.

Fiction floats around my room and inside my head as I gaze at each object.  A clock from the 1930's.  How many people looked at it and realized they were late for some event?  Does it chime or make any sound?  Did women with long cigarette holders watch it on New Year's eve waiting to kiss someone?

In the 1970's was the clock lost to a box carefully taped and labelled "Dad's Stuff", only to reopened and treasured again 30 years later?

After putting my dust free rosaries back where they hang (unused), my eyes go back to the sand and paint brushes.

The sand makes me smile the smile of bittersweetness.  I will never go back to that sand again.  I will not throw all the kids in the car and make the 24 hour journey to spend days in that sand.

I will never walk the ramp of the airport to see my Mom waving with both hands as she always waved.  Hello or goodbye, both hands were always waved, like a believer in a tent church revival who waves in opposite direction than the rest of the flock.

I am at peace with this.

I am surrounded by objects that scream their memories to me, some fiction, some fact.  All come from the past.

 All reminding me to live in the present.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Rodney Was Right

I sit at home watching the news, watching the aftermath of five police officers that were killed in Dallas.  Several more  injured.

As I was watching my youngest child was attending a vigil for people who have been killed by police officers.  Mostly black males.

There will be somber funerals for the police officers, flags draped over coffins carried.  Bagpipes, salutation and tears.

For the Black community there will be (and have been) cries of injustice and outrage.

And vigils.

I was a young mother living in LA when a man was pulled from his car and brutally beaten.  The man was black, the officers were white.

Again I watched the news of what was happening miles from my house.  The helicopters flying overhead toward a blockade to keep the rioting contained.  Not stopped, but contained.

On the second day of the riots my friend came over and we went to the beach.  Never once seeing the absurdity of the smoke of violence in the air as we safely played in the water.  I am white, I was not in danger.

Racism did not seem like an issue that impacted me. My naiveté protected me.

   I had on few occasions encountered racist remarks when I was dating a handsome black man.  It took years and brutality to make me see color. Prior to the riots I was colorblind.

What I did see was lie after lie of reporting.  My personal outrage was directed at the media, and at the guards who were placed around Beverly Hills and my neighborhood, where absolutely nothing was happening.  No fires, no looting, no rage.

The fires kept burning, and the police stood by in their riot gear and watched.

I wrote a letter to my child, my 8 month old baby telling her about the riots.  Someday she would read that letter.

I had no idea she would read it 25 years later on a night when two more black men were shot by police and 7 policemen were shot in Dallas.

My daughter told me she read the letter and in it I expressed to her that I had hoped by the time she saw my words that the world would be different.

Would be better.

It isn't better.  Hatred continues and lines have been drawn, and riots still happen.  They are no longer confined to one area in California.

They are in Chicago, Baltimore, Dallas.

People are angry.  Anger towards the police, anger from the police.

"People, I just want to say, you know, can we all get along? Can we get along? Can we stop making it, making it horrible for the older people and the kids? … It’s just not right. It’s not right. It’s not, it’s not going to change anything. We’ll, we’ll get our justice … Please, we can get along here. We all can get along. I mean, we’re all stuck here for a while. Let’s try to work it out. Let’s try to beat it. Let’s try to beat it. Let’s try to work it out." ~ Rodney King

These words spoken may not be as eloquent as "I have a dream.."  They are simple words spoken with pleading and passion, and a true sense of asking "Why?"

I have a friend who lives in Dallas, and even though I knew in my heart he was safe, I called just to make sure he did not suddenly abandon his reclusive ways and take a stroll into gunfire.  we spoke at length about the racial issues and tensions that exist today.  He has hopes that the upcoming generation will see things change and the world will be more colorblind.

I see the country as being in labor, experiencing all the pains that start and stop while in the birth process.

I hope that when the birth occurs we are  not colorblind.  I hope we are able to see and celebrate the differences.

Without fear, judgement, anger, apathy, or ignorance.

That is a lofty goal as an outcome for this country.

We are in labor.  We have the chance now to give birth to something greater than ourselves, to stop and think.

To educate.

But what do I know?

I am just a white girl who grew up in a guarded wealthy white town that feared changed.

But if I could manage to escape those confines, and agree with Mr. King, why can't we all?

Why can't we all just get along?