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.
Saturday, July 23, 2016
Thursday, July 21, 2016
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 19, 2016
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.
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.
Friday, July 8, 2016
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?
Thursday, June 23, 2016
Did I Lose My Head With John the Baptist?
I love my "personal space". Mine is not even that big, maybe a buffer of about a foot. I have been known to create a wall on my bed with my laptop, purse, and a pillow to create my own Tara, my own plot of the sheets that I swear are all mine!
Usually the wall breaks down by the paws of one gigantic orange kitty. Or I take the wall down once my love is in bed with me.
There are times in life when we have no choice about our personal space. One of them is flying.
Smaller seats. Narrow aisle. Which arm rest belongs to who?
(If you are a first class flyer please stick with me on this, I promise it is not a rant about bad airline food.)
Whenever I fly I prepare myself with a space protecting armor. I try to get a window seat, if that fails, I go for the aisle.
I prepare to sleep the entire flight, if that fails I download a movie and bring headphones.
On a recent flight I made it down the aisle to my seat. Not the window. My other two rowmates were already seated and buckled.
Once I was situated the strangest thing happened. The man next to me turned to me and introduced himself, hand held out to shake and everything.
Who does that?
I knew immediately that any personal space was not going to happen on this fight.
He told me his name; John. Cheerfully he added "I am a Pastor".
Oy.
This particular flight was taking me to my aunt's funeral. Not a traditional kind of funeral, my family rarely does that. A celebration of her life. I did not make up my mind to go until that morning. I was fearing it would be too emotional for me. At last minute I decided to take the chance and go.
My mind was already coming up with bible verses to use in defense of my life as John and I began to talk. I was unapologetic when I told him I am very happily in love with a woman.
I waited for Leviticus to be tossed my way. Instead John just smiled and said nothing.
As we talked I found myself opening up to him, telling him about my life, my struggles. I was rather shocked. I talked about myself more freely with Pastor John, than I have been able to with my therapist, and I pay him!
I am interested in religions. As a whole I believe they all pretty much suck. But I remain interested. Yes I talk to the Mormons when they come knocking (naturally singing songs from the Broadway show in my head the entire time).
I have a sweet lady who drops off the Watchtower for me to read every week. I will never be a Witness, but I like to read about it.
I was once very good friends with a Catholic priest. I even wrote a homily for him.
John the Pastor, turned out to be Baptist.
I was sitting next to John the Baptist at 39,000 feet.
I did wonder why he chose me to chat with and not the person on his other side. I looked over and she had claimed her personal space and was sleeping with headphones.
I waited for the question. I knew it was coming and when asked I gave my usual reply. Once I have fine tuned over the years that usually placates the person asking.
"What do you believe in Amy?"
"I believe in love and energy."
It is an honest answer.
At some point I told him something I do not usually share with people. I am haunted by the number 3:16. I have started to collect photos of whenever I see it. The mileage in my car when I happened to glance at it. 316 miles. The time on my phone. Even the moment my daughter walked across the stage graduating from college, it was exactly 3:16.
It has become a little secret joke. As if Jesus himself were taking the time away from his busy schedule to send me little hints that I might need something in my life, something higher, dare I say, I might need God?
John the Baptist told me how he was not supposed to be on that flight, he had taken a trip that was planned for him and not by him. How he talked with his wife about not going, but at last minute decided to go. He naturally turned to God and told Him "I don't know why you are sending me, but I am in your hands."
I have prayed with strangers in public before when they have asked. Mainly because I am polite and I respect other people's beliefs and well meaning efforts.
John asked me if I wanted to accept Jesus into my heart.
To my own shock I said yes.
We prayed.
I cried.
I have no idea why I cried. Was it because this stranger took the time to actually listen to me? Was it because I had reached my limit of emotional overload and it had to come out? Was it because I was lacking sleep?
I made a joke about him not asking for water when the attendants came around because I did not want to be Baptized by Ozarka.
John showed me the verse following 3:16 and said, "I bet you stop seeing that now."
Maybe.
The descent began and we exchanged numbers and promised to keep in touch.
I am not sure if I lost my head, or he, like his namesake had, but I knew if nothing else I made a friend.
The weekend had some rough spots for me, but I used those times to escape to my room for a few minutes.
John sent me a few text messages that he was praying for me.
I was surrounded by my family who all expressed their love for me. I made a new family member, part of our tribe. I laughed. I cried only once. I was able to give a small respectful speech that I do not call a eulogy.
I looked around and realized how lucky I am. How precious is life and love and I felt good. Deeply warm.
My last night there I woke up in the middle of the night and looked at the clock.
It was 3:17. I smiled and fell back into a dreamless sleep.
(Feel free to look up John 3:16 and 3:17, also Pastor John Klink at solidrockibc.org)
Usually the wall breaks down by the paws of one gigantic orange kitty. Or I take the wall down once my love is in bed with me.
There are times in life when we have no choice about our personal space. One of them is flying.
Smaller seats. Narrow aisle. Which arm rest belongs to who?
(If you are a first class flyer please stick with me on this, I promise it is not a rant about bad airline food.)
Whenever I fly I prepare myself with a space protecting armor. I try to get a window seat, if that fails, I go for the aisle.
I prepare to sleep the entire flight, if that fails I download a movie and bring headphones.
On a recent flight I made it down the aisle to my seat. Not the window. My other two rowmates were already seated and buckled.
Once I was situated the strangest thing happened. The man next to me turned to me and introduced himself, hand held out to shake and everything.
Who does that?
I knew immediately that any personal space was not going to happen on this fight.
He told me his name; John. Cheerfully he added "I am a Pastor".
Oy.
This particular flight was taking me to my aunt's funeral. Not a traditional kind of funeral, my family rarely does that. A celebration of her life. I did not make up my mind to go until that morning. I was fearing it would be too emotional for me. At last minute I decided to take the chance and go.
My mind was already coming up with bible verses to use in defense of my life as John and I began to talk. I was unapologetic when I told him I am very happily in love with a woman.
I waited for Leviticus to be tossed my way. Instead John just smiled and said nothing.
As we talked I found myself opening up to him, telling him about my life, my struggles. I was rather shocked. I talked about myself more freely with Pastor John, than I have been able to with my therapist, and I pay him!
I am interested in religions. As a whole I believe they all pretty much suck. But I remain interested. Yes I talk to the Mormons when they come knocking (naturally singing songs from the Broadway show in my head the entire time).
I have a sweet lady who drops off the Watchtower for me to read every week. I will never be a Witness, but I like to read about it.
I was once very good friends with a Catholic priest. I even wrote a homily for him.
John the Pastor, turned out to be Baptist.
I was sitting next to John the Baptist at 39,000 feet.
I did wonder why he chose me to chat with and not the person on his other side. I looked over and she had claimed her personal space and was sleeping with headphones.
I waited for the question. I knew it was coming and when asked I gave my usual reply. Once I have fine tuned over the years that usually placates the person asking.
"What do you believe in Amy?"
"I believe in love and energy."
It is an honest answer.
At some point I told him something I do not usually share with people. I am haunted by the number 3:16. I have started to collect photos of whenever I see it. The mileage in my car when I happened to glance at it. 316 miles. The time on my phone. Even the moment my daughter walked across the stage graduating from college, it was exactly 3:16.
It has become a little secret joke. As if Jesus himself were taking the time away from his busy schedule to send me little hints that I might need something in my life, something higher, dare I say, I might need God?
John the Baptist told me how he was not supposed to be on that flight, he had taken a trip that was planned for him and not by him. How he talked with his wife about not going, but at last minute decided to go. He naturally turned to God and told Him "I don't know why you are sending me, but I am in your hands."
I have prayed with strangers in public before when they have asked. Mainly because I am polite and I respect other people's beliefs and well meaning efforts.
John asked me if I wanted to accept Jesus into my heart.
To my own shock I said yes.
We prayed.
I cried.
I have no idea why I cried. Was it because this stranger took the time to actually listen to me? Was it because I had reached my limit of emotional overload and it had to come out? Was it because I was lacking sleep?
I made a joke about him not asking for water when the attendants came around because I did not want to be Baptized by Ozarka.
John showed me the verse following 3:16 and said, "I bet you stop seeing that now."
Maybe.
The descent began and we exchanged numbers and promised to keep in touch.
I am not sure if I lost my head, or he, like his namesake had, but I knew if nothing else I made a friend.
The weekend had some rough spots for me, but I used those times to escape to my room for a few minutes.
John sent me a few text messages that he was praying for me.
I was surrounded by my family who all expressed their love for me. I made a new family member, part of our tribe. I laughed. I cried only once. I was able to give a small respectful speech that I do not call a eulogy.
I looked around and realized how lucky I am. How precious is life and love and I felt good. Deeply warm.
My last night there I woke up in the middle of the night and looked at the clock.
It was 3:17. I smiled and fell back into a dreamless sleep.
(Feel free to look up John 3:16 and 3:17, also Pastor John Klink at solidrockibc.org)
Monday, June 13, 2016
toes
I sit awake in bed, thinking of all the dead.
Not just my own, but those other people I have known
senseless
time lost
winter frost
has not yet even hit.
What do I do with this pile of shit
running through my brain?
I wish it would rain
and wash away the hate
I cant escape
dancing brought no relief
to 50 people seeking
50 people speaking
50 People loving
50 people dead
I thought I did not care
Just another tragedy
in life that isn't fair.
My mom wrote once in her diary
before God took her mind away
that I look at life blind
not seeing what is so easy to find.
And maybe it was true
maybe me you
saw things another way
in a time and in different day,
Now there is so much hate
daughters, brothers, lovers
pick up the phone and call your mothers
If you can.
Want to be mad?
Shake a fist at the sky?
Cut a wrist and see blood cry?
Hate the oppression
obsession with immigration
put down the gun
pick up our nation
we are one world
and one people
trapped together
under this steeple
Love does not always win
when so many see sin
put on your blinders
and then see me
right behind ya
I will give you a hug
if you reach out your arms
We can sleep in late and ignore the alarms
But the sirens need to stop
sirens and cops
rushing to never ending scenes
of spilled blood to be cleaned
Put down the guns
throw away the ammo
This aint no game yo
Now if you will excuse me
time to write another
eulogy.
Not just my own, but those other people I have known
senseless
time lost
winter frost
has not yet even hit.
What do I do with this pile of shit
running through my brain?
I wish it would rain
and wash away the hate
I cant escape
dancing brought no relief
to 50 people seeking
50 people speaking
50 People loving
50 people dead
I thought I did not care
Just another tragedy
in life that isn't fair.
My mom wrote once in her diary
before God took her mind away
that I look at life blind
not seeing what is so easy to find.
And maybe it was true
maybe me you
saw things another way
in a time and in different day,
Now there is so much hate
daughters, brothers, lovers
pick up the phone and call your mothers
If you can.
Want to be mad?
Shake a fist at the sky?
Cut a wrist and see blood cry?
Hate the oppression
obsession with immigration
put down the gun
pick up our nation
we are one world
and one people
trapped together
under this steeple
Love does not always win
when so many see sin
put on your blinders
and then see me
right behind ya
I will give you a hug
if you reach out your arms
We can sleep in late and ignore the alarms
But the sirens need to stop
sirens and cops
rushing to never ending scenes
of spilled blood to be cleaned
Put down the guns
throw away the ammo
This aint no game yo
Now if you will excuse me
time to write another
eulogy.
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