tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53608064708923984522023-11-15T06:46:23.965-08:00Comments in PassingA little something for everybody. Just trying to make a difference by making people think and making people smile.Comments in Passinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05702049231486517582noreply@blogger.comBlogger58125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5360806470892398452.post-57905668959053882522020-10-30T13:53:00.002-07:002020-10-30T13:53:52.611-07:00Be Witching<p> Listening to the young man's wracking sobs, the crone nearly wept herself. Yet she dared to hear hope. Why; <i>how</i>? Because the paroxysms of his weeping, in all their anguish, mimicked laughter. And were not these tears a wry assessment of the absurdity of humanity's existence?</p><p>Though it was the first time they had heard each other's voices, they had knowledge of each other's souls and anticipated a future of close connection.</p><p style="margin: 0px;">Word Witch had attained "elder" status in both age and achievement. The bloom of maidenhood no longer graced her plump cheeks, yet there was a youthful aura about the softly jowled countenance 'neath the brown and silver strands of her thinning mane. She wore her age well and embraced the memories of nearly seven decades. She did not bear the decrepitude one associates with the word "crone:" that is because the language of the Sisterhood has been distorted. Misogynistic old men, who feared strong powerful women, corrupted the words "crone (crowned one)," "hag (holy one)," and "witch (wise one)," making them ugly and demeaning. Thankfully, they are beginning to be reclaimed and restored to signify their original meanings.</p><p style="margin: 0px;">As with any empath who has acquired great stature, Word Witch had cherished rituals she relied on to refresh, renew, and replenish her spirit. Once restored, she could again nurture others, without depleting her reserves.</p><p style="margin: 0px;">So often this kindly soul wished she had known the Old Ways from her earliest years, though being raised in Roman Catholicism had not been without certain advantages. She had been afforded a good education which had always served her well. Her upbringing had also given her a glimmer of understanding for the theological mindset. She now communed with her sister witches, celebrating the mysteries of the natural world; and she could also converse with members of ecclesiastic circles.</p><p style="margin: 0px;">Within the crone's coven, was a lovely russet-haired hag, who was much loved by
Word Witch. As many goddesses are known to do, these two cherished the company of canine creatures. Some of their sisters were more inclined to the ways of Bast and kept felines. Within the secluded glen where these women sheltered there also resided a few men, most were wizened with age.</p><p style="margin: 0px;">It was mid-autumn, a time when some believe the veil between worlds becomes thinner. Metaphysics is a strange and wonderful field whereby one is free to explore the world beyond one's physical self. Harvest time is particularly ripe for otherworldly reflections, observances, and celebrations. It is not by chance this is the season of Samhain and Day of the Dead. In later years, Word Witch often found she preferred the company of wraiths to the noisy chatter of most humans. In the time of pandemic, it was good to have companions who were not potential spreaders of disease.</p><p style="margin: 0px;">On the evening she spoke to the young man, he told her about the dog who had taken up residence within the walls of his domicile. The bitch was a rescue, whom he and his partner had perceived to be a mutt. One day, a companion told him, "Buddy, what you've got there is a Carolina dog; a genuine American dingo." A shiver of excitement came over the crone upon hearing this. Next morning she told Red, "I believe Tink has been reincarnated." Astonishment animated the features of the flame-haired recipient of this pronouncement. Having recently espied a canine resembling her departed companion, Red had wondered if Tinker may have returned to dwell once more among humans. She really hoped so: Tinker was an extraordinary dog who would grace any life she touched. For a brief moment, the sun shone a mite brighter; though sadly, no warmer. Having imparted the tidings she had come to deliver, Word Witch hastened to the coziness of her tiny cottage. After a warming cuppa, she would bake bread and write a few letters: she'd never known a recipient of either to spurn the gift.</p><p style="margin: 0px;">Ensuing days were grayer, glummer, and damper; scarcely broken by either warmth or bright sun. Two months remained until the coming solstice, when a change of season would start to bring incrementally more daylight to Northern Hemisphere and longer nights, south of Earth's equator. Much had transpired during the previous twelvemonth: most notably, a pandemic. But in addition to a disease of the body, there was a virulence which ate at the spirit. This latter is the evil of systemic racism and increasing numbers of people are bringing awareness to this blight.</p><p style="margin: 0px;">Too long has toxic masculinity been poisoning Mother, greedily destroying Earth. Having dominion does not give leave to dominate. Rather, as an allegedly intelligent life form, humans should seek to effect stewardship; taking only what is needed for sustenance and benevolently nurturing the planet which is our domicile, our home. As it stands at present, War, Famine, and Pestilence are resulting in hideous Death. These "Four Horsemen" [of the Apocalypse] are generated by testosterone-driven greed. If humans accept this travesty as "the way things are," then this species is truly doomed. If there is to be any hope for survival of the human species, it will come from nurturing women: it has been demonstrated repeatedly; when women and girls prosper, everyone is better off. We must cherish and encourage our daughters, just as we do our sons; value girls and boys equally; lovingly accept our queer and trans citizens, as we do our cis-gendered population. Systemic racism must be dismantled and wealth redistributed. Balance must be restored: otherwise, we become extinct.</p><p style="margin: 0px;">It matters not to the planet; it does not require humans. Indeed, Earth will be better off without us.</p>Comments in Passinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05702049231486517582noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5360806470892398452.post-15386338404729413852020-06-29T09:57:00.000-07:002020-06-29T09:57:37.922-07:00Murdering Mother<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> During a recent walk, I was distressed to see warnings that pesticide had been applied to the expanse of grass at apartment complex where I reside. I was overcome by a wave of nausea and revulsion. It breaks my heart to see Mother Earth's children treat Her so shabbily. We are appointed </span><u style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">stewards</u><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> of the lands and seas of our home planet. Is this how we handle our sacred charge? It might not be </span><i style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">just</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> United States that is manic for cosmetically enhanced grounds but here, it seems to be an evil mad chemist's dream come true.</span><br />
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Pesticides don't only kill the targeted "pest" but innocent adjuncts thereof. Those grubs killed by your lawn chemicals? Bluebirds love 'em, but because grubs make your grass less "pretty," you decided they must die; but if the grubs don't die right away, any bird devouring them might get sick [and eventually die]. And the toxicity doesn't stop there: bunnies and other denizens of the wild ingest this poison. The names Chem-Lawn and Monsanto are familiar, undoubtedly in the States and perhaps even abroad. Even when activist groups call them out for their dirty deeds, money has a way of blinding legislative bodies: and non-monied peoples are just expected to suck it up. Not for the greater good but because corruption is more lucrative than justice.</div>
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As species continue to be eliminated, it will not be so very long before humans are on the endangered list. In many places, they already are. Where do you suppose runoff chemicals go? They don't just disappear, you know. They enter waterways; destroying ecology and tainting drinking water. Although risks are minimally acknowledged, "powers that be" have deemed the levels of danger *acceptable;* mainly because said powers are not affected. The situation has been especially dire in poor areas, which are inhabited by large numbers of persons of color. Yet <u>another</u> way to keep oppressive [white supremacist] patriarchy alive. Can people not see, not understand, that destroying the planet, destroys society. Granted, we humans have flaws; but it would be better to <i>heal</i>, than kill.</div>
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A good place to start would be to encourage and promote more areas of natural habitat; particularly outside city limits. If a property owner declines to mow, don't impose some bully ordinance to force it, by threats to send county equipment to do the job and bill the property owner for it. There is an awful lot of nonsense going on and it just seems these funds would be better spent, cleaning up toxic waste, fixing roads, and enforcing fair housing practices.</div>
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Even inside city limits: promote turning yards and roadsides to raising food crops. If the early days of the Covid-19 taught us nothing else, it made people aware of disruptions to supply chains. For example, thousands of gallons of milk were dumped: maybe it was greed and maybe it was not physically manageable to donate to poor people. It did nothing to help that relief subsidies went overwhelmingly to mega-farms: the wealthy, who could have come through this situation virtually unscathed, were bailed out. Crony capitalism will be the death of us. Then what?<br />
But while I still have your attention, I would implore you to be kind: not only because it is the right thing to do; just do it for yourself - it will make you feel better.</div>
Comments in Passinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05702049231486517582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5360806470892398452.post-60765696179546594062020-05-09T15:25:00.003-07:002020-05-09T15:25:38.823-07:00"Psycho" 101 This was begun nearly eight years ago. A lot has happened in that time: notably, the vast increase in global population and, as time transitioned from 2019 into 2020, a pandemic. Having "sheltered in place" since mid-March, I've had plenty of time to think and write but haven't done so, because it has been painful to watch humans be so unkind to each other. Still, I feel obliged to share and interact: humans are social creatures and we have it within us to help each other be our best selves.<br />
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***</div>
Humans are complex, multi-faceted creatures. While putting myself "out there" via this medium, there is an awareness that some may find elements herein, disturbing. That is a risk I readily take, hoping it inspires you to look within yourself. Now, in 2020, almost everybody on the planet, has time for taking a closer look at one's lifestyle and habits. So far, most of the seven billion plus people on the planet are too busy trying to stay alive, to bother with metaphysical niceties. Then, of course, those who are barely even inconvenienced, seem so busy making themselves richer/making life miserable for the have-nots, they don't seem the least bit inclined toward self-improvement or introspection. C'est la vie.<br />
Perhaps a few took exception to the content of my 31 August dream, wondering what sparked it. (Remember, this was 2012: it has been so long since I had that dream, I don't know if it was one about being a dragon or some other supernatural being. I cannot find record of it in any of my drafts.) As a person who minored in psychology, it seems an "occupational hazard," for want of a better term, to psycho-analyze my more unusual dreams. The best I came up with, is *government* is "eating us alive." I will add the, ahem, 'action' took place "off stage," as it were, and it was not violent or gory. As for my acknowledged involvement: are we not all, at some level, involved/culpable?<br />
No matter your political affiliation, it's pretty evident in the U.S. as well as many other countries, change is needed. There are so many [<i>any</i> are too many, in my opinion] right wing governments/regimes. In the "Age of Corona" (the virus, not the beer), the world is seeing the countries with the best responses, are led by women. Most, if not all, of those countries also have social democracies in place. People cannot, indeed <b>must not</b>, continue to place blind faith in a "machine" that chews us up, sucks the life out of us and spits us out like so much offal.<br />
Read, process information, <b>think</b>, <u>vote</u>, (if at all able). Sadly, "ability" refers not only to state of physical well-being: in many countries, including United States, there is rampant voter suppression. Do whatever you are able, to ensure voting rights. Since information is power, mentor in schools or adult ed programs; help teach everyone to read. We need individuals, not automatons. If there is no program in your school curriculum, contact a local library. [Obviously, much of this work is difficult to impossible, while safety measures of remaining physically distant are in place.] Unplug your television an hour or two a week and have family discussion. I know I don't have to tell you these things, maybe you just needed reminding. Maybe we all do.<br />
Let's not become emotionally isolated and uninvolved. Let us not be afraid of what others will think. Be bold and share yourself. Maybe your action will give someone else courage to do the same.Comments in Passinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05702049231486517582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5360806470892398452.post-52225890348239325362020-05-03T14:05:00.000-07:002020-05-03T14:05:12.178-07:00Kidnapped: a hare-raising tail I am, by nature, a writer of letters and have corresponded with people around the world. No matter which continent is your home, if I have your postal information, chances are you have received a letter from me. Next to travel, letters are probably the best way to experience other cultures. I am also privileged to have among my contacts, a <u>canine</u> correspondent: inter-species communication has opened a new world.<br />
On Monday, 20 April, 2020, a chocolate bunny was placed in custody of a postal department in the mid-west; headed for a small town in Michigan. My doggy pal and I stayed in touch via Facebook messenger, so he could keep me apprised of progress. Andy figured a rabbit would travel speedily but, almost as a caveat, expressed a hope that bunny would survive the trip. We never could have imagined an outcome like the one which unfolded.<br />
<span style="background-color: #f1f0f0; color: #444950; font-family: Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13px; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span> On Shakespeare's [accepted] birthday, Andy asked if bunny had made his appearance but I told him no. He thought that was terrible but I told him I hadn't yet despaired. Two days later, Andy told me his human was quite upset with the situation and would make inquiries at their local post office.<br />
Nearing end of first week, Andy said he could have driven it here faster himself but, with stay at home orders, he had entrusted transport to USPS. By Saturday, 26 April, friend bunny was alleged to be in Champaign, Illinois. In "normal" circumstances I might have expected his arrival within a couple of days. But during the COVID-19 pandemic, east-west mail has taken substantially longer than it had previously. Optimistically, given rabbits' reputation, Andy opined wouldn't it be wonderful if there were babies, by the time bunny arrived.<br />
On Monday, 27 April, Andy dejectedly informed me he didn't think I would see bunny that day either, though tracking had been checked and he was moving. A day later, Andy said they were not optimistic and feared someone had eaten bunny. I interjected that I certainly hoped not, since I was looking forward to that pleasure myself. He then showed me a picture of the first rabbit he'd considered sending, except it had begun to "bloom:" turn white; so he'd purchased a new one. Hoping to divert my friend from his dolor, I adopted an upbeat position and said I was sure bunny would arrive before the week was out. But Andy was not so easily dissuaded and said it was only a <u>lie</u> that bunny had left Champaign. I convinced him to cut USPS some slack, as many workers had been affected by the pandemic. Later, he was suspicious because, although his human had received notification that bunny was in transit, he was never given specifics about location. Within the hour, Andy wondered if bunny had melted. (Canine prescience?) I said if that happened, hopefully bunny's remains would be given to me, for respectful disposal.<br />
By Thursday, we had reached the conclusion bunny had been kidnapped: that would explain not only delay of arrival but the ambiguity surrounding bunny's precise whereabouts. Using his own distraction techniques, Andy asked, other than bunnies, what was my favorite food? I told him tacos; but they probably wouldn't travel well. He made other suggestions: cookies; mints; vodka? Then he confessed that, as a dog, he had no experience with vodka but he had heard some humans say it was good. How about apples? Apples were quickly eliminated from consideration, as they would likely bruise and/or spoil, in transit.<br />
On Friday, Andy had big news: bunny had been kidnapped but had escaped. He was presently in Detroit and would try to make his way to Tecumseh, Saturday. Andy told me it sounded as though bunny's abductors had beaten him pretty badly, so I had best prepare myself to deal with his injuries. Early Saturday morning, Andy sent a message that bunny was on a truck, headed for Tecumseh. Andy was greatly relieved, having figured bunny was a goner.<br />
I was late going online Saturday, having gone around the apartment complex, serenading the residents. Not having a response by 3:00 that afternoon, Andy had begun to fear bunny had been followed after his escape and now <b>I</b> had been kidnapped too.<br />
Once I got Andy's frantic message, I hastened to assure him I was fine. However, bunny's outer wrapper informed me he'd been "Received in Damaged Condition," which I was sure had resulted from his abduction. Andy wanted to know how bad bunny's injuries were; could I tell he was even a bunny;<i> </i>and could I still eat him? I took a picture of bunny's mutilated and melted <i>corpus delecti</i>. Andy asked if there were also a letter in the package. I took a picture of my gloved hand holding a page from a yellow legal pad, with brown spots. I explained I had first taken the marks for drops of dried blood and had worn gloves, thinking it a ransom note, in which case, I would have turned it over to investigative authorities.<br />
Twenty-four hours after bunny showed up in my mailbox, I decided to submit his narrative - harrowing as
it was, to cyberspace. On the night of his arrival, I poured myself a glass of wine and spent nearly an hour: gently cleaning bunny; licking dried chocolate, slowly
and carefully peeling foil wrapper from bunny's mangled body. As I tended his wounds, bunny rambled - nearly incoherently (or maybe it was the wine).<br />
Yes, he had been kidnapped. But all those days when his precise location was not known, one wonders if he were in Belgium. The greatest argument against that presumption, of course, is that international flights are down considerably, at this time. Yes, bunny was no ordinary herbivore; he was four ounces of Godiva chocolate and Godiva was established in Belgium in 1926. As I understood it, after he'd made his escape he had set off, ostensibly on his way to me. Needless to say, he was disoriented and no doubt babbling. The first passerby bunny encountered did not understand him but could make out the word "Belgium" across his tummy, so tried to send bunny to his presumed homeland.<br />
We may never know if bunny's injuries were inflicted by his kidnappers, or the well-meaning - and apparently very strong, stranger who may have been a mite insistent that bunny take off for Belgium, instead of Tecumseh. Thankfully, bunny is here now; and he is delicious.Comments in Passinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05702049231486517582noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5360806470892398452.post-19500307256039778862020-04-13T14:14:00.000-07:002020-06-05T14:26:47.961-07:00Get a life<br />
Little more than a century after the influenza pandemic of 1918-'19, Earth was beset by COVID-19: an illness caused by a novel corona virus. [The name comes from COrona VIrus Disease (20)19.] Some countries, saddled with questionable (at <i>best</i>) leadership, are putting focus not on the health of citizens but on the <u>economy</u>. (!)<br />
The 45th president of United States has formed a "council" to 'Re-Open America.' The officials of said council, as announced on Fox News [yes, I know] are: Mark Meadows, White House Chief of Staff and formerly representative of North Carolina's 11th District; Ivanka Trump, Trump's daughter; Jared Kushner, Ivanka's husband; Steve Mnuchin, investment banker, serving as 77th U.S. Secretary of Treasury; Larry Kudlow, director U.S. National Economic Council; Robert Lighthizer, attorney and currently U.S. Trades Representative; and Wilbur Ross, investor and current U.S. Secretary of Commerce. Even knowing next to nothing about economy, I had heard most of these names: and knew they spelled disaster for the majority of United States residents.<br />
Trump has been whining for weeks that the country has to be opened up, to maintain a strong economy. I don't know about you, but when a "leader" is more concerned with bottom lines than the lives of humans, it tells me that person is not fit for duty. Of course, many have realized that about Trump since before he was even nominated.<br />
It is the leaders, both of individual states, as well as several countries, who are focused on curbing the spread of infection and promoting healthy populations who have the best interests of actual flesh-and-blood people in mind and at heart. When countries/states are forced to bid against each other for limited resources, it isn't good. Period. Systems based on concentrating wealth among a very few, cannot be sustained indefinitely. Just look at who was deemed to be "essential" during the covid-19 pandemic: grocery store workers, healthcare workers, medical personnel, janitorial staff and sanitation workers. Most, if not all, of these people are making minimum wage, which is a far cry from a <u>living</u> wage. That <b>simply is not right</b>. Everyone deserves not only enough money to live on (without having to work two and three jobs) but to<span style="font-size: small;"> be treated with dignity and respect.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"> </span><span style="background-color: #f8f9fa; color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman" , serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">Liberté égalité fraternité: </span>the motto on banners carried during the French Revolution, espouse liberty (freedom), equality, and fraternity (brotherhood). That is what we need now. we must be sensitive to the needs of others, treating all as kindred, because we are all in this together and togetherness is the only way we will "get through." It was John Donne who wrote, "each man's death diminishes me" in his poem No Man is an Island.<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"> So, just as a chain is only as strong as its weakest link; so is global health only as hale as that of the most vulnerable member of humanity. It is our job, our sacred trust as humans, to take care of one another. When this affliction has passed, have no fear: rich people will still be around, ready to steal your money. If billionaires were reduced to millionaires, it wouldn't kill them but sending people back to work before there is a vaccine may well prove deadly. Keep staying home and getting well: going back to work too soon will [almost certainly] lead to a resurgence. Nobody wants that.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"> A robust economy is dependent on a healthy populace: dead people don't spend money.</span>Comments in Passinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05702049231486517582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5360806470892398452.post-55138821203380282062020-04-07T07:26:00.003-07:002020-04-07T07:26:34.666-07:00Today was dark at both ends<br />
As you can see by date below, this was written sometime ago; it felt worth visiting again. It was written as a personal missive because that
style is comfortable and familiar: I have been known to write 600 letters in a year.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-small;">*****</span></b></div>
Today [
8 April, 2016 ] was dark at both ends<br />
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<br />
Hope you will forgive the absence of endearments and usual opening pleasantries, but as title implies, this had been a long day. It began when the alarm clock rang at 5:45 a.m. - signifying need to arise from my comfortable bed and ready myself to meet Mary in the lobby at 6:30.<br />
Quite frankly I debated writing this tonight or waiting until tomorrow; but I feel a journalist's need to report *as it happens* or as soon after as possible. Hopefully you will experience the day as it unfolds.<br />
After scraping the windshield, we set off to meet the tour bus which would transport our group to Zehnder's in Frankenmuth, Michigan. After picking up breakfast-to-go from McD's, we boarded our bus in Tecumseh. Next stop was Adrian, then Brooklyn, and finally Jackson. By then, some of us had been on the bus two hours, so our compassionate driver pulled into next available rest area. We headed up US 127 toward Lansing because a significant portion of M 14 was closed in Ann Arbor. We arrived at Zehnder's Restaurant about 11:20 and were seated. Luncheon was served at noon and entertainer Tom Sadge began his Neil Diamond show at 1:30.<br />
Sadge is a terrific performer, interacting with his audience. He joked with the crowd, saying he had performed at Neil Diamond's birthday nine years in a row - but Neil had never shown up. Then he clarified that the Neil Diamond Fan Club had booked him all those times to perform at the annual celebration of Mr. D's birthday. A CD of the event was sent to Diamond and one year, Sadge was at a Diamond concert and was called onstage to perform. The day was marred by a couple of drunks with another group who were obnoxiously loud. I noticed one wore an oxygen cannula and it was all I could do to restrain myself from crimping her air hose. Being a vocal supporter of "live and let live," thought I should practice what I preach - but it was tempting. Was pleased that two numbers I consider *musts* came close together: Brother Love's Travelin' Salvation Show, and Coming to America, which closed the show.<br />
Then we were given an hour to spend money in the gift shops containing outrageously priced merchandise. But wait, there's more. We went down the road to Bronner's Christmas Store, billed as "world's largest."<br />
You already know I have little or no use for shopping, but I enjoyed myself nonetheless. My pleasure came from my passion for communication: everything was labeled in various languages from around the world. As we waited in the lobby to get on the bus, I was studying a sign which read: MEETING PLACE. As I craned my neck to see around someone, a friend asked, "You don't understand all those languages, do you?" Told her no, but similarities between related tongues fascinated me. It was easy to see how close Ukrainian is to Russian; Serbian to Czech; Spanish to Italian.<br />
At long last (5:37) we were all on the bus and the trip home began. We got the news Detroit Tigers had won their opening day game - though I do believe most fans were just as glad to receive the news second hand instead of being in attendance at the game, as temperatures didn't make it much beyond 39 F. Precipitation impeded visibility and made road conditions hazardous. We passed one vehicle which had slid off pavement and another car pulled over immediately in front of one with flashing red and blue lights on top.<br />
Passengers were dropped off in reverse order - *the last shall be first* - and some thirteen hours after we'd boarded, we got off and wearily made our way to cold automobiles and headed for hearth and home.<br />
Those of us who had someone waiting to hear from us, notified loved ones of our return. I made my requisite phone call, had a glass of wine and a nosh, then filed my report. Hope I didn't leave anything out, but now I really must go to bed.</div>
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Kisses, my sweet. </div>
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Jo Ann</div>
Comments in Passinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05702049231486517582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5360806470892398452.post-22418493651051199392020-03-30T10:55:00.000-07:002020-03-30T10:55:46.629-07:00A Molecule in the Universe, Dust in the Wind<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: x-small;"><b>NOTE</b></span>: This was written 03/03/2012, while I was employed as a direct-care provider; in the year 2020, I would be one of the frontline "essential personnel."<br />
The planet's [human] population is fast approaching eight billion and I am closing in on the end of my seventh decade. (jbd)<br />
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<b>*****</b></div>
A Molecule in the Universe, Dust in the Wind<br />
There are now over seven billion people inhabiting the planet we call Earth. This is double the number from my childhood. I was born a mere six decades ago, the proverbial 'blink of an eye' as time goes. So where did they all come from?<br />
Some are the result of artificial insemination, fertility drugs and the efforts of some overachievers, such as the infamous Octo-Mom. Still, who am I, indeed who are any of us, to say someone shouldn't be here? What determines an individual's right to live, their value? Though some denounce 'survival of the fittest' as a qualifier, that premise governed the existence of our species for millennia. Individuals who were physically incapable of supporting themselves and had no one to provide their needs, died. We now have means of keeping such persons alive - but at what cost? Indeed, we cull other living things; plants are thinned out, as well as livestock. Many indigenous peoples live or lived in cultures wherein separating oneself from the community when weak and dying is viewed as "taking one for the team."<br />
With the institution of social programs to aid the less fortunate, some people feel they can dictate who is deserving of help. People are reluctant to pull the plug or deny costly services to helpless newborns, afraid to be labeled "baby killers." The stigma applies less stringently to the elderly, but we are loathe to admit a desire to save money by denying care to someone who will never be able to repay. (Note: In the face of the 2020 Covid-19 pandemic, this very thing is being seriously discussed/considered.)<br />
There have been models of generosity through the ages: Buddha, St. Francis of Assisi, Jesus, Mother Teresa, Dorothy Day. They met need where they saw it without a lengthy interrogation to determine if the victim were "deserving."<br />
Some wonder why God allows suffering, while maintaining there is sufficient wealth to feed and care for all the world's inhabitants. Therein, I believe, lies the answer. The Creator gave us souls and free will and probably has hopes that we will use our gifts wisely. What constitutes wisdom? Do we make our own comfort a top priority and give scant concern to the welfare of others? If one is a member of the fortunate elite, does one then have an obligation to share one's good fortune? I am not defining "elite" as the top one or two percent who control obscene sums of the world's wealth and consume disproportionate amounts of the planet's resources. I speak of anyone who has an indoor supply of running water, an adequate amount of food and a place to sleep, sheltered from the elements.<br />
There are food chains in nature, but humans like to think of themselves as an "evolved" species, above such mundane concerns. As long as we callously turn our backs on those less fortunate than ourselves, we are among the lower animals.<br />
I suppose it is only the raving egomaniac who never questions his own importance in the grand scheme of things. Every now and then one encounters an individual convinced the world revolves around their needs and wants.<br />
I know I have friends who would miss me, were I gone. Some might even be distraught, and my co-workers would be temporarily inconvenienced. I don't really expect anyone beyond my immediate family to be <i>devastated</i>. Every one should be noticed: "Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved Mankind; And therefore never send for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.” (John Donne)<br />
Recent tragedies, such as school shootings and weather disasters rightfully tug at heartstrings. Even celebrity deaths bring people together in grief.<br />
You may deem my reaction harsh, but I see no sense whatsoever in leaving stuffed toys, balloons and other mementos at the site of an incident. I think the money spent on such transient things would do more good given to a non-profit charity. This would have the added benefit of eliminating debris littering the area. A candlelight vigil is different; people sharing their sorrow, reaffirming that life goes on.<br />
Sometimes practicality is so misunderstood, but it seems to me a donation to a rehab center would be a fitting tribute for a person who overdosed. Instead of leaving a teddy bear at the site of a child's death, become a children's advocate ... at the very least, cherish your own children all the more.<br />
We need to consider that we are not alone on this planet or in this universe. How hard it is sometimes to lay arrogance aside, especially when one feels it is one's only suit of clothing and does not wish to appear before the world naked and vulnerable. In the wake of tragedy, heroes emerge. Russell King Jr., a victim of the shooting in Chardon, Ohio was an organ donor. His family said, "...his heart still beats."<br />
Even more than I hope my heart continues to beat for a long time, I pray each beat will be lived in love and grace.<br />
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When it beats no more, I hope your life is better for having known me.</div>
Comments in Passinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05702049231486517582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5360806470892398452.post-17979566153564585342020-03-08T11:29:00.000-07:002020-03-08T11:29:11.088-07:00The Sisterhood of Invisible Women A friend posted to Facebook something one of her friends had shared:<br />
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So, I have recently began to struggle some with the things I can no longer do as well as I used to along with feeling the hurt of no longer being "cute or pretty," not that I think I ever really was but the older you get, the more you really know you're <b>not</b> the "cute one." Have you ever thought: “I’m fat;” “I’m old;” “I’m not enough?” For me, all the time.<br />
I was <span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">young once. My brain sometimes forgets it no longer is. To all my female friends from 40 years and up: Most of us are going through the next phase of our lives. We're at that age when we see wrinkles, gray hair, and extra pounds. We see the cute 25-year-olds and reminisce. But we were also 25, just as they will one day be our age. We aren't the "girls in their summer clothes" anymore. What they bring to the table with their youth and zest, we bring with our wisdom and experience. We have raised families, run households, paid the bills, dealt with diseases, sadness, and everything else life has assigned us. Some of us have lost those that were nearest and dearest to us.<br /> We are survivors: warriors in the quiet. We are women, like a classic car or a fine wine. Even if our bodies aren't what they once were, they carry our souls, our courage, and our strength.<br />We shall all enter this chapter of our lives with humility, grace, and pride over everything we have been through, and we should never feel bad about getting older. It's a privilege that is denied to so many.<span class="_5mfr" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0px 1px;"><span class="_6qdm" style="background-image: url("https://static.xx.fbcdn.net/images/emoji.php/v9/t1a/1/16/1f33b.png"); background-repeat: no-repeat; background-size: contain; color: transparent; display: inline-block; font-family: inherit; height: 16px; text-shadow: none; vertical-align: text-bottom; width: 16px;">🌻</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Sometime ago, I began subscribing to a couple of e-newsletters: The Girl God, and Nonviolence News.</span><br />
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(from The Girl God)</div>
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<span style="color: #1c1e21; font-family: "arial" , "verdana" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-align: center;">“We live in a reversal society. For example, the idea that Eve came from Adam is a reversal. It’s ridiculous. Who could believe that? It’s contrary to all biology. But with that myth in mind, people can justify somehow the idea that God is male. And therefore that male is God. And that he’s the origin. But he’s not the origin. The Bible is full of reversals.” -Mary Daly</span></div>
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Quality of life, should not depend on the "quality" of the package containing it. Perfectly good cornflakes come out of a box that got dropped a couple times. But unlike consumer products, people should not be "marked down" just because the packaging is a little dinged up. Western culture, and more specifically United States culture, seems really hung up on appearances. That hangup and resultant discrimination is abundantly apparent to every middle-aged, slightly dowdy, woman who has been denied a promotion or raise, in favor of a younger colleague. The suggestions of women are frequently dismissed as "unworkable" - yet are lauded as nothing short of brilliance, when made by a male. There may be vehement denial but I would submit it is the denial of a guilty conscience. For over one hundred years, March 8th has been recognized as International Women's Day. It has been demonstrated repeatedly that when women and girls do better, everyone benefits.<br />
The title of this piece came to me because I was feeling ignored but I knew it wasn't just me - and it isn't just women. We all have a tendency to get caught up in our own immediate microcosm and stop noticing the wonder, as well as the horror, going on around us. Yes, we need to wash our hands and substitute elbow bumps of Vulcan salutes for shaking hands. We also need to listen to people and celebrate the accomplishments of women; not assume that doctors, lawyers, or other authority figures are male; not assume that a woman is only a surrogate for some man who had "more important" things to do.<br />
If you only focus on changing/improving two areas of your life, be mindful and be kind; if that is more than you can handle, simply be kind: that alone, will make the world a better place.Comments in Passinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05702049231486517582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5360806470892398452.post-66817979772497133352020-02-28T15:34:00.000-08:002020-02-28T15:34:49.857-08:00No death unsung<div style="font-family: Roboto,RobotoDraft,Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">
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No death unsung<br />
13 February, 2012<br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial";"> Death can be delayed, but cannot be indefinitely forestalled. If one is ill, one can seek treatment, make preparations, and seek to spare loved ones needless hassle and heartache, by attending to the mundane details.</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial";"> In this age of instant information, extended family often learns a relative has died, via the Internet.</span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial";"> On the evening (EST) of 11 February, 2012, the world received news that singer Whitney Houston had died. It was all over Facebook and other Internet sites. A lot of people took the loss personally. On the morning of 12 February, 2012, a 92-year-old woman died as I held her hand. I pressed the call light, the RN was summoned to pronounce, and I murmured, "Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord and let perpetual light shine upon her."</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial";"><span style="color: black; font-family: "arial";"><span style="color: black;"> Then a nurse aide came in, and together we cleaned the body. The office was notified and, my job finished, I took my leave. That death I took not just personally, but </span><i>intimately</i><span style="color: black;">. Barely had the words "She's dead" escaped my lips, than I was assigned a new client. [That new client/caregiver relationship was to last fifteen months.]</span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial";"> My roommate noticed I was home early and, hearing why, asked if I was alright. I told her I was, then changed clothes and went to church, arriving in time to robe for choir. The rector bade me welcome, after several weeks' absence. I told her why I'd been able to make it to church, and she wanted to know if the lady was alone. Assuring the reverend of my presence at the deathbed, she clasped my hand and smiled. </span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial";"> As we sang the Gloria, I felt we were singing with my departed patient and all who behold the glory of God. 'Blessed are those who mourn, for one day they shall laugh.'</span><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial";">(2020)</span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial";"> Rereading this entry from a distance of eight years, I can tell you I now have a deeper understanding of Death and am more familiar with Its wiles and whims. Mom entered that final embrace, in December of 2013. During calendar year 2019, fully a dozen persons of my acquaintance, left this plane of existence, including Dad.</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial";"> Approaching the end of my seventh decade, I occasionally wonder who will mourn my passing, when the time comes for me to depart this "vale of tears." Given personal and family history, I expect to ride Earth for several more laps around the sun which lights the solar system in which I dwell. The people who regularly receive letters from me, will be glad of that news.</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "arial";"> Yet this planet sustains so many humans, pushing toward eight billion, that people die virtually unnoticed all the time. Some may only be discovered after the fact.</span><br />
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The first week of July 2015, was rather harried and I struggled to process and make sense of it all. I had made several trips back and forth to Ann Arbor; in addition, someone I had known virtually my entire life, was hospitalized with serious injuries. That led me to edit and re-post an old column, titled "My brother's keeper," from July 2012. <br />
It seems to me all of the world's woes can, at some point, be traced to greed and looking out for "Number One" instead of each other.</div>
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"<i>In the course of time Cain brought an offering to the Lord from the fruit of the soil, while Abel … brought one of the best firstlings of his flock. The Lord looked with favor on Abel… Cain greatly resented this and … said to his brother, ‘Let us go out into the field.’</i></div>
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<i> “When they were in the field, Cain attacked his brother Abel and killed him. Then the Lord asked Cain, ‘Where is your brother Abel?’</i></div>
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<i> “He answered, ‘I do not know. Am I my brother’s keeper’?</i>" (Genesis 4: 3, 4, 5b, 8, 9 New American Bible)</div>
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It is to be hoped no one would wantonly slay another, yet that very choice is made every day. Some will use the "I had no choice" excuse, but there is <u>always</u> a choice. Laws of what some refer to as "common decency" dictate we are indeed our brother’s keeper. There are now over seven billion people inhabiting the planet we call Earth: number of humans occupying planet surface has doubled in less than six decades. What or who determines an individual's right to live? How do we reconcile, keep our sanity, humanity?<br />
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***</div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"> There is much discussion/debate regarding issue of health care and the reform thereof. I have not yet seen verbal interaction devolve into a knock-down, drag-out, which is probably just as well, as it would likely not be covered.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"> A lot of the buzz I hear is people not wanting to be told who they can see, when, or how often. One friend wondered if death of Sen. Ted Kennedy would be used as a "guilt" card to get reform passed. [It took a <b>long</b> time afterward to get affordable care passed, so I would say not.]</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"> Folks are scared to death of "socialism," though as an <u>ideal</u>, it is probably how early Christians strove to live. "All the believers were together and had everything in common. Selling their possessions and goods, they gave to everyone as he had need." (Acts 2: 44-45 New International Version)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"> There are other Scriptures which, I believe, point us toward caring for one another's basic needs. Consider New Testament book, James 1:27 "Religion that is pure and undefiled before God and the Father is this: to care for orphans and widows in their affliction and to keep oneself unstained by the world." (New American Bible) Or James 2: 15-16 "Suppose a brother or sister is without clothes and daily food. If one of you says to him, 'Go, I wish you well; keep warm and well fed,' but does nothing about his physical needs, what good is it?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"> Though health care reform is not a religious concern <em>per se</em>, a lot of Scripture and prayer would seem to lead us in direction of caring for the less fortunate.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"> Once, during Evening Prayer, we used Suffrages A (page 122 Book of Common Prayer), which read, in part:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">V. Let your way be known upon earth;</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">R. Your saving health among all nations.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">V. Let not the needy, O L<span style="font-size: x-small;">ORD</span>, be forgotten;</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">R. Nor the hope of the poor be taken away. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"> There are a lot of people who just *hope to God* they do not get sick or who do not go to a doctor because, even if they found out what was wrong, they couldn't afford to do anything about it. I have said, only half jokingly, "Garlic is my antibiotic of choice and hugs are preventive medicine." [As of May 2014, am grateful beneficiary of Affordable Care Act, and am able to get needed medicine to control blood pressure.]</span> But we need more.</div>
<span style="font-size: small;"></span> Though some denounce "survival of the fittest" as a qualifier, that premise governed existence of species for millennia. Individuals who were not physically capable of supporting themselves and had no one to provide their needs, died. We now have means of keeping such creatures, human and nonhuman, alive - but at what cost? For many peoples, separating oneself from one's community when weak and dying is viewed as *taking one for the team.*<br />
With institution of social programs to aid the less fortunate, some people feel they can dictate who is deserving of help. People are reluctant to pull the plug or deny costly services to helpless newborns, afraid to be labeled "baby killers." The stigma applies less stringently to elderly persons still, at least as individuals, we are loathe to admit a desire to save money by denying care to someone who will never be able to repay.<br />
There have been models of generosity through the ages: Buddha; St. Francis of Assisi; Jesus; Mother Teresa; Dorothy Day; who met need where they saw it - without a lengthy interrogation to determine if the victim were "deserving."<br />
Some wonder why God allows suffering, while maintaining there is sufficient wealth to feed and care for all the world's inhabitants. Therein, I believe, lies the answer. Creator gave us souls and free will and probably has hopes that we will use our gifts wisely.<br />
What, then, constitutes wisdom? Do we make our own comfort a top priority and give scant concern to welfare of others? If one is a member of the fortunate elite, does one then have an obligation to share one's good fortune? I am not defining "elite" as the top one or two percent who control obscene sums of wealth, consuming disproportionate amounts of planet's resources. I speak of anyone who has access to clean water, adequate food, and a place to sleep, sheltered from the elements.<br />
As long as we callously turn our backs on those less fortunate than ourselves, we are truly a "lower life form." If we are truly evolved, a higher life form, <u>everyone</u> should be noticed.</div>
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"Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved Mankind; And therefore never send for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.” (John Donne)<br />
Tragedies, such as school shootings and weather disasters rightfully tug at heartstrings. Even celebrity deaths bring people together in grief. We need to consider that we are not alone on this planet or in this universe.<br />
How hard it is sometimes to lay arrogance aside, especially when one feels it is one's only suit of clothing and does not wish to appear before the world naked and vulnerable.<br />
In the wake of tragedy, and there is a new one almost daily, heroes emerge. Russell King Jr., a victim of the shooting in Chardon, Ohio was an organ donor. His family said, "...his heart still beats." (Note: This piece was originally composed in 2011. In the aftermath of the Aurora, CO carnage, 19 July, 2012, I hope there will be a donor among the victims who will save other lives.)<br />
Even more than I hope my heart continues to beat for a long time, I pray each beat will be lived in love and grace. When it beats no more, I hope your life is better for having known me.</div>
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Comments in Passinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05702049231486517582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5360806470892398452.post-71394776435059940552020-02-17T12:50:00.000-08:002020-02-17T12:50:11.279-08:00From the steppes of RussiaMany years ago, I edited several installments from a science teacher, into a piece for a small, independently owned, Texas newspaper. As the narrator was a county resident, he was accorded a goodly number of column inches; within reason. The task called for a strategy of WMD. No, not Weapons of Mass Destruction but Words Mostly Deleted. [Editorial humor, don't ya know?] Given location, I surmised the "Catholic" church visited did not belong to Roman Rite; rather, it was likely Russian Orthodox.<br />
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<b>Russia: Land of the Czars</b></div>
<b>Getting there</b><br />
Former presidential candidate Sarah Palin may have been able to see Russia from her back porch, but I had a more intimate perspective. Rather than being "on the outside, looking in" my son Boone and I were on the inside, looking around. In the following paragraphs, I shall try to take you along on our journey, which began quite some time ago.<br />
After a presentation for "Operation Chemistry" at the 1998 National Science Teachers Association (NSTA) national conference held in Boston, two scientists from Los Alamos National Laboratory approached me. They invited me to join the Critical Issues Forum (CIF) program, developed as an international research program for high school students primarily from USA and Russia, but also from other countries. The program is committed to worldwide non-proliferation of WMD, Weapons of Mass Destruction. After years spent developing this program, colleagues around the world became comfortable enough within the group to invite one another for home visits. When a friend emailed me from one of the "closed cities" and asked me to come for a visit, I recognized it for what it was.<br />
So difficult were the travel papers to fill out, we had to have special help. But it has been said a journey of a thousand miles, begins with the first step. We stepped on to a plane in San Antonio, Texas and stepped off at Sheremetyevo-2 (SVO) International Airport, into another time zone, another country, another world.<br />
One thing I must point out, foreign countries smell different. Not necessarily "bad:" just <i>different</i>. Sometimes a sense of paranoia overcomes you; mainly from knowing you can't just whip out your cellphone and call somebody from home to come and get you. I couldn't help thinking of Daniel in the lion's den.<br />
We were met by somebody who took us to Sheremetyevo-1, the Moscow airport, which handles domestic flights. Following a ten hour layover, we hopped a plane to Krasnoyarsk City. The last leg was a two-hour drive to the closed city of Zelenogorsk. This is the site of a secure facility, closed to tourists. But Boone and I had come as invited instructors, which accorded us certain privileges. Upon our arrival, many of the locals told us we were the first Americans known to have visited their city where tourists are "persona no grata." There may have been no other way to visit one of the "closed" cities in Russia; my specialized background helped, as I could provide content my Russian friends were seeking.<br />
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<b>"Special" education</b><br />
Making introductions: <i>Coqva savut?</i> (What's your name?) <i>Minya savut</i> Clabe. (My name is Clabe.) There is a difference between a "gymnasium" and a regular Russian "high school." At the latter, students learn two languages: their native Russian and either English or German. A "gymnasium" is a step above; in addition to the basic curriculum, students take on the challenge of extra language classes, which meet daily.<br />
Many schools in Russia experience difficulties with drugs, alcohol, and gangs, as do schools in the States. They seem, however, to have found a way to deal with social apathy: they do nor support a welfare state. Young people are encouraged to do well school and become productive members of society. The approach is Biblical: if you don't work, you don't eat. (This hardly bodes well for individuals with either learning disabilities or physical handicaps. - <b><i>editor's note</i></b>)<br />
In one 'special' school, a Major escorted us to a secluded place, where he displayed an arsenal that sent shivers up and down my spine: an Ak-47, grenades, a bazooka, rifle, shotgun, handgun, gas masks and so forth. You know, the usual school kit. This was one of those sensitive moments it seemed in our best interests to not ask too many questions, though I <u>did</u> wonder if this were some kind of ROTC (reserve officers' training corps) program? Just let me say they play "Sink the battleship" on a grand scale, out in the forest.<br />
After a particularly rough school day, the principal may call a meeting at the bana (sauna), where the vodka flows freely. There is also smoked cheese, lox, fresh fruits and vegetables, and comestibles unknown to me. Vodka loosens the tongue and people speak freely; but what is heard or seen in the bana, stays in the bana. When the vodka runs out, the meeting is adjourned. It may be 4:00 A.M. when the meeting ends but morning calisthenics always commence promptly at eight o'clock. Another school day, another ruble.<br />
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<b>Borscht Belt cuisine: "soshlik," it's what's for dinner</b><br />
Having years of experience, I like to eat.Many of the foods we were served were a bit bland for our tastes: Russian moms don't use the spices we're used to. Any table top in the United States is likely to have garlic salt, season salt, ketchup, Tabasco, picante and more. In Russia we hardly saw more than salt and pepper - and sometimes we had to ask for those.<br />
Food is plentiful in the Siberian areas we visited but very expensive; often too costly for those on a meager income. Some things are the same all over: I recalled I had once asked about hunting and the Major told me, "Yes, there is hunting in Russia. If you have the money and can clear the paperwork, you can buy a hunting license. Sadly, much game has been poached, so hunting is no longer a realistic possibility."<br />
At breakfast, Boone and I were less than enthusiastic as we stared at bowls of glop. It was porridge but even the cooks couldn't say what kind. Sometimes it was runny, other times, thick. Boone avoided it like the plague. One time we had "pizza." Boone and I both watched as it came out of the oven. As in Japan, tomato sauce is not used on Russian pizza. Now, try not to gag: they use mayonnaise. Plus, they really like onions ... and fresh, unpasteurized goat cheese. But one thing to remember when you are with a host family: you never want to insult the cook, who is usually the momma. Nope, bad idea. So we did the best we could, smiled politely and said "thank you" to the momma. Swallow; nothing like it. Please may I have some water?<br />
Texas roadside barbecue offers some fine eating. In Russia, you might find roadside "soshlik." This is made from chicken or pork, marinated in something I never could identify, cooked over a fire in an open metal cooker. It is served on a birch branch, rather like shish-kabobs. I'd be willing to eat it again, given the chance.<br />
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<b>Family life</b><br />
<b>The cars</b><br />
Russian vehicles are smaller than most one would find in the Western world. Folks could not grasp the concept of a family truck. Describe a Ford F-150 and, in general, they had no idea what you were talking about. Petrol is expensive and, as in the States, comes in grades. Let's begin with some basic conversions. One gallon is equal to 3.78 liters, one liter costs 29 rubles. So, 3.78 x 29 = 109.62 rubles; 109.62, divided by 30 (rubles to the dollar) and you are paying $3.654 per gallon of gas. This is about a dollar higher than what we paid in Brady before we left. I will add that we also had to pay an exorbitant exchange rate to convert our currency. as usual, we reserve the right to complain.<br />
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<b>Parents are the same, the world over</b><br />
Life in Russia is like life in the U.S. - kind of. The people work, marry, raise kids, and worry about paying their bills. Parents get sick and still go to work; it's different if a child gets sick. But people usually do not go to the doctor until there is no other choice. Instead, they "self-medicate." Sound familiar? The point is, we can relate; people are people and we need to try to get along.<br />
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<b>On our way home</b><br />
Many think the Church is dead in Russia: prior to 1991, it existed mainly underground but experienced a rebirth in 1993. With an escort, I visited a beautiful Catholic church and gave the preacher three New Testaments. The Brady camp of Gideons International provided two cases of New Testaments, which were gone in a flash.<br />
I had been charged with teaching at a top level school which prepared future political leaders. now, after many weeks, it was time to say Da Svidaniya to our Russian friends and return to the United States. The day before we were to leave, we learned no one was available to escort us through the airport. This would have been an excellent time to panic, save for the realization that God is in charge.<br />
Next morning, around 2:30, one of the teachers picked us up, drove us to the airport and hugged us goodbye. At the gate, we studied our instructions, mostly in Russian, and continued to pray. Minutes before boarding, we heard English spoken for the first time in several weeks. I approached a group of oil field workers, who were being rotated back to the States, after their time with a Caspian Sea oil firm. The leader told me he'd been away from home four months and had really missed his Bible study group. I'd been keeping a New Testament to read on the trip home but gave it to him; he thanked me.<br />
I'm sure the trip back was just as long as the trip over but knowing I was coming home, made it go more quickly. I'm no John Denver, but as I stepped off the plane, my heart sang, "Gee it's good to be back home again."Comments in Passinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05702049231486517582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5360806470892398452.post-34295577472779088792020-02-14T06:48:00.000-08:002020-02-14T06:48:19.445-08:00JADE and GABRIEL<br />
<div style="font-family: Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">
Jade delved into her psyche in pursuit of a memory embedded long ago. As is the case with those who have grown older, the memories closest to the surface were those of her childhood: there was five-year-old Jade in a rowboat with Grampa Chaffee and Papa and they were catching bluegill and sunfish. Jade remembers the smell of the fish and the fact that she caught the greatest number that evening. She enjoys the nearly imperceptible rocking of the boat and feels the worms wriggle in her fingers as she baits her own hook. The fish would be cleaned yet that night and refrigerated. The next day they'd be dipped in cornmeal and Grampa would fry them out in the back yard, using his camp stove and they'd be so crispy and delicious. Jade savored the flavors of her youth for a moment.</div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> She did not plummet like a rock sinking to the bottom of the lake; her descent was gradual, and even on the way down, the thought occurred to her, "this must be the way a would-be fossil felt as it found its place in the La Brea tar pits:" gravity pulling one's weight against the resistance of the dark mass. But this was not the time for such fanciful thoughts: Jade was a woman on a mission, searching for the key to secure a friend's release.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> Gabriel was more than a friend - he had come into her life at a crucial time and had eased her transition from middle age to what was termed, "near elderly." How many times had Gabriel told Jade that she didn't need him, that she had a strength that came from within? Ah, dear Gabe; couldn't he see that <i>need</i> was subjective, a matter of perception? Jade had always known that her life, i.e. the accumulation of days, weeks and years, would continue in the absence of her lover, but it would be an existence of diminished capacity.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> Time enough later for these extraneous thoughts: she </span><i style="font-size: 13.3333px;">must</i><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">find that key. Although she did not let her age define her, Jade realized that she had reached the point in life where memories did not come to her so much as she came to them. Jade and a chronologically</span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> </span><span id="gmail-m_-7389028215561224540gmail-m_6678959569436933610gmail-m_6925824959598543077yiv144425827lw_1295044885_0" style="font-size: 13.3333px;">distant memory</span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">drifted within reach of each other: she was a child of four and it was winter. Mom had built a snowman and painted a face in watercolors. It was beautiful, as were all of her mother's creations. But of course, Nona Chaffee was a gifted artist and everything that came from her was imbued with grace and beauty, including her children. Jade and her siblings were all creative; draftsmen, painters, builders and performing artists.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> She glimpsed yet another remnant of the past: climbing the tree in the front yard of Grandma's house and picking apples. A little further away, this from the years of early adulthood, there was a quilt which everyone in the family had worked on; it was to be presented to Jade's grandparents on the occasion of their fiftieth wedding anniversary. Soon Jade would be allowed to sink into her reverie and not re-surface, but right now, Gabe needed her words one last time; so she let those memories which were currently irrelevant drift away.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">
<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> Many years before, when Jade was describing to Gabriel the effects, both positive and negative, of her sister's cancer treatment, he had interjected, "God, I hope you're there when I die!" and so, of course, she'd told him she would be. Now the time had come: too soon for her but years past what Gabe had presumed would be check-out time from the motel of life. Jade spun words much the way a spider spins a web but her words were not meant to ensnare prey; merely to create a delicate piece of work with transient beauty. Gabriel had been entranced by Jade's web and let himself be transported whither-so-ever her words carried him. Now she would spin a web of intricate detail, every word breaking her heart, because it would take her beloved Gabriel away from her.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">
<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> Jade's search for that elusive key continued and, at last, there it was: as with the best of memories, it was multi-faceted, involving all her senses. Once again, Jade breathed in the scent of Gabriel's cologne and her pulse quickened. The air surrounding her was gently stirred by a ceiling fan. Jade's power of speech was involved</span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> </span><i style="font-size: 13.3333px;">in absentia</i><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">: Gabe had asked her to 'just be quiet and let him have his moment,' so Jade had acquiesced and found herself immersed in a most exquisite state of euphoria as beautiful music lifted her out of herself. Gabriel had described it as music "to live to or die to ... to look into a woman's eyes ... " and Jade told this man she loved that perhaps he could die looking into a woman's eyes. Jade knew, even as the words came from her mouth, that she was foretelling their future. Jade returned his gaze and was nearly overwhelmed by what she saw: it was a look that went beyond sadness to world-weariness; there was such a willingness to just let it all go. So Jade stored that memory with a few others that had been labelled, "we will not speak of this again."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">
<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> The time had now come to speak; Jade would use her command of words to evoke a memory for him and release her beloved Gabriel into the arms of another lover - Death; that winsome beauty whose embrace would transport him to the place he so longed to be. Jade couldn't quite believe how willing she was to let Gabe go, but she knew that she was willing because she loved him so very much and she'd had him far longer than she'd ever dared to dream. Now it was time to bid him</span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> </span><i style="font-size: 13.3333px;">adieu</i><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">and send him toward his final destination, where he would be reunited with the men in his family. After years of separation, Gabriel would rejoin the stalwart individuals who had shaped his life, moulded his character, and made him the</span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> </span><span id="gmail-m_-7389028215561224540gmail-m_6678959569436933610gmail-m_6925824959598543077yiv144425827lw_1295044885_1" style="font-size: 13.3333px;">wonderful man</span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">he was, (though he never could see it).</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> Jade composed herself, gathering the strength that Gabriel had always known lay within her. She summoned all the words at her command and looked deeply into Gabriel's eyes, holding his gaze. Now Jade began to speak: her voice soft, slow and deliberate. It invited him to let his spirit drift free of his weary, ruined body; to travel with her to a memory long since forgotten. Jade felt that by letting Gabriel lose himself in her eyes, being the portal through which he passed from this world to the next, that perhaps a whisper of his soul would remain bonded to hers - a tracking device, if you will: so that she could find him in the mists of eternity and be joined to him again.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Roboto, RobotoDraft, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.3333px;">
<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> Jade would have accompanied Gabe on this journey but for her promise to deliver his eulogy. She had written most of it years before, shaping the words, turning her phrases as an artisan turns wood on a lathe. She would craft something beautiful to pay fitting tribute to Gabriel, who was the other half of her, the man she had been destined to love even before she knew him.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> Finally, when she had fulfilled her promises, Jade could immerse herself in her memories. Once again she would meet Gabriel, and share eternity with him as she knew she was meant to do. On the temporal plane, where she left her body, her breathing would become slower and softer, until that last breath was taken, the beating of her heart would come to a standstill, the green eyes glaze over. Her existence on Earth cease; then her</span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> </span><u style="font-size: 13.3333px;">life</u><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 13.3333px;">would begin.</span></div>
Comments in Passinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05702049231486517582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5360806470892398452.post-28301160830427828022020-01-17T15:08:00.001-08:002020-01-17T15:08:22.974-08:00Gone fishing... Having been raised in Michigan, I am familiar with ice fishing. It is a lot more deliberate than the summertime form of the diversion. One does not spend several hours whiling away the time, maybe drinking a few beers, sitting in a shanty, with one's posterior growing numb from cold, not to mention one's face and extremities, just for the heck of it.<br />
<br />
<div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
Jesus said to Simon, "Put out into the deep water and let down your nets for a catch." Simon answered, "Master, we have worked all night long but have caught nothing. Yet if you say so, I will let down the nets." (Luke 5: 4-5)</div>
<div>
Sometimes I wonder if maybe this has been cleaned up; either by or for the church. Sure, Simon Peter respected Jesus, but maybe he thought to himself, "Hey, who's the fisherman here? I was fishing before you even knew where Lake Galilee was!" Or even, "Oh man...I've been up all night, I stink, I'm tired, I just want to go home, clean up, have something to eat and hit the sack."</div>
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Do we ever do that? "Geez, Lord, I put in 60 hours this week; I don't want to get up at seven o'clock on my day off." Gotta love Peter; "If you say so, Lord." Simple, not necessarily easy.</div>
<div>
Giving his sermon, Rev. John Fritts, at one time the rector of St. Paul's Episcopal Church, Brady, Texas, said fishing was a noble occupation. He went on to enumerate elements of the down side, saying it was dangerous and tiring, mentioning an episode of Mike Rowe's <b>Dirty Jobs</b>.</div>
<div>
Speaking of Simon Peter's partners, Rev. Fritts mentioned "the esteemed firm of<i> Zebedee & Co</i>." Two millennia later, the company continues to thrive. They even have a weekly company party and everybody is welcome.*<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
*****</div>
</div>
<div>
I never did finish wherever I was going with that but maybe I can address that now and together we can flesh it out. For starters, I found a place where it was necessary to add a footnote. One would hope that <u>love</u> is first and foremost in your heart. It matters not nearly so much that one profess allegiance to any rite or prevailing deity as it does how one treats one's fellow planet, universe, or even neighborhood, dwellers. In recent years, and more so since 2016 United States' presidential election, nationalism has asserted its snide voice and raised its ugly head. Xenophobia is being desperately promoted as patriotism. But let's unpack this whole "Love one another" issue.</div>
<div>
Many church services end with the words, "Let us go forth to love and serve the Lord." But is it really meant; or does it have <i>qualifiers</i>? I will again refer the reader to the footnote I made. My personal point of view is that churches, or "The Church" should be like "Doctors Without Borders." The latter group focuses on healing unwell/damaged bodies; the former, on sick souls. There will always be a contingent advocating for strict[er] borders, maintaining that they are necessary to, in so many words, 'keep out the riff-raff.' Certainly xenophobes find nothing wrong with their mindset, nor do they comprehend people who find this rigid position undesirable. How many folks truly question their motives? Personal accountability proves even more difficult, definitely more abstract, when several world leaders hold nationalist opinions.<br />
What is to be done? Make kindness a minimum standard. Start locally, by loving and serving those around you. It will make the world a better place.<br />
<br />
* Depending, of course, on who is throwing the party. Sadly, not all denominations recognize others as being in full communion.</div>
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Comments in Passinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05702049231486517582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5360806470892398452.post-64789141253637762952020-01-10T15:46:00.000-08:002020-01-13T13:41:27.589-08:00January thaw Nodding off in front of my computer, after a satisfactory lunch with a high school friend, I perused my archives for something to amuse my devoted followers and came across the following.<br />
<span style="background-color: #f8f9fa; color: #222222; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Santé et bon appétit</span></span><br />
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***</div>
(First published in January 2015)<br />
Bonjour cher,<br />
Here I sit, having toasted some small homemade pretzels and brewed a pot of Mystery Tea<b>:</b> while working, had thrown a small baggie of various teas in a satchel, to have on break. Found them after retirement.<br />
Temperatures here are mild for this time of year, in this zone. Woke to *Anthem of the Hoover Queen:* somewhere above me, one of my neighbors persists in running vacuum at least once or twice a week. Thankfully, this does not commence until after 8AM, while the pacing/clomping about, ensues anytime after 0500 hours. Fortunately, am not a light sleeper; never would have survived childhood in a large family if I were.<br />
Last I heard from you, a passel of college students lived downstairs: you commented on savory but unfamiliar cooking aromas. Do they play much music? As long as it is melodic and not too loud, it doesn't bother me.<br />
Today's mail brought two beautiful postcards from a penpal in Argentina, as well as a couple letters with Carolina postmarks. All that mail shall brighten this overcast day. Had some snow accumulation earlier; looked like a feather pillow had been torn open.<br />
Attended auditions last night and read quite well. Have not been active in theater for decades. Now waiting for call from director. One of the monologues he had me read was about getting fitted for a new bra - a subject to which I can definitely relate. The other was about what a bother purses are. I really think my chances are pretty good.<br />
Guess after supper, will go visit Man Upstairs. One of my neighbors asked why I go up there so often. Told her, he's good company and makes me laugh. Then she wanted to know, "Well if all you want is company, why not get a dog?" Are you kidding me? Pet deposit is three hundred dollars and ya gotta clean up after them; Man Upstairs is house broken and free.<br />
It's a chilly Friday night here in Tecumseh, Michigan, as we head into the fourth weekend of 2015. It has been a reasonably productive and most enjoyable week, particularly in the Bingo department: Monday at senior center, made back my fifty cents; Wednesday at the library, netted four books; and last night, here at the apartment complex, made a grand haul - head of cabbage, bag of carrots, frozen dinner, tube of blueberry refrigerator biscuits, dish soap and small box of candy!<br />
My errands for this twenty-third day of January included lunch at senior center and purchase of six pounds boneless beef short ribs. Got home, put three pounds in freezer, other three in deep pot, topped with water, bit of salt, pepper, thyme and turned on burner. Rinsed two cups Basmati rice, adding to meat. Friend called, we went to dinner and I got back in time for evening card game.<br />
Perusing collections of stories I had written, came across one I hope you will find amusing.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
After fifteen or sixteen years, I had begun to suspect maybe I had been too long in Texas, but the time came when something happened to confirm my <i>suspicion</i> as <u>certainty</u>. I was, as Poirot says, "Exercising zee little gray cells" by working a crossword puzzle, when I encountered the clue *Red Bordeaux.* This much information was available to me: _ _ A_E_. All that came to mind was, "Who is Red Bordeaux, and what team does he play for?" Obviously, I had been dazed by Friday night lights.<br />
Now I will have to join Oenophiles <u>Anonymous</u>, because the other wine lovers won't want to acknowledge me in public. What's next? Will I embarrass myself by requesting a sommelier to bring a bottle of Chateau Ripple, or a glass of <i>vintage</i> Boone's Farm? Don't get me wrong, I'm no snob - I <u>love</u> Boone's Farm but come ON! Really, I did one of those V-8 forehead slaps when I finally deduced the word I'd been seeking was "claret." Which reminds me, did you ever see that Bellagio commercial with the <b>LL</b> jumping out of the name, running after the grape, and stomping it?<br />
Am reminded of world history professor who regaled us with following anecdote; While traveling, he had stopped at a convenience store for something to eat. Going through the beverage selections, he encountered his first bottle of Ripple and asked clerk what it was, receiving this reply, "Ripple, my good man, is a fine 89-cent wine." [This was the 1960s.]<br />
Anyway, guess I should be thankful not to have misread Bordeaux as Boudreaux, but it is small comfort. I recalled an episode of Murphy Brown in which a truckload of potatoes was dumped on Veep's lawn, after Dan Quayle had put an "e" on the end of singular form of potato, and wondered if anybody would leave a bottle of wine on my porch. Because, that would be okay, you know.Comments in Passinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05702049231486517582noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5360806470892398452.post-85225739742576311732020-01-09T12:01:00.002-08:002020-01-09T12:03:14.111-08:00Resolved: commit to an ideal I'm already seeing comic strip references to broken resolutions, so it seemed a good time to address the topic in a blog.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
Mid-January<br />
Many individuals are reaching the point at which one's resolve to make changes and "be better" begin to weaken. While many aim at "self-improvement," it is largely within the physical realm that efforts are concentrated.<br />
<div>
On 1 January, the western world starts a new calendar year. New Year resolutions provide a way of<br />
redefining ourselves. Perhaps we should consider a shift in focus from physical to: spiritual; intellectual; or even metaphysical (if, indeed, we even know what that is). Would that not be a step toward making our world a better place to live?</div>
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If we took the time to consider how our everyday actions reflect on our ethics, would we still do most of the things we do? Of course, some would argue that "over-thinking every little thing" would bring life to a standstill. That is not my intent, but a little soul-searching could enhance one's prudence.</div>
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Prudence and practicality dictate many of our everyday actions. But occasionally we encounter a situation that challenges us morally. How do we face the challenge? "Hemming and hawing" seems to be a time-honoured tradition, especially among those of us who tend to procrastinate. There are several "hot button" issues, some of global import, others more particular to certain countries or regions.<br />
There is a Facebook group called International Citizens United, (ICU) with the motto, "All for one and one for all." ("Tous pour un, un pour tous.") A phrase from the Statement of Purpose: The International Citizens United group page is a place for building unity and understanding between all people on the planet. Please check it out and, if you are so inclined, request membership.<br />
Climate change is affecting <u>all</u> of us, in one way, or another. Even the smallest everyday action has a consequence. The amount of rubbish one generates can have an impact on the increasing temperature of the planet. For instance, how often do any of us attend some group function and find food served on disposable plates, which will end up in a landfill? Not to mention, bottled water. If trash is incinerated, how many and what kinds of pollutants, go into the atmosphere? It may cause minor inconvenience and subject one to a certain amount of ridicule to take one's own place setting, cutlery, and reusable container for beverage but one then has the satisfaction of not contributing to waste which may well end up in a body of water; making said resource unusable for either consumption or recreation.<br />
Sometimes one can find a bargain, a two-for-one: maybe you could take public transportation, or even walk; that way you are responsible for fewer carbon emissions going into the atmosphere <b>and</b> you get exercise. Win-win.<br />
Make this a year of commitment: your future and the world's may depend on it. No pressure.</div>
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Happy New Year.</div>
Comments in Passinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05702049231486517582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5360806470892398452.post-84428211966104305562020-01-04T16:25:00.000-08:002020-01-04T16:25:44.678-08:00Sleeping around I miss my trips to South Carolina and surrounding environs. Though in hopes of another sojourn this spring, it won't happen unless I can find a travel companion. Meanwhile, I shall attempt to amuse you, by recounting a previous adventure. Not all of the people I claim as family are blood kin and there are several I have not yet met in person. In many cases, geography decreases the probability of face to face encounters. Thankfully, the dear soul known to me as Brother is someone who has welcomed me into his life and has extended the hospitality of his home. My 2015 trip would have been nigh impossible, and not nearly so pleasurable, without him.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
*****</div>
December 2015<br />
(Driving Miss Crazy)<br />
Hi honey, did ya miss me?<br />
It has been over a month since my last letter to you: I've been away but now I shall bring you up to speed regarding recent adventures.<br />
On 22 November, 2015, Brother Eddie arrived in Michigan to whisk me away for Thanksgiving holiday, having spent previous day with other kinfolks along the way. I'm not altogether certain Eddie knew what he was in for when he opted to facilitate my adventure by uttering the words, "Road trip!" God bless him, he didn't bail on me; did not even falter. He arrived in Michigan to newly fallen snow, and was actually excited at the prospect of driving on it. Thankfully, roadways were clear and the only snow that Eddie's truck encountered was in Dad's driveway. Our <u>original</u> plan had been for him to come in Saturday evening and attend church with me on Sunday morning, as I was scheduled to read. Unfortunately, Whoever was in charge of clear travel conditions had apparently not gotten the memo. Reality: it snowed nearly all day Saturday, Eddie spent Saturday night in central Ohio and I did not go to church since A) road conditions were dodgy, and B) no one would have been around to let Eddie in if I had. So, he got here, we went to breakfast, made our goodbyes to Dad, and hit the road.<br />
Roadways had been cleared, giving us the luxury of enjoying glistening pristine beauty of snow-covered landscape. Daylight was eaten up as we made our blessedly uneventful way through Ohio and into West Virginia. What <u>did</u> surprise us was encountering three toll stations, at two dollars a pop. Fortunately, we had ready cash available, so the hurdle was not insurmountable. Got through Ohio and finally stopped for the night in Beckley, West Virginia. Had dinner in motel lounge. Back in the room, we plugged in our cellphones to charge, made our individual preparations for bed and took a little time to wind down. Shared a bit of free verse I had just written:<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Cold town, warm beds</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Children of the Great Brotherhood</div>
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walk their separate paths to Land of Dreams</div>
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This day they have covered a lot of ground</div>
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- and gone farther still in *miles* that cannot be measured</div>
<br />
Come morning, we realize clock on nightstand had not been reset to reflect time change, so we had another hour to wait for breakfast included in room rate. Brother used time to check in with social media but I was determined to abstain for the duration of my trip.<br />
Soon, staff could be observed making coffee and setting up dining area. Other travelers made their muzzy-headed way in to partake of the limited nourishment provided by processed foods. A goodly number of diners appeared to be college students, possibly an athletic team.<br />
After breakfast, we packed our bags, checked room for stray miscellany and checked out. Monday morning, having breakfasted before break of day, we found ourselves traveling in darkness, waiting for day to break over Blue Ridge Mountains. There was barely enough light to discern trees atop distant mountains. Of course, where there are mountains, there are also valleys. These were not just gentle slopes and dales, but veritable chasms. In the bottom of gorges were trees and it makes one's breath catch to realize how tall some of those trees must be.<br />
When driving an automobile without cruise control, it is important to find a pace car - which can also serve as decoy for highway patrol. We picked a presumably unsuspecting motorist with Quebec plates. Saw a sign which read, <i>Speed enforced by air</i>, which made me think of my "grammar nazi" friends who would no doubt insist - and rightly so - "Monitored, not enforced." Later in my trip, watched a news broadcast and <u>heard</u>, "*Be a cannibal* for your vehicle" which serves to demonstrate the importance of good diction, because what the speaker <i>obviously</i> said was, "Be <u>accountable</u> for your vehicle."<br />
At some point, one must cross the mountains, if one's destination lies beyond them. Our route took us through the East River and Big Walker Tunnels. Emerging, we noted Sun bathed top of trees, leaving three-fourths of the hillside in violet shadow; purple mountain majesty.<br />
Early sun highlighted glistening black rock, damp from seeping springs, which will dry as winter deepens. For now, icicles glint in daylight, delighting the eye. One glimpses red oak leaves, looking for all the world like stained glass.<br />
As one traverses mountain ranges, one notes grooves cut into Earth by gigantic mechanical maws which have left *teeth marks,* a testament to determination to get beyond obstacles. Different colors and textures indicate various mineral deposits. I was amused by a formation that resembled monstrous toes and thought of various "henge" monuments. As we proceeded southeastward, pinkness increased on eastern horizon and one lone star remained visible in western sky. People have an unfortunate habit of making their presence apparent by littering the landscape in greater and lesser ways. In two days of travel we saw at least three abandoned vehicles and I couldn't help thinking those orange stickers are like toe-tags for cars. A few states down the road, we stopped for lunch and I had to remember to specify <u>unsweetened</u> tea if I did not want to find myself trying to gag down a glass of treacle. Midday Monday brought us into central South Carolina, where I would make my home for most of the next three weeks.<br />
One of the household denizens was less than enthusiastic in her welcome: Lily, a Pug, groused at me every time I moved. I believe it was because I upset the balance of her world and she viewed me as an interloper. We maintained an *armed truce* for the duration of my stay.<br />
Saturday after Thanksgiving, Brother took me to Charlotte, North Carolina, where I was delivered into the safekeeping of a former classmate for a few days. Surrounded by Great Smoky Mountains, I slept well, nestled under handmade quilts.While on a brief sightseeing excursion, established contact with outside world. This excitement was eclipsed by awe at the heartiness of those who had long ago settled the region, and knowledge I would have proved unworthy - since I do well to cope even with modern conveniences. Wednesday after Thanksgiving, left scenic Smokies and returned to South Carolina; while being taken to rendezvous with Eddie, was surprised to hear cellphone buzz - it was registering several messages which had come in while I was out of range. My time in North Carolina was marred by incessant rain and, for most of my time there, an absence of cellphone reception but the scenery was nothing short of phenomenal. The company, both human and feline, was exceptional too. <span id="m_1599534477633449578m_-3156009220149593157m_-2020457648318542610m_-2352482686921121900m_-8288316569297517233m_-4575846019384440547m_-4311709824161797795m_34791113018880481m_3929467112534922984m_-1751367104279747509gmail-result_box" lang="es">There is a chain of grocery stores called "ingles" which my mind perceived as <i>inglés</i>, which is Spanish for "English." What can I say? - I am easily amused. </span><br />
Friday, 4 December, met people at bowling alley in Cayce, then I checked into Columbia, SC hotel. Next driver was a Facebook friend, originally from Michigan, whom I met in Columbia, SC. We trusted modern technology to get us to Lake Manning, then to an address which I recalled from writing several letters. D and I celebrated our weekend by sharing a humongous burger called The Widow-maker: four quarter-pound beef patties, four slices of cheese, and four strips of bacon. This was accompanied by a large salad and red wine, which we hoped would minimize the threat posed by all that cholesterol. Next day, met another correspondent and we had a blast. After a leisurely lunch, we went for a drive and made an impromptu visit to a friend who climbed down from fixing the roof and welcomed us into his home - which, by the way, we found because I recalled his address from writing to him. Sunday, went to a potluck, where I was traded back to Eddie.<br />
It's a darn good thing I am not underage, because Eddie transported me across numerous state lines during the course of my visit. Anyway, planning to meet friends for dinner, we were instructed to rendezvous at Plum, on Bay Street. Arriving at that establishment, we found dark windows and a sign the place was closed that evening. I stayed in the truck, texting the other party, while Eddie asked a passerby to suggest a place for dinner. Walking to the suggested place, he learned <u>they</u> were closed to public that evening - for Plum's Christmas party. We gathered elsewhere and spent an enjoyable time together. As we went our separate ways, I informed the group the chronicle of my adventures would be titled, "Driving Miss Crazy," which seemed apt.<br />
Monday, the planets must have come into fortuitous alignment and I was able to meet a Calhoun County official, plus spend time with a friend whom it had begun to look like I would not get to see this trip. Tuesday night found me back in Columbia area, where I gladly spent remainder of the week.<br />
My time in the South was winding down and I had one more Facebook friend to meet for the very first time. On 13 December, made notation that wine before 11 A.M. was probably <b>not</b> my most brilliant move ever, but consequences were apparently not dire, so presume neither was it my worst. Second Monday of December, made interim stop in Virginia. Here I met Susan, another Facebook friend, and lodged two nights. We attended a library Christmas party, then stopped at a winery on our way back to the house.<br />
Wednesday morning Susan made a hearty breakfast, before schlepping me to Charlottesville to catch a commuter train to Washington, D.C. My seatmate during the two-hour trip was a second-year college student whose major is environmental sciences. Good conversationalist. Got her address and shall write to her.Spent two nights in Virgina. Then, on a frosty Wednesday morning, hugged my friend and boarded a commuter train, which would take me to Union Station in District of Columbia.<br />
Got into the station and had a text message from someone I met in college. As I stepped through the door, four decades evaporated and we recognized each other in an instant. Spent a couple hours reminiscing and talking about what we had done during intervening years. Then it was time for her to return home so she could avoid District rush hour.<br />
Train 29, from Washington to Chicago departed from Track 15 at 4:05 p.m. Eastern Standard Time. At last, home stretch began and, amazingly, train got in on time, arriving in Toledo, Ohio 5:08 a.m. of 17 December - earlier than I had expected. Last year, had experienced significant delay on return trip, so had told driver not to come until 8:00 a.m. Why should he get up in the middle of the night if he didn't have to? Once I got into Toledo station, phoned him, notifying him of timely arrival. He showed up and had me home by 8:01a.m.(EST), Thursday, 17 December. As he was taking me home, I was glad we were headed westward and not into rising sun. My stomach growled and I thought longingly of the sausage and egg breakfast, consumed less than twenty-four hours previously but which seemed <i>eons</i> ago.<br />
Showered and dressed to attend Tecumseh Senior Center Christmas party: had already told friends I'd have to 'hit the ground running' upon my return. Just so you know, title for this piece came from the twenty-five nights I slept in a bed other than my own. Sorry to disappoint.</div>
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If <u>you</u> ever decide to "go crazy" make sure you get a good driver and be sure to take the scenic route.</div>
Comments in Passinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05702049231486517582noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5360806470892398452.post-89802347465895681122019-12-20T15:48:00.000-08:002019-12-20T15:48:06.560-08:00A holiday remembrance I started writing Christmas stories when I was in Texas, working at the <i>Brady Standard-Herald</i>. This one centers around a wonderful Christmas memory involving Mom.<br />
Whether you observe Christmas or another winter festival tradition, it is my hope you are surrounded by loved ones and you are safe, happy, warm.<br />
Besos y abrazos.<br />
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*****</div>
Christmas Eve, 2013<br />
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Christmas is fast upon us. Heck, in New Zealand, it is well underway. So how do you feel about Christmas? Are you bubbling over with barely-contained joy or are you tempted, in your unnamed fear and dread, to try to outrun it? Perhaps most folks find themselves somewhere between the two extremes, depending upon what circumstances they face on any given day or even how they slept the night before.</div>
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I am partial to the sounds of the season. Music stirs my soul. Some days the stirring is like trailing my fingers through a gentle stream. Other days I feel like I've been through a blender on high speed. No wonder James Bond wants his martini "shaken, not stirred." Regarding Christmas music, I have yet to hear a rendition of "Carol of the Bells" that is not thoroughly enjoyable, while one of my sisters likes any and all versions of "Little Drummer Boy." There is a melancholy softness to be found in "What Child is This?" and "Coventry<span style="border-bottom: 2px dotted rgb(54,99,136);"> </span>Carol." I feel sultry and sexy when I hear "Santa Baby" and I can hardly sit still when "Jingle Bell Rock" is playing. Undoubtedly there are incurable curmudgeons who despise all holiday music, which is their prerogative. So what does music do for you?</div>
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What with the deplorable state of the economy, health care, morals, you name it, it is easy to be very cynical, despite the "magic" of the holiday season. The degree of cynicism is a choice we make when we get up every morning. It may start with the decision whether or not to drag oneself out of bed.</div>
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Sometimes there is no choice: you have a job, therefore you must get up. Your job might be parent, student, rocket scientist or buffer but, whatever it may be, YOU have to do it.</div>
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Besides my paid position, I feel it is part of my job to go out into the world on a daily basis and look for something to write about, laugh about or even sing about. And then share that with others. I enjoy what I do, both vocation and avocation. It is my nature to be a joy seeker but I also consider myself a cynic/realist, having once told a friend that cynicism ran so deeply in my family that we had developed a mutant chromosome and it had become a genetic trait.</div>
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If you find yourself unable to capture that elusive holiday spirit with music, perhaps you can entice it with food and drink. Seasonal foods and beverages abound as do the traditions that surround them. One of my dearly departed friends used to host an annual homemade eggnog bash that heavily emphasized the "nog" portion of the concoction. Let me tell you, there is nothing quite like a three-story house filled with two or three dozen well-lubricated voices belting out Christmas music and show tunes to invite Christmas "presence."</div>
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Tamales are popular any time of year and making them features prominently in many family holiday traditions. The first year my [late] sister Teri came to Texas, we made bean and cheese tamales, since Teri was vegetarian. By the second year we decided that was too much trouble and we settled for bean "borrachos" and masa sticks.<br />
Christmas 2007 found four of us sisters gathered together. The youngest sister had come to Brady from San Diego, California, one was visiting from Las Vegas and two of us resided there. Our parents came down from Tecumseh, Michigan.</div>
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We girls were up to our elbows in masa, meat and corn husks, preserving a tradition. It was also something of a rite of passage as I realized that I am the <i>viejita</i>-elect. As the eldest of my generation, the torch has been passed to me. Will the flame continue to burn or will it sputter and die? Only time will tell. I think it may flicker but I will probably break down and buy some corn husks and at least make a few dozen masa sticks, from time to time.</div>
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Christmas Eve church services are another wonderful tradition. I grew up in a home strongly influenced by church. It was with immeasurable joy that I joined my parents and the youngest of my siblings at the Brady Presbyterian Church on Christmas Eve 2007 and took Holy Communion with them. We wept unashamedly and it was good for the soul.</div>
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Whatever this season holds for you, I pray you will be blessed with the grace to persevere. Big cry-baby that I am, I get all choked up by the simple phrase, "God bless us, every one." May you indeed be blessed and might we all hear "tidings of comfort and joy."</div>
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Comments in Passinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05702049231486517582noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5360806470892398452.post-60684179334398356042019-12-17T15:52:00.000-08:002019-12-17T15:52:03.553-08:00The Snark Before Christmas<span style="font-family: garamond, serif; font-size: large;">Once upon a wintertime</span><br />
<span style="font-family: garamond, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: garamond, serif; font-size: large;">Well my dear, here we are:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: garamond, serif; font-size: large;"> I was writing out Christmas cards and listening to NPR (National Public Radio) when a pal texted me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: garamond, serif; font-size: large;">Pal: Can you believe November is gone?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: garamond, serif; font-size: large;">Me: Christmas is right around the corner.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: garamond, serif; font-size: large;">Pal: Yipee!!! Whatcha doin'?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: garamond, serif; font-size: large;">Me: Writing out x-mas cards</span><br />
<span style="font-family: garamond, serif; font-size: large;">Pal: Yeah, I gotta do that</span><br />
<span style="font-family: garamond, serif; font-size: large;">Me: Starts to put me in holiday mood ... the rum and coconut coffee doesn't hurt ;)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: garamond, serif; font-size: large;">Pal: I don't know <i>what</i> would put me in the mood</span><br />
<span style="font-family: garamond, serif; font-size: large;">Me: Getting laid would work <u>wonders</u> for me</span><br />
<span style="font-family: garamond, serif; font-size: large;">Pal: Girl, I don't know about you, lol [In case you forgot, that's textese for laugh out loud]</span><br />
<span style="font-family: garamond, serif; font-size: large;">Me: I still have a healthy sex drive - so sue me</span><br />
<span style="font-family: garamond, serif; font-size: large;"><br /> The frenzy that began with Black Friday is gaining speed, much like a snowball rolling downhill. I recall hearing about Cyber Monday [for online shoppers] and 'Giving Tuesday' - apparently so one can *atone* for all the shopping one has done in previous days. Even when I <u>could</u> physically shop til I dropped, I had no interest in it: waste of time and money as far as I'm concerned.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: garamond, serif; font-size: large;"> Friends are beginning to ask about my Christmas plans and whether or not I'm going to South Carolina. (Unfortunately, not any time soon.) On my immediate agenda: write out cards to global contacts, as those will need to be sent sooner to have reasonable expectation of timely arrival; get haircut; attend Christmas parties at Tecumseh Senior Center and Orchard Terrace; put up holiday decorations; get out of this funk I've been in.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: garamond, serif; font-size: large;"> This is one of those letters that gets written over span of couple days. When I checked Facebook, learned a friend had tagged me in a post to let me know she appreciated my letters to her. It couldn't have come at a better time: had been feeling sorry for myself, thinking I didn't make a difference to anybody. We all need actual or virtual pats on the back from time to time.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: garamond, serif; font-size: large;"> Got cards mailed to far-flung recipients - specifically those outside United States - and just as I had expected, next day brought postcards from Australia. I was a couple days late in sending birthday greetings to Tecumseh Senior Center participants; hope they are kindly disposed toward me and in a forgiving frame of mind.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: garamond, serif; font-size: large;"> Still have quite a few <u>actual</u> cards to address. I readily confess some are postcards with holiday stickers and have already *forgiven* myself on grounds so few people even <i>write</i> anymore, that it will do. I'm big on self-forgiveness: it's good for my mental well-being.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: garamond, serif; font-size: large;"> Out to breakfast recently, told my companion I wasn't sure whether to call this The Snark Before Christmas or Visions of Sugarplums. Decided on former, thinking nobody even knows what sugarplums <u>are</u>. On that note, shall wrap this up and post.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: garamond, serif; font-size: large;">Wishing you well, Jo Ann</span>Comments in Passinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05702049231486517582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5360806470892398452.post-18716843722030083552019-12-09T14:21:00.000-08:002020-07-18T15:18:21.198-07:00catching the busBus 2019: Destination: Rainbow Bridge<br />
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> When Angela woke up outside, she wasn't scared, just bewildered. She decided to look around; see if there were any interesting odors to sniff. She wouldn't go far, as she did not want Cecil to fret.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> Rick's bus had been leaving all year: he was dying of cancer. On the last day of November 2019, he got on and left town. As he boarded, he saw a dog across the road and asked the driver if it were okay for her to come along. "Sure thing, buddy: we're all going to the same place." This bus' destination was Rainbow Bridge.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> As Rick and Angela made their way down the aisle, he saw a familiar face. "Hey Mel, good to see ya again." "Howdy, Ricky Joe. Where'd ya get the dog?" "She was in a field across the road from where I got on. Weren't ya girl?" Angela woofed, "Yes; I figured it was alright to follow you. I'm pretty sure I won't be going back to Cecil's."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> Mel said, "There are people on here I don't know but my oldest daughter, Jo Ann, knew all of us. Did you know her, Angela?" "We never met but I heard of her: she wrote letters to my human."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> It was then Dad took it upon himself to play host, and show Rick and Angela around. The first guy they saw was Pat, a diabetic amputee, whom Jo Ann had met at the nursing home where she had gone for rehab. He had died on Halloween and Jo found out, early in December.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> Passing Carolyn, Dad explained, "I don't recall this woman but we <i>sorta</i> have a history: one of her daughters was married to one of my godsons. Frank died in her house." Both Rick and Angela were surprised. Others present were: Father Rick, a Byzantine priest who had gone to school with Jo Ann; Mary Jo, another schoolmate; Denny, an old fellow who used to have breakfast at Big Boy; Troy, a fellow who died in Virginia: during a trip south, Jo Ann had spent a night with him and his wife; Connie, the egg lady's mother; Hazel, who lived to be 108; Norma; and Dawn.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> "Norma was one of my wife's dearest friends," Mel said, leaning down to give the old woman a hug. Then he explained, "I remember Jo bringing Dawn and her son, Wolfie, over to the house. My wife told the boy, 'They call me "Wolfie" too because I like meat.' That made him smile and put him at ease. I sure will be glad to see Zulema again; it's been almost six years."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> At that point, the bus rounded a curve in the road and was no longer visible from Earth. A week after Rick's service, Bella, another old dog, caught the bus. The day after that, there was a memorial for Wynell, a 95 year old, whom Jo remembered lovingly from Methodist choir. She had died back in October but Jo didn't get the news, until it was mentioned in a Christmas card.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "garamond" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> Souls cross the bridge but memories linger in the hearts of those who remain earthbound.</span></div>
Comments in Passinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05702049231486517582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5360806470892398452.post-85870641041736577372019-12-06T16:13:00.000-08:002020-01-11T16:22:41.947-08:00Celebrate weeds <br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;"> Much has been written about the "indomitable human spirit." When one contemplates some of the horrors which have beset humans: famines; wars; pogroms; authoritarian governments; one sees how they were withstood through human endeavors to "rise above." In the space of one month headlines included: a murdered journalist and subsequent attempts at cover-up; several pipe bombs, mailed to prominent critics of 45th U.S. president; threats by that same president to have military personnel fire at immigrants who throw rocks; and eleven people slain in a place of worship, by an anti-Semite. People are in serious need of good news. I found some.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "garamond" , serif;">Dear One,</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;"> Remember when I used to write letters <i>all the time</i>? Then I got caught up in social consciousness and started writing about "issues." Issues are important, of course, but so is personal communication. I <u>love</u> writing letters - so I am getting back into it. After one of the residents here passed away, her family had an estate sale, raising money to cover her final expenses. I purchased the bulk of her stationery and related supplies.</span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;"> Saturday morning, I woke to clear skies, after spending the night in a bed not my own. Breakfasted on a piece of panettone, a delightful Italian sourdough bread with golden raisins and bits of citrus peel. This was washed down with a cup of stout tea. Bidding farewell to my host and the dogs, I got in my car, to drive home. </span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;"> Trees around here are showing autumn colors; some of which are absolutely brilliant. Several trees were ablaze in vibrant reds and yellows. It was such a beautiful day, it almost made me wish I had a dog to walk. My canine friend in the mid-west has not felt much like walking lately but I'm sure this day would have roused his enthusiasm.</span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;"> Arriving home, I changed clothes and went for a walk. Returning to my apartment, I wrote a letter, then perused social media. Checked in with a friend and we made dinner plans: pizza and beer. I spent some time making notes on subjects to be addressed in upcoming letters and whiled away an hour or so adding subtle shading to my supply of illustrated postcards.</span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;"> The notion of weeds came to me because the term is used disparagingly for most part, if not exclusively. I <u>like</u> "weeds," seeing them as underappreciated flowers. That's kind of how it is with some people: they get called names and suffer other taunts and indignities because society doesn't know what to do with them.</span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;"> Retirement gives me an appreciation of life's slower moments and I find a vast richness in the mundane. Not everyone <b>is</b> so blessed as I, but a lot of people just don't know <u>how</u> to find joy. If it is within my power, and if a willing pupil should come along, I will try to share what I have learned. I am also a student, willing to learn from others.</span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "garamond" , serif; font-size: large;"> I'm sure I have rambled somewhat but hope you know, this letter was written with love. Maybe it has given you some thought to mull over. Even if it just provided a small diversion, it was worth the effort.</span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "garamond" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "garamond" , serif;">May peace and contentment be afforded you, </span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "garamond" , serif;">Jo Ann</span>Comments in Passinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05702049231486517582noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5360806470892398452.post-49722515773881991382019-11-18T17:00:00.000-08:002019-11-18T17:00:38.126-08:00The poor you have always with you<br />
When resurrecting my blog, some condensation occurred. True, some articles fit together more aptly than others but it seemed worth putting these particular 'eggs' in the same basket. The running theme, when one has been determined, is used as the title for the now-composite blog. (jbd, 2019)<br />
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<b>*</b></div>
Christian Scriptures tell us that Jesus said, "The poor you have always with you." Apparently, some consider that a reason to not aid the unfortunate; lest they go against the word of God. My outlook holds it to be a challenge issued: to see if those of us who have been blessed with <u>more</u>, would share with those who have not.<br />
While I'm on my soapbox, don't tell me the economy is doing great, while there are people working two and three jobs, in an effort to keep body and soul together. Unless/until there is a burgeoning middle class, "the numbers" [usually stock market] don't mean diddly-damned-squat. I mean really: while there are people going to bed hungry and/or without access to potable water, <u>nobody</u> should be a billionaire. Criminy, it's no damned wonder that Jesus wept.<br />
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*****</div>
Mid Twentieth Century, when I was a child, the planet's entire population scarcely numbered three and a half billion. It has now more than doubled; heading towards triple. I seem to recall a statistic from my grade school years, that the population of the United States of America was 200 million. A lot has changed since then: I have dwelt on this earth for over six decades, and the population continues to grow at an alarming rate. In spite of this, women are often compelled to have babies they either don't want or can ill afford.<br />
Not so very long ago, a former classmate had posted a meme on Facebook, saying the 85 richest people in the world, had more wealth than the poorest three-point-five billion people, combined. Do you realize how many zeroes that includes? <u>Eighty-five</u> <wbr></wbr>individuals to three and a half <u>billion</u>!<br />
In the comments following the meme, one of my friend's acquaintances wondered what caused such disparity, to which my response was, "Politics/greed, mainly." Apparently, that touched a nerve in another contact, who felt the need to take me to task, saying, "<span class="m_-1629704222462553642m_6324078831563671596gmail-UFICommentBody">Don't jump to condemn, disdain or assume that rich people are corrupt in some way simply because they're wealthy. Some might be but at the same time, many others most likely are not. Wealth envy is also a form of greed, you know. Remember Jesus' parable of the responsible steward."</span> My first inclination was to blow it off or, at most, comment in a Facebook status update. Talking it over with my roommate, [this was probably 2012, during my first couple years back in Michigan] who supported my statement of inequity being a result of greed and politics, it seemed worthy of a blog post. Greed is expressed in many ways, not least of which is being able to hide money in off-shore accounts, to avoid taxes. That did not used to be the case in the United States, outside of the criminal element. Unfortunately, grand-scale greed has been deemed respectable, and therefor suitably rewarded. Anyway, I had neither condemned, disdained, nor made any assumptions regarding anyone's level of corruption. Also, seemingly contrary to this person's own assumptions, there is no envy of the wealthy, lurking in my heart. But if being rich isn't a crime, (and in my humble opinion, more often than not, it is) why is being poor treated as one?<br />
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<b>***</b></div>
(Eyes, planks, and Myanmar)<br />
<span style="color: rgba(34 , 49 , 63 , 0.7); font-family: "noto serif" , serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: rgba(34 , 49 , 63 , 0.7); font-family: "noto serif" , serif;"> It has been said [and variously attributed], "The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice." One can only hope to be so fortunate as to catch a glimpse of that justice in one's lifetime. There are also sundry proverbs and adages which assure "What goes around, comes around." Maybe; don't hold your breath.</span><br />
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<span style="color: rgba(34 , 49 , 63 , 0.7); font-family: "noto serif" , serif;"><b>*</b></span></div>
<span style="color: rgba(34 , 49 , 63 , 0.7); font-family: "noto serif" , serif;"> </span><span style="color: rgba(34 , 49 , 63 , 0.7); font-family: "noto serif" , serif;"> Not so very long ago, maybe 2018, someone posted a tweet extolling Myanmar as a wonderful place for a retreat. This someone was then chastised for promoting tourism in a region where genocide is committed. </span><span style="color: rgba(34 , 49 , 63 , 0.7); font-family: "noto serif" , serif;">The laudable lives side by side with the reprehensible, throughout the world. Natural beauty, or immense wealth, across the street from a village whose residents are starving as a result of human-generated famine. It is nothing new.</span><br />
<span style="color: rgba(34 , 49 , 63 , 0.7); font-family: "noto serif" , serif;"> Can't you just hear the furor, should visitors be discouraged from coming to the United States?</span><br />
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<span style="color: rgba(34 , 49 , 63 , 0.7); font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Prominent Tourist: I had a wonderful time in United States; there are wonderful places to visit. Everyone should come.</span></div>
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<span style="color: rgba(34 , 49 , 63 , 0.7); font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Global Public Media Source: Are you insane? Look at what they are doing to those poor bedraggled asylum seekers. Their law enforcement personnel are really just a bunch of thugs, who prey on persons of color. Plus, the citizenry is gun-crazy: you could get shot.</span></div>
<span style="color: rgba(34 , 49 , 63 , 0.7); font-family: "noto serif" , serif;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgba(34 , 49 , 63 , 0.7); font-family: "noto serif" , serif;"> Trust me, Individual One's digits would be worn to a frazzle, during the ensuing tweet storm. He probably would have trouble picking a target for the first burst of outrage. He sees the 'speck' in his brother's eye, but not the 'plank' in his own. (A reference to New Testament [Christian Bible] passage: Gospel of Matthew, Chapter Seven, Verses three through five.)</span><br />
<span style="color: rgba(34 , 49 , 63 , 0.7); font-family: "noto serif" , serif;"> It is advisable to clean up one's own mess, before calling attention to some other party's situation. Excuse me: that is the way of "accountable" people - those who rely on distraction and deception, employ less forthright tactics.</span><br />
<span style="color: rgba(34 , 49 , 63 , 0.7); font-family: "noto serif" , serif;"> In my frustration, I will resort to my fall-back position and try to treat encountered individuals with kindness. It usually works. But just for a moment, allow me to digress, returning to a certain set of thumbs. With a number of elderly people running for office of U.S. President, I wondered if a thumb-wrestling contest might be more entertaining than a debate, then figured 45 would have an unfair advantage. </span><br />
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<span style="color: rgba(34 , 49 , 63 , 0.7); font-family: "noto serif" , serif;"><b>*</b></span>
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(Fruit of the poisoned vine)</div>
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All relationships are fraught with potential dangers. When a toxic personality is added to the mix, run for your life. Seriously. <u>Run</u> - with all due haste. Toxicity can take varied forms and come in a variety of strengths and guises. Whether or not humans are made "in the image and likeness of God," once that product "rolls off the assembly line" anything can - and usually <u>does</u> - happen. People do not live in total isolation - not even hermits. Experiences gained through contact and interaction shape one's psyche.<br />
There are many disorders which can distort a personality. Since people live in communities, distortions are not contained within the affected self but leach into surrounding persons and situations. If a person contracts a deadly and highly contagious disease, that individual is placed in quarantine. The penal equivalent of quarantine is solitary confinement. Alternatives to those two extreme solutions can include restraining orders, divorce, even "unfriending" on Facebook. It isn't always so simple - not to diminish the accompanying trauma of even the <u>least</u> of these actions.<br />
If you have ever been in any relationship in which abuse was a factor you are likely aware that <i>knowing</i> the need to get out and actually <u>leaving</u> can be miles apart, as it were. Whatever actions are or are not taken will affect the lives not only of the immediately concerned individuals but also their satellite people. And not just current generation, but progeny. One recalls the John Donne (1572-1631) quotation "No man is an island."<br />
There are persons who have chosen to break the cycle, by remaining childless. Others have taken a less drastic path, instead changing parenting tactics. Both courses of action require tremendous inner strength - not only from the central character but <i>supporting cast</i> of friends/relatives. If you are in <u>any</u> role of an unfolding drama, I applaud you - and wish you a successful run.<br />
Whatever choice a person makes, is determined by a variety of influencing factors; some are chosen by a given participant, others are dictated by society at large or an individual's societal circumstances.<br />
<span style="color: rgba(34 , 49 , 63 , 0.7); font-family: "noto serif" , serif;"></span><br />
By 2050, it is projected there will be 1.5 billion people over age sixty-five. I recently heard of a program to use "grandmothers" to help people overcome depression. We need to help each other; in so doing, we help ourselves. In this scenario, older persons [hopefully, there are also participant "grandfathers"] get to feel useful and impart the wisdom of life experience, while younger folks get the undivided attention of someone who has been in a situation similar to their own. Presumably, there is a commensurate pay scale but it is probably less than that of a medical professional. So far, I have not heard of doctors claiming the elderly are stealing their jobs; goodness knows, there will always be a place for practitioners of healthcare professions. No one need be left out of helping others: it begins with kindness.Comments in Passinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05702049231486517582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5360806470892398452.post-2475099191964656612019-11-10T14:22:00.002-08:002019-11-10T14:31:03.716-08:00As we remember ...<div>
<b><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">'Unknown' soldier finds place in the Heart (of Texas)</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Remember the story of Eleanor Rigby? According to the Beatles' song, she "died... and was buried, along with her name. Nobody came."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Such was nearly the fate of a gentleman who quietly passed away during the month of October. (I do not recall the year with certainty but know it was within first decade of Twenty-First Century.) Given the global population is fast approaching ten billion, people live and die anonymously every day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> This man, estranged from his son, had no other known family, not many acquaintances, and fewer friends. His part-time caregiver had power-of-attorney; she and those who transported him to and from medical appointments probably knew him as well as anybody.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Though loath to speak ill of the dead, it seems evident the man lacked even rudimentary social graces.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> His health status had declined to the point he faced the certainty of spending his remaining days in the nursing home. His little dog was placed with a family known to his caregiver and Mr. S. was taken to the Brady West [nursing home] facility.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> He really didn't want to go and apparently had no intention of staying: he died that same evening. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Events proceeded rapidly - there were no funds to embalm him, so he would have to be interred within 24 hours. It was thought a pauper's grave would be his final resting place but, going through his papers, his attendant found documentation of United States military service. There is a section of Rest Haven Cemetery (on Hwy 87, in Brady, Texas) set aside for McCulloch County (Texas) veterans who die impoverished. City of Brady workers dug a grave.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> With some hastily made phone calls, a small funeral cortege was assembled. This included a preacher, the caregiver and her husband, one or two veterans and their wives. Also standing in attendance were a couple members of Brady City Council, as well as the funeral home workers who had delivered the body. Two women brought flowers from their yards.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Those gathered offered the solemn dignity which all God's children deserve. A few words were spoken, a short silence observed, then there was a quiet dispersal as the grave was closed. A small flag was placed as a temporary marker.</span><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">It had seemed a pauper's grave was all that was in view.</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: small;">He got flowers and a flag</span></i><i><span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: small;">; as a vet'ran, 'twas his due.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: small;">________</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: small;"><br /></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "garamond"; font-size: small;"> It has been more than a decade since a member of the writing group I attended, related this incident and asked if I could write it up for the <i>Brady Standard-Herald</i>, where I worked as proofreader and occasional columnist. The couplet used to close, was my contribution to a dead soldier's memory. The woman who told me about this was one of the city council members in attendance and she also brought flowers. She died earlier this year.</span></span></div>
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Comments in Passinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05702049231486517582noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5360806470892398452.post-27361939706476977182019-11-01T14:30:00.001-07:002019-11-01T14:30:52.801-07:00The Shield On harsh winter evenings, people while away time as best they are able. Confined by the weather, some read, listen to music or find some other means to amuse themselves. I like to write.<br />
A drawing I had seen spoke to me - in a voice so nearly audible it could have been disconcerting, had I not understood how my mind works. It looked like <i>anime</i> background, and the visual, not to mention that persistent Voice, prompted me to write a story. When Muse speaks, we mortals had best heed the Voice.<br />
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***<br />
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Sometimes one wakes, surprised by the surroundings amidst which one finds oneself. Nat'varen Dushja had gone through life in a mostly somnolent state, interrupted by stages of full consciousness. It seemed Fate had conspired with denizens of the underworld to surround Nat with oppressive spirits. Like others, he "went through the motions," not only because his sense of honor and duty demanded it, but because he simply knew no other way. "Normal" is rigidly defined by one's culture and one's experiences therein. Thankfully, a brave few break the confines, expanding the definitions, making them more fluid. Though they may initially be ridiculed, eventually, they are perceived as visionaries and pioneers.</div>
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Many have spent years, whole lifetimes in some cases, in this state of semi-wakefulness. Wizards invent and market potions, some which could more accurately be called <i>poisons</i>, and hawk them shamelessly, often needlessly, to unwary persons. Charlatans develop programs to bend the psyche. Not to say all of those who worked to alter chemical or mental balances do so out of greed, but many are dissuaded from the path of altruism by the lure of riches.</div>
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It was well Nat had been blessed with an inner strength that accorded endurance, but he also had a valiant champion, a guardian. She had hovered, unbeknownst to him, outside his immediate sphere, until their paths were destined, eventually, to cross.</div>
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Beryl Zagovornik was a Golden Dragon who had, during her middle years, attained the rank of Protector. Initial <u>awareness</u> of Nat'varen was superficial, and had come through a third party. Her first <i>encounter</i> with Dushja had been established in of a shared dream. Although Nat, not used to dreaming, chalked it up to "something he'd eaten," Beryl had recognized the portent's significance, having been a member of the Protectorate for eons. Her perceptiveness and empathy had garnered her comrades' high regard. Her empathy, however, had cost her dearly, leaving her decidedly more vulnerable than in her youth. Ironically, it was her vulnerability which was the source of her greatest strength. It was also undeniable that she was growing weak: Nat'varen Dushja may well be her last case. Whether or not the mission were completed, for that responsibility rested ultimately with him, when she had fulfilled her role, she would return to her home world. There, Beryl would live out her years among those who knew her best, until she either left this plane of existence and returned to the cosmos, or she were once more summoned to an extraordinary case that demanded her special talents.</div>
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During moments of introspection, Beryl experienced doubt: were her talents really anything special, did she really serve a purpose, or was she just an aging dragon with a penchant for intervening in the lives of others? Was she deluding herself that those lives she had touched were better for the interaction? She felt certain her own life had been enriched and could only hope others felt similarly.</div>
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Guardian spirits take various forms, according to the world of their origin. Some but not all, can take on the likeness of the species to whom they are assigned. Harking from a small orb in Drakonski Nebula, Beryl was a lovely dragon, whose golden scales glimmered with a warm, rosy glow, like burnished copper in firelight. Many of her kinfolk lived off-world, due to crowding: small planets have difficulty supporting and sustaining great numbers of large inhabitants. Beryl used to regret her inability to shape-shift, but over the course of millennia, one comes to self-acceptance and she saw not only the beauty but the practicality of her form, even taking into account her flaws and foibles.</div>
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The dream wherein Beryl met Nat held a world, forbidding, foreboding, cold and dangerous, yet strangely beautiful, if not comforting, in its chill cleanness. There was uncertainty, which is a given. Crossing treacherous icy terrain, required a great deal of focus and skill not to trip. A misstep could spell disaster, if not death. And though the phrase was often bandied about in a trifling manner, surviving such an error in judgement may well prove a fate <u>worse</u> than death: death brought an end to an individual's misery, while struggling to come back from poor timing and other mistakes often proved more troublesome.</div>
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Throughout her life, Beryl had given of herself, wanting to help others enjoy life. She felt how many were gladdened by her presence, her influence in their lives and it gave her immense joy. Sadly, there were those who reached a point where they saw her not as a helper, but an opponent. Those beings were no longer inspired but intimidated and though they blamed Beryl, what intimidated them were their own insecurities.</div>
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As a protector, one tried to gauge how much influence to use in a particular case, how involved to become. Mortal beings, whether dragon, dog, human or amoeba, are subject to design flaws - rendering life a guessing game, even on the best of days, under the most favorable conditions. One did the best one could with the subject and information at hand, hoping Immortal Beings would be pleased, or at least amused and inclined to be generous.</div>
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There had been a handful of cases in which Beryl had crossed physical lines of interaction. Dragons did not play by the same rules as some professions and there had been no judgement of impropriety levied, no chastisement for "immoral conduct." Those encounters had made her cautious, wary, hesitant to become involved with another human - which was exactly the reason she found Nat'varen Dushja so perplexing!</div>
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The coldness of that dream world was only too real for her, physically and emotionally. Yet she saw Nat's struggles and despite her better judgement, her dragon heart was touched. Furthermore, her mind was intrigued by the intellectual complexity she sensed.</div>
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Could she confer some of her <i>dragon-ness</i>, and <b>if</b> she could, would Nat comprehend? Never before had she dared consider the possibility, much less contemplate putting it in motion. "Don't be a fool!" her mind screamed at her, or rather, Don't be a bigger fool than you've already been. Beryl chided herself, knowing it was coming to terms with her own mortality that made her desperate to make a difference. She saw so much promise in Nat, so much potential. She just wanted to be part of it!</div>
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Self-preservation demanded a return to the homeland forthwith, but was quelled by the desire to reach just a little further, just this <i>once</i>. It may yet prove fatal, but Beryl would use the dragon-fire in her heart to thaw part of the frozen wasteland and nurture a life nearly as spent as her own.</div>
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No regrets and no looking back, Beryl would do all within her dragonhood to help Nat'varen Dushja conquer his foes, be they without or within. If he triumphed, she would rejoice, should he stumble, she would try to help him regain his footing.</div>
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Protectors are strong and steadfast and while there was breath in her dragon body, Beryl would stand by Nat, until relieved of her post, dismissed by her charge or overcome by forces beyond control.</div>
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Stand strong, Nat'varen Dushja, you are called to boldness! Grasp the weapons made available to you and master your world!</div>
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Comments in Passinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05702049231486517582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5360806470892398452.post-49352176146719465892019-10-12T14:56:00.000-07:002019-10-12T14:56:12.147-07:00MAPPS show the way<br />
12 October, 2019<br />
The United States is seems <i>always</i> in the throes of schemes (AKA "campaigns") to place a candidate in the White House. There are all sorts of promises to "Make America Great Again" - which probably do not amount to the proverbial hill of beans. Military strength and economic standing seem to be the focus of both media attention and financial backers.<br />
Positive impact of exposure to music, drama and other non-athletic programs have been recognized. Yet it seems electives in these fields are always the first to be sacrificed when any budget cutting is implemented.<br />
Raised in middle-class America during the second half of Twentieth Century, I have been fortunate: the cartoons I watched featured soundtracks of classical music. Television shows often had theme songs with [more or less] sensible lyrics and, in the old movies I watched on a black-and-white TV set, even the thugs had a reasonable semblance of manners.<br />
Talking with my youngest sibling once, she suggested I write about a school program she has proposed calling MAPPS: Music, Arts, Penmanship, Prosthetics Support. Having already alluded to the importance of music and art, I would like now to dwell on the two "P"s.<br />
Penmanship is again being taught in United States schools after having been deemed obsolete, for a period. It makes me sad that some were denied this enrichment. Of the handful of individuals with whom I am in regular correspondence, fewer than half reply in cursive. The ones who do are in the "over 55" age range. Some older people stop writing as their hands start to shake with infirmity of age, but I have seen the script of nonagenarians, which is well-shaped and legible, if slightly wavering. We seem to be in such a hurry. But really, what's the rush? Unless one is allergic, shouldn't one take time to *stop and smell the flowers*?<br />
Prosthetic devices are becoming increasingly visible among the general population. The manufacture of these items is, I would surmise, a billion-dollar industry. All too often <u>need</u> gives way to <b>greed</b>, and a person is denied something which would enable them to become a productive member of the community because they simply cannot afford it. In an age when 3-D printers can crank out a foot for a duck, why is any person forced to use a stick, padded with a wad of rags? Where are our priorities?<br />
Awareness of prevailing conditions is a start. From there, we must think, learn, and do - each according to our abilities. My sister believes in my ability to communicate and hopes my "putting it out there" will make a difference. I hope so too.<br />
Candidates for office should be required to spend as much promoting arts education as on their campaign. That might be a way to limit the mega-bucks spent by special interest groups. As it stands now, we are failing not only present and future generations, we are dishonoring past generations.<br />
Everything seems to be about the bottom line, which in this case, I suppose, is: Do we really want to be <u>great</u> or do we just wanna have the most guns and 'win the most games'? who are we really, and does it even matter?<br />
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Comments in Passinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05702049231486517582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5360806470892398452.post-71135940436488925062019-09-30T17:40:00.000-07:002019-09-30T17:40:08.473-07:00Stop the war now!30 September, 2019<br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> War has nothing to recommend it. Oh sure, some people speak of the ways war is a boost to economy. One who takes time to notice telling details, will likely find those who tout economic advantages of these deadly conflicts, have little or no actual "skin in the game."</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>*</b></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Daily, one becomes aware of individuals who are at grave risk from the ravages of disease. Some are refugees from war-torn countries; some are seeking political asylum; some are the working poor. United States "middle class" seems in danger of disappearing, leaving ultra wealthy individuals and the very poor. It has been pointed out that being rich is not a crime. I believe unless a person uses wealth to better the lives of others, perhaps it <i>should</i> be. Undoubtedly, some will say mine is a "sour grapes" attitude but I assure you, it is not. My wants and needs are simple and I live well, within my means. I <u>do</u> think my lifestyle should be a universal minimum standard. I have no problem with some being extremely well-to-do: just so long as no one is so poor they do not have the veritable pot to piss in. It may just be my opinion but I don't think a "war on poverty" is supposed to eliminate it buy killing off poor people.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Some argue the wealthy may spend as they see fit, because it is their money. Is it really? Unless wealth was earned solely by one's own physical labor, someone else contributed to it and should rightly be given due recompense. CEOs whose salaries exceed the earnings of company workers - by several hundred times are, not to put too fine a point on it, crooks. There are companies that often do not pay workers a living wage: said workers must work multiple jobs <b>and/or</b> apply for assistance.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> To add insult to injury, United States legislators are implementing/seeking ways to make the process more difficult and re-evaluating participants, to force "able-bodied" people to work a minimum of twenty hours per week. (This may also be happening in other countries besides U.S.) Ostensibly, this is being done to reduce the number of recipients and weed out "welfare queens." These boneheads just don't get it: with few exceptions, those who <u>can</u> work are already working - most of them much harder than many of these glorified bean counters ever even <u>thought</u> about working.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Privilege messes up priorities: people who have always had life easy, often think less fortunate individuals are "slackers." Money can also affect memory to a point at which the "nouveau riche" forget obstacles which impeded them. We as individuals need to live our own lives to the best of our abilities. We should also, as society, make it a priority to help disadvantaged individuals recognize their full potentials.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> You may think this blog's title has nothing to do with its content. Too often, war is glorified, to stir up fervor for warmongers' selfish desires. Language also exhibits way too much militarism, in further misguided glorification. Feelings of "patriotism" are being co-opted into nationalism. Residents of countries that have taken in refugees, now grumble that their national identity is being destroyed. When cultures meet, they should find ways to <u>blend</u>, instead of <b>clash</b>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> We need to open our hearts and minds to change, instead of being bound up in isolationism. Rigidity leads to breakage, whereas flexibility is the way to attain enduring strength. Do not be afraid of change: welcome it as a means of renewed and increased potential. Give peace a chance.</span>Comments in Passinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05702049231486517582noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5360806470892398452.post-27733825825387469752019-09-23T13:13:00.003-07:002019-09-23T13:18:09.010-07:00When Love leavesFourth Quarter 2019<br />
Dear One,<br />
Autumnal equinox has come to the region in which I dwell, and I have been answering several missives. Sometimes I need to refer back to previous letters, to form adequate responses and apply context. A most thought-provoking query has come my way: What do we do when God leaves? [And how do we know? - this is my own question; not put forth by asker of first query.]<br />
Verily, I had not pondered this supposition, ere now. Church leaders insist God never leaves, insisting that if we feel bereft, the "fault" is within <u>us</u>. Having known love to dissipate, seemingly of its own volition, my friend and I challenged that stance and discussed it at length.<br />
Those brought up "churched," are taught God is Love. There are many forms and fashions, designating <i>kinds</i> of love: parental love nurtures a child; filial love is accorded members of one's family [biological or chosen]; erotic love is that shared with one's partner; and <span style="background-color: #f8f9fa; font-size: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">agápi</span></span> is selfless love. Obviously there are nuances and shadings which individuals grow into, throughout life experiences. If we hold that God is Love, must we not also see Sacred in Truth; Light; and Creativity: for do not those forces also come from/embody Love?<br />
I began to wonder if maybe we humans put too much onus on our deities - Supreme or otherwise. If one is inclined to ascribe power to a supernatural entity, one likely expects said entity to be around when needed. When it begins to feel that God has gone away, one understandably feels betrayed and abandoned, particularly if it seems Almighty has just lost interest. I once phrased this sentiment thus: "It seems God should always be there, unless <u>we</u> *declare emancipation;* like when kids divorce their parents. Or maybe like a semi-neglected spouse. You know - when there's no more 'magic' but there's no call for divorce either."<br />
Perhaps believers do Sacred a disservice, holding God to impossible standards. After all, does not even <b>Creator of All That Is</b>, deserve the occasional "<span style="font-family: inherit;">bad hair"</span> day? Who among us knows how perturbed and frustrated a Being can become, during Time without beginning or end?<br />
My own prayer life bears little to no resemblance to its former self, which is not the impediment some may suppose. My attempts to be a better person are no longer motivated by hopes of meriting placement in some unseen Kingdom; merely by a desire to be and to do, good. If ever a deity were 'there,' It will continue to be so, despite any action or inaction on my part. Anyway, I have for years held the belief that the further humans drifted from revering Goddess,the worse off the species became. What else lies behind the mania to subjugate women and deny their human rights/body autonomy?<br />
Do you ever question the validity of [the] Three Ohs: omnipotence; omniscience; and omnipresence? Even if God's own self is <b>not</b> a man-made construct, surely the <i>concept</i> [of God] most assuredly is. Personally, I believe part of the problem can be laid squarely at the door of western culture, which deals so much in black and white, when most things are shades of gray. Westerners deny themselves the charms and comforts of mysticism: either something can be proved beyond shadow of doubt or it is dismissed as "smoke and mirrors." What a miserable excuse for a life.<br />
If one but gives one's heart and mind a bit of creative space, one finds oneself thinking elevated thoughts. Perhaps one will write New Be-Attitudes: Blessed are the inconvenient, for they shall raise awareness; Blessed are those deemed "insignificant," they too have meaning; Blessed are the weirdos, for we shall persevere - and one day, lead the lost. This last brings to mind climate activist Greta Thunberg. Some likely deem her "weird," as the young woman acknowledges she has Asperger syndrome. Greta is undeniably a force to be reckoned with and as such, may well deliver us from ourselves. At the very least, she will help show the way.<br />
If you are one who believes in God, I hope you are able to "keep the faith," even if you *lose your religion;* faith is, by far, the better of the two.Comments in Passinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05702049231486517582noreply@blogger.com2