'Tis a few minutes past midnight in my abode.
I wonder what time it REAL-ly is?
I recently received an email in which the author stated there was a REAL day Jesus Christ was born, and in the future there is a REAL day when he will return (the author's caps, not mine), and that there is a real day coming when people who reject Jesus Christ will be thrown into the wine press of God's wrath and their blood will be as deep as to a horse's bridle for 200 miles.
I had a mental image of a river of red. Then the thought, "Is not that a type of genocide?" On the coattails of that thought, an image from the cover of the book "Martin Luther: Hitler's Spiritual Ancestor" popped into my head.
I simply no longer believe that God is a God of wrath. Neither do I want to worship such an entity.
It is not a balanced weight of justice to spill blood based on the rejection of a "loving" savior. What is loving about that kind of justice? (Perhaps part of the rationalization for a belief in that type of so-called justice comes in one's definition of what it means to reject Jesus Christ.)
I rejected the idea of a burning hell when I was 18 years old. Why would any entity of Love torment someone and do it forever?
The Way International taught/teaches annihilation of the rejectors, a 2nd and final death. At the time I found The Way (at 18 years old), I could swallow a belief in annihilation much more easily than eternal torment.
Immediately after I exited The Way (after 28 years of being a loyal true believer), I was reading the book of Romans. I became engrossed with the Amplified Bible's translation of Roman 5, verses 15 through 19. I thought about those verses for months, rolling them over and over in my mind, trying to grasp and comprehend, at least a little, the expanse of grace. How humankind cannot work one little iota for God's acceptance; that it is totally and completely free? To me, even believing came in the category of works. Believing was the price; didn't I have to "do" something (ie: believe) to gain God's acceptance?
Those verses in Romans in the Amplified Bible state that the effect of what Jesus Christ accomplished can't even be compared to the fall of mankind? How could that be? I believed that "the fall" affected every thing on earth: tainted the blood of man; affected the earth itself - the soil, the air, the content; brought death and shame and evil. So whatever it was that Jesus Christ accomplished, couldn't even be compared with the effects of that contamination? It would have to be so big, so large, so expansive...like beyond and outside our minds to even begin to comprehend. And it wouldn't be based on any works? Not even believing? Could it be that big? What about believing on the Lord Jesus Christ?
About 3 months into my almost daily pondering of this HUGE idea, I met someone online (and then in person) that introduced me to Christian Universalism (CU). I spent the next 10 months or so reading and reading and reading. The approach of the CU interpretation to the scriptures made more sense to me than any eternal damnation, whether that damnation be a forever-burning torment or an annihilation into non-existence and/or never having existed. (Neither of those is just or loving, imo.)
I resonated much with Dr. Tom Talbott's various essays and his book "The Inescapable Love of God."
I slowly gave up the belief of annihilation and accepted the possibility of reconciliation for all.
And alas, I have continued to read various angles regarding various takes on the God debate, and the various takes on various "holy" books.
If there is a REAL time when eternal justice is handed out, I reckon we will all find out about it. There isn't a whole lot of control I (or anyone else) has over such a time. If there is such a time, I imagine we will all be in for some surprises.
I sure hope those surprises don't involve genocide and if so, that I'm counted with the rejectors.
Amen...for a few thoughts on this final day of 2010.
December 31, 2010
December 15, 2010
Stillness
AWW: 12/15/10
non-subject ~ the darkness
*****************************
I read other people's stories. I hear other's stories. Their perceptions. Their experiences. Their judgments. Their emotions. Often their stories involve their families of origin. Their brothers, sisters, moms, dads.
When it comes to stories of people's relationships with their parents, mostly with their moms, I draw a blank. When I think of my relationship with my mom, I feel a void, a nothingness.
That void isn't as prevalent when thinking of my dad.
Dad showed anger, at times quite blatantly. His face turning red. The veins in his neck stretched tight, bulging and almost exposed. The bass-tone verbiage that would bellow forth like it was straight from his heart or belly. I especially recall his passionate "god damn it to hell" phrase. One, which when I think about, is a pretty good phrase if God is going to damn something.
Dad showed compassion and grief. I saw him cry, even before his wreck. When I was in elementary and junior high schools, we would sometimes watch Lassie or Little House on the Prairie. Dad would cry. It wasn't boisterous like when he was angry. A tear or few trickled down his cheek. He tried to hold back, but couldn't. He'd wipe them with the back of his hand. I'd be teary-eyed too.
Dad would dance. And I'd dance with him, in the living room. I was young, elementary school age. A Patsy Cline or Johnny Cash vinyl would be spinning on the record player. Dad would start twisting and swaying his hips. He enjoyed shaking a leg.
When I was 24, about 1-1/2 months before his accident in 1983, he flew out to Kansas to visit me when I was in-residence in the Way Corps at The Way College of Emporia. The Way Corps, and I guess the College Division as well, had a parent's weekend. Dad stayed on campus in the Uncle Harry Dorm. One of my Corps brothers gave up his lower bunk for Dad. Dad and I went to a bar in town and we danced. That weekend was the last time I saw him able to use his body fully.
Little did I know how providential that visit was. The next time I saw Dad some two months later, he lay flat in a hospital bed, his body stretched straight out with a stainless steel halo holding his head perfectly still. Still with steel.
Providential visits. Like the last time I ever saw Dad, in February, 1996, when I was 36 years old. I drove Mom, myself, and my two young children the seven hours from Hickory, NC, to Richmond, VA, to visit Dad. He'd had a rough year with some colon surgeries, a couple short times in a nursing home, and now he was recuperating at McGuire Veteran's Administration Hospital. He was still weak, but was making progress. At the time, McGuire had the largest Spinal Cord Injury Unit in the US. Or so I'd been told.
Mom was an emotional wreck that trip. She knew, I knew, my brother and sister knew, that Dad wouldn't be able to come back home. We didn't have the means to care for him there anymore. That weekend visit to McGuire, she couldn't bring herself to tell Dad he wouldn't be able to come home. I didn't tell him either. He died the following Friday. Some say he did go home.
Dad was cremated.
Mom had tried to commit suicide in 1995. I can't recall exactly where Dad was at that time; I guess either in a nursing home or the hospital. I found Mom on her kitchen floor after the overdose. But of course that incident was never discussed.
Dad was passionate. I have feelings when I think of Dad.
When I think of Mom, I have a void. It's so odd to me. I don't feel anything. I find it difficult to relate to people's experiences when they share their relationships regarding their parents, especially their relationships with their mothers.
I never saw Mom cry, at least that I can remember. Never. The only times I remember her showing anger were when I got my tattoo when I was 18 and then in her later years after Dad's wreck. When I got my tat, her response was more of fear than anger. After Dad's wreck, her anger was directed at her children and Dad. That continued after Dad's death.
Mom laughed though, and seemed to try to see the bright side of things. Well, actually, I think, she ignored the darker side.
She was Compton Encyclopedia's number one salesperson in the United States for about five years in a row in the late 60s and early 70s.
non-subject ~ the darkness
*****************************
I read other people's stories. I hear other's stories. Their perceptions. Their experiences. Their judgments. Their emotions. Often their stories involve their families of origin. Their brothers, sisters, moms, dads.
When it comes to stories of people's relationships with their parents, mostly with their moms, I draw a blank. When I think of my relationship with my mom, I feel a void, a nothingness.
That void isn't as prevalent when thinking of my dad.
Dad showed anger, at times quite blatantly. His face turning red. The veins in his neck stretched tight, bulging and almost exposed. The bass-tone verbiage that would bellow forth like it was straight from his heart or belly. I especially recall his passionate "god damn it to hell" phrase. One, which when I think about, is a pretty good phrase if God is going to damn something.
Dad showed compassion and grief. I saw him cry, even before his wreck. When I was in elementary and junior high schools, we would sometimes watch Lassie or Little House on the Prairie. Dad would cry. It wasn't boisterous like when he was angry. A tear or few trickled down his cheek. He tried to hold back, but couldn't. He'd wipe them with the back of his hand. I'd be teary-eyed too.
Dad would dance. And I'd dance with him, in the living room. I was young, elementary school age. A Patsy Cline or Johnny Cash vinyl would be spinning on the record player. Dad would start twisting and swaying his hips. He enjoyed shaking a leg.
When I was 24, about 1-1/2 months before his accident in 1983, he flew out to Kansas to visit me when I was in-residence in the Way Corps at The Way College of Emporia. The Way Corps, and I guess the College Division as well, had a parent's weekend. Dad stayed on campus in the Uncle Harry Dorm. One of my Corps brothers gave up his lower bunk for Dad. Dad and I went to a bar in town and we danced. That weekend was the last time I saw him able to use his body fully.
Little did I know how providential that visit was. The next time I saw Dad some two months later, he lay flat in a hospital bed, his body stretched straight out with a stainless steel halo holding his head perfectly still. Still with steel.
Providential visits. Like the last time I ever saw Dad, in February, 1996, when I was 36 years old. I drove Mom, myself, and my two young children the seven hours from Hickory, NC, to Richmond, VA, to visit Dad. He'd had a rough year with some colon surgeries, a couple short times in a nursing home, and now he was recuperating at McGuire Veteran's Administration Hospital. He was still weak, but was making progress. At the time, McGuire had the largest Spinal Cord Injury Unit in the US. Or so I'd been told.
Mom was an emotional wreck that trip. She knew, I knew, my brother and sister knew, that Dad wouldn't be able to come back home. We didn't have the means to care for him there anymore. That weekend visit to McGuire, she couldn't bring herself to tell Dad he wouldn't be able to come home. I didn't tell him either. He died the following Friday. Some say he did go home.
Dad was cremated.
Mom had tried to commit suicide in 1995. I can't recall exactly where Dad was at that time; I guess either in a nursing home or the hospital. I found Mom on her kitchen floor after the overdose. But of course that incident was never discussed.
Dad was passionate. I have feelings when I think of Dad.
When I think of Mom, I have a void. It's so odd to me. I don't feel anything. I find it difficult to relate to people's experiences when they share their relationships regarding their parents, especially their relationships with their mothers.
I never saw Mom cry, at least that I can remember. Never. The only times I remember her showing anger were when I got my tattoo when I was 18 and then in her later years after Dad's wreck. When I got my tat, her response was more of fear than anger. After Dad's wreck, her anger was directed at her children and Dad. That continued after Dad's death.
Mom laughed though, and seemed to try to see the bright side of things. Well, actually, I think, she ignored the darker side.
She was Compton Encyclopedia's number one salesperson in the United States for about five years in a row in the late 60s and early 70s.
December 12, 2010
Storms
I've been dealing with a situation for a few months now. By "dealing with" I mainly refer to regulating my internal responses. In regard to the situation, I no longer have anxiety and depression every day. I wrestled with one or both of those up until mid-November. I was doing pretty well after that. Then some circumstances surrounding the 'situation' came up. I found myself infuriated which then led into self-loathing.
That storm passed and the sky cleared. I have done much better the past 4+ days. At least until the next storm. I am not naive to think there won't be a few more upheavals and triggers surrounding the situation, though that would be nice and isn't impossible.
I wrote the following in my journal tonight. I've adapted the journal entry for public eyes, leaving out certain information.
**************************
I'm doing extremely better in regard to [situation]. I'm not sure exactly what has helped with the transformation the past 4+ days. And it has only been 4+ days, not enough time really to know if the "better" is actually more stable or simply a-passing through. Regardless, I'm glad for the 4+ days.
What are some factors that I think helped:
~allowing myself to feel the rage
~being aware and noticing the self-loathing
~allowing myself to feel the grief
~writing about "it"
~being able to share what I wrote
~identifying the trigger factors
~regulating the distorted thoughts
~centering my heart focus
~discussing what happened and my responses with Dr. McColloch & getting his perspective
In light of the above, I need to recall those factors. Most likely, there will be more triggers to come. I may again feel vindictiveness(v). I may feel the rage(r). It's understandable I would feel those emotions in this situation.
I do not have to allow those emotional responses to lead to self-loathing. I can feel the v & r w/out turning on myself and berating myself. For the v & r I can do what I did this time...to write and to heart soak. If I start to plummet into self-loathing...regulate, write, and perhaps "personify" the loathe...or at least check in with the personas I have already named. I could also personify the rage, if I feel the need to.
After getting through the storm, by Thursday, I really had no desire to [...]. I want to be able to forgive, to recall the good. At the same time, I don't want to excuse the harm. [...]
Goals for me in regard to the situation:
******************************
That storm passed and the sky cleared. I have done much better the past 4+ days. At least until the next storm. I am not naive to think there won't be a few more upheavals and triggers surrounding the situation, though that would be nice and isn't impossible.
I wrote the following in my journal tonight. I've adapted the journal entry for public eyes, leaving out certain information.
**************************
I'm doing extremely better in regard to [situation]. I'm not sure exactly what has helped with the transformation the past 4+ days. And it has only been 4+ days, not enough time really to know if the "better" is actually more stable or simply a-passing through. Regardless, I'm glad for the 4+ days.
What are some factors that I think helped:
~allowing myself to feel the rage
~being aware and noticing the self-loathing
~allowing myself to feel the grief
~writing about "it"
~being able to share what I wrote
~identifying the trigger factors
~regulating the distorted thoughts
~centering my heart focus
~discussing what happened and my responses with Dr. McColloch & getting his perspective
In light of the above, I need to recall those factors. Most likely, there will be more triggers to come. I may again feel vindictiveness(v). I may feel the rage(r). It's understandable I would feel those emotions in this situation.
I do not have to allow those emotional responses to lead to self-loathing. I can feel the v & r w/out turning on myself and berating myself. For the v & r I can do what I did this time...to write and to heart soak. If I start to plummet into self-loathing...regulate, write, and perhaps "personify" the loathe...or at least check in with the personas I have already named. I could also personify the rage, if I feel the need to.
After getting through the storm, by Thursday, I really had no desire to [...]. I want to be able to forgive, to recall the good. At the same time, I don't want to excuse the harm. [...]
Goals for me in regard to the situation:
- speak my truth
- uphold my integrity
- not succumb to silencing myself
- be an advocate for me
- be truthful
- be open to possible various outcomes
******************************
December 9, 2010
Lock-in
AWW ~ 12/08/10
non-subject: decision point
***************************
I dated Marshall for a little over one year. I was the ripe age of 13 when we fell in love. Marshall was the same age. Handsome, with an effeminate side. I liked that. A drummer. A lyricist. A musician.
His eyes were a deep Caribbean blue. His hair, wavy brown. His physique, handsome. He didn't have a hairy chest, at least not yet.
Even though he had an effeminate side, Marshall played on the junior high sports teams - football, basketball, baseball. The school mascot was the Cyclones.
I was a cheerleader. I liked showing off my legs in my short cheerleader mini-skirt, even in winter. But in winter it was a wool mini-skirt instead of a polyester blend.
I gave my virginity to Marshall. Though I still can't recall the first time. I guess someday if I need to remember I will. Maybe it will come through in one of my bizarre sleep dreams. I have dreams that are like movies. Colorful and filled with activity. Lately my dreams have involved crowds of people, like packed carnivals.
Marshall and I were together every spare minute. Two lovers so young. We were going to marry one day. I would be his wife.
My parent's couch in the den, Marshall's bed, the neighborhood woods, the little cabin in The Pines. Those were our regular fucking places. But it wasn't just fucking; we made love.
We wrote steamy love letters. I would write descriptly about the size of Marshall's penis and what his erection felt like to my young lips and hands. I'd draw pictures on the sides of the lined notebook paper.
I wonder how many of those letters he showed to his older brothers.
Kelly Klein was a year older than I. She was my best friend, other than Marshall. Kelly and I lived only four houses away from each other. But I didn't share about my sex life with Kelly. My adolescent sex life was private, only shared with Marshall. I didn't talk about it with anyone else. No one.
Kelly & I used to hang out at each other's homes. We listened to 45 vinyls on the record player - Smokey Robinson, The Temptations, Marvin Gaye, Chicago. We rode bikes together. We didn't ride horses together. By the time Kelly and I became friends, I had faded away from horses. I had traded riding horses for riding Marshall. The hours every day I'd spent with horses, I now spent with Marshall.
Maybe Kelly was getting jealous.
I loved watching Marshall on the basketball court. I'd think about sex. I loved watching him play drums, watching his hands and his facial expressions. I'd think about sex. He liked sex. I was good at it. I longed to please.
But it wasn't just sex. Some maybe would call it puppy love, but it wasn't. It was the real thing, adult stuff. At 13 and 14, I was a woman...or so I thought.
Holy Trinity Lutheran Church would sometimes have lock-ins for the youth. Marshall went to one. My friend Kelly went to the same lock-in.
I don't recall now if it was Kelly who told me or someone else. Maybe it was one of Marshall's brothers? Perhaps it was E.B.? He always seemed to have a soft spot for me. Whoever it was, told me that Marshall and Kelly had made out in the dark, downstairs foyer in the church in the wee morning hours of the lock-in. My mind imagined his hand fondling her breasts.
When I got that news, I also got the news that the lock-in wasn't their first time. There had been multiple make-outs.
How could Marshall do that to me? How could he betray me like that? How could he continue to make love with me, telling me how much I meant to him, and at the same time be cheating on me with my best friend?
With gaited fury, I entered the community rec center, a local hang out for teens. I made my way into the large warehouse-sized game room on the ground level. In one section was pool, in another ping pong, in another foosball, in another pinball. On one entire side of the large room, thick windows reached from ceiling to floor; two sets of heavy glass doors were strategically placed within the windowed wall. Through the glass, one could see across the pavement and bit of grass to the building that housed the changing rooms for the swimming pool - the large fenced-in swimming pool located right behind the changing rooms.
I found Marshall at some pool tables. The jukebox sat to the left.
Marshall was standing, the thick glassed wall at his back, with pool stick in hand watching the striped and solid balls roll across the green felted table. He looked over and saw the passion in my visage, tears streaming down my face.
I ripped off the sterling silver necklace with the round, sterling silver St. Christopher piece engraved on the back with Marshall's signature, a token of his love. St. Christopher, to protect me. With all my might I hurled it at Marshall, tears still pouring down my cheeks, my voice shouting words of pain that ripped my young heart.
I don't recall what words I hollered at him in front of everyone milling around the large game room. There must have been thirty people or so.
I marched out the large glass doors and then the 2-1/2 miles home. My heart broken and tears flooding.
I don't know where the St. Christopher landed.
Kelly landed in Marshall's arms for the next couple years.
**************************
non-subject: decision point
***************************
I dated Marshall for a little over one year. I was the ripe age of 13 when we fell in love. Marshall was the same age. Handsome, with an effeminate side. I liked that. A drummer. A lyricist. A musician.
His eyes were a deep Caribbean blue. His hair, wavy brown. His physique, handsome. He didn't have a hairy chest, at least not yet.
Even though he had an effeminate side, Marshall played on the junior high sports teams - football, basketball, baseball. The school mascot was the Cyclones.
I was a cheerleader. I liked showing off my legs in my short cheerleader mini-skirt, even in winter. But in winter it was a wool mini-skirt instead of a polyester blend.
I gave my virginity to Marshall. Though I still can't recall the first time. I guess someday if I need to remember I will. Maybe it will come through in one of my bizarre sleep dreams. I have dreams that are like movies. Colorful and filled with activity. Lately my dreams have involved crowds of people, like packed carnivals.
Marshall and I were together every spare minute. Two lovers so young. We were going to marry one day. I would be his wife.
My parent's couch in the den, Marshall's bed, the neighborhood woods, the little cabin in The Pines. Those were our regular fucking places. But it wasn't just fucking; we made love.
We wrote steamy love letters. I would write descriptly about the size of Marshall's penis and what his erection felt like to my young lips and hands. I'd draw pictures on the sides of the lined notebook paper.
I wonder how many of those letters he showed to his older brothers.
Kelly Klein was a year older than I. She was my best friend, other than Marshall. Kelly and I lived only four houses away from each other. But I didn't share about my sex life with Kelly. My adolescent sex life was private, only shared with Marshall. I didn't talk about it with anyone else. No one.
Kelly & I used to hang out at each other's homes. We listened to 45 vinyls on the record player - Smokey Robinson, The Temptations, Marvin Gaye, Chicago. We rode bikes together. We didn't ride horses together. By the time Kelly and I became friends, I had faded away from horses. I had traded riding horses for riding Marshall. The hours every day I'd spent with horses, I now spent with Marshall.
Maybe Kelly was getting jealous.
I loved watching Marshall on the basketball court. I'd think about sex. I loved watching him play drums, watching his hands and his facial expressions. I'd think about sex. He liked sex. I was good at it. I longed to please.
But it wasn't just sex. Some maybe would call it puppy love, but it wasn't. It was the real thing, adult stuff. At 13 and 14, I was a woman...or so I thought.
Holy Trinity Lutheran Church would sometimes have lock-ins for the youth. Marshall went to one. My friend Kelly went to the same lock-in.
I don't recall now if it was Kelly who told me or someone else. Maybe it was one of Marshall's brothers? Perhaps it was E.B.? He always seemed to have a soft spot for me. Whoever it was, told me that Marshall and Kelly had made out in the dark, downstairs foyer in the church in the wee morning hours of the lock-in. My mind imagined his hand fondling her breasts.
When I got that news, I also got the news that the lock-in wasn't their first time. There had been multiple make-outs.
How could Marshall do that to me? How could he betray me like that? How could he continue to make love with me, telling me how much I meant to him, and at the same time be cheating on me with my best friend?
With gaited fury, I entered the community rec center, a local hang out for teens. I made my way into the large warehouse-sized game room on the ground level. In one section was pool, in another ping pong, in another foosball, in another pinball. On one entire side of the large room, thick windows reached from ceiling to floor; two sets of heavy glass doors were strategically placed within the windowed wall. Through the glass, one could see across the pavement and bit of grass to the building that housed the changing rooms for the swimming pool - the large fenced-in swimming pool located right behind the changing rooms.
I found Marshall at some pool tables. The jukebox sat to the left.
Marshall was standing, the thick glassed wall at his back, with pool stick in hand watching the striped and solid balls roll across the green felted table. He looked over and saw the passion in my visage, tears streaming down my face.
I ripped off the sterling silver necklace with the round, sterling silver St. Christopher piece engraved on the back with Marshall's signature, a token of his love. St. Christopher, to protect me. With all my might I hurled it at Marshall, tears still pouring down my cheeks, my voice shouting words of pain that ripped my young heart.
I don't recall what words I hollered at him in front of everyone milling around the large game room. There must have been thirty people or so.
I marched out the large glass doors and then the 2-1/2 miles home. My heart broken and tears flooding.
I don't know where the St. Christopher landed.
Kelly landed in Marshall's arms for the next couple years.
**************************
December 6, 2010
Sunlife and Orbs
I like our living room. It's bright and open. There is a bay window, with a window seat, that overlooks the front yard. On the seat rests a metal-type bowl. The bowl isn't solid, but rather sculpted with metallic wires and such - leaves and grapes and vines. Inside the bowl are decorative embossed balls, almost the size of croquet balls. Each ball with a different embossed scene. Tigers. Elephants. Giraffes. Africa.
Story orbs.
The spheres bring to mind one of my favorite songs, "Circle of Life," which I first heard in the movie "The Lion King." Circles. Orbs. Globes. Scenes.
On either side of the artistic bowl that is home to the scenic globes, sit two oil lamps. They have been used from time to time. I've not used them in awhile. Perhaps I will tonight, light them instead of turning on the switch of the tall, black, upright floor lamp.
I could swear that the fuel oil I poured into those lamps was originally a pale shade of purple. Did the sun bleach the color from the oil? I wondered as I pondered the lamps this morning. The past months, I've noticed the clear oil and thought of how the sun purifies.
The thought of the sun transforming the oil from purple to clear causes me pause.
Our family used to play croquet regularly. We'd hit or tap the balls with our mallets and watch them travel the lawn. Colored, striped orbs spinning on Earth.
Croquet. That might be a good springtime activity, once the spring has again sprung. The warmth causing the daffodils to sprout. Renewal time after the dormant season of cold and ice and shorter days.
I wonder what I'll accomplish this 2010 and 2011 dormant season?
Wow. The year 2011, ten years beyond the Odyssey.
*****************************
Story orbs.
The spheres bring to mind one of my favorite songs, "Circle of Life," which I first heard in the movie "The Lion King." Circles. Orbs. Globes. Scenes.
On either side of the artistic bowl that is home to the scenic globes, sit two oil lamps. They have been used from time to time. I've not used them in awhile. Perhaps I will tonight, light them instead of turning on the switch of the tall, black, upright floor lamp.
I could swear that the fuel oil I poured into those lamps was originally a pale shade of purple. Did the sun bleach the color from the oil? I wondered as I pondered the lamps this morning. The past months, I've noticed the clear oil and thought of how the sun purifies.
The thought of the sun transforming the oil from purple to clear causes me pause.
Our family used to play croquet regularly. We'd hit or tap the balls with our mallets and watch them travel the lawn. Colored, striped orbs spinning on Earth.
Croquet. That might be a good springtime activity, once the spring has again sprung. The warmth causing the daffodils to sprout. Renewal time after the dormant season of cold and ice and shorter days.
I wonder what I'll accomplish this 2010 and 2011 dormant season?
Wow. The year 2011, ten years beyond the Odyssey.
*****************************
December 4, 2010
The Obvious ~ a quote
Something I've been thinking about. It's not earth shattering or anything and probably obvious to most people.
The quote:
In any so-called service/support organization, if people are expendable, therein the organization is fraudulent.
**************************************
The quote:
In any so-called service/support organization, if people are expendable, therein the organization is fraudulent.
**************************************
December 1, 2010
Purple & Green
What to write?
I draw a blank. ___________ (Now I typed a blank.)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It rains tonight
Puddles form alongside the driveway
Where the gravel is
Sometimes the drops come fast
And furious
Making a small crick
That flows to the street
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As a youngster I often played outside. Our house was located on a hill and the rain would run down the sides of the street. There were and still are no sidewalks on that street. I used to go out after a rain, collect small rocks and sticks, and make miniature dams in the tiny streams that flowed down the paved roadside. I was an engineer. Sometimes I was a captain of a ship, the ship being made of a stick or piece of bark. The imagination with rain.
The smell of rain. The sound of rain. The feel of rain.
Behind our house was a pasture. That's where the ponies lived. Horses too. I'd climb the fence and walk across the grassy slope that leveled out as I got to the creek. This was a real creek. Even had a swimming hole. And crawdads. And good rocks for creek walking. And clay. I'd form bowls from the clay, let them dry in the sun, then paint them with the purple juice from polk berries.
I was told polk berries were poisonous but that one could eat the raw, young leaves in salads. But I never did eat any polk salad.
Jimson weed grew in that pasture. The spiky pods were topped with purple feathery locks. Purple is one of my favorite colors. Purple and green, I really like those colors together. Today at work, as I was unpacking art, I came across a painting of some Jimson plants. I bought the art piece for my miniature art collection.
Jimson, aka Datura, and I had a relationship in the distant past. She almost killed me, but we survived those hellish four days. One of our hallucinations was of water in an aquarium which housed a sanatorium that staffed witch doctors.
I wasn't told that Datura was poisonous, but rather that it was mind expanding. I did eat Datura seeds, but not in a salad.
___________________
I draw a blank. ___________ (Now I typed a blank.)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It rains tonight
Puddles form alongside the driveway
Where the gravel is
Sometimes the drops come fast
And furious
Making a small crick
That flows to the street
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As a youngster I often played outside. Our house was located on a hill and the rain would run down the sides of the street. There were and still are no sidewalks on that street. I used to go out after a rain, collect small rocks and sticks, and make miniature dams in the tiny streams that flowed down the paved roadside. I was an engineer. Sometimes I was a captain of a ship, the ship being made of a stick or piece of bark. The imagination with rain.
The smell of rain. The sound of rain. The feel of rain.
Behind our house was a pasture. That's where the ponies lived. Horses too. I'd climb the fence and walk across the grassy slope that leveled out as I got to the creek. This was a real creek. Even had a swimming hole. And crawdads. And good rocks for creek walking. And clay. I'd form bowls from the clay, let them dry in the sun, then paint them with the purple juice from polk berries.
I was told polk berries were poisonous but that one could eat the raw, young leaves in salads. But I never did eat any polk salad.
Jimson weed grew in that pasture. The spiky pods were topped with purple feathery locks. Purple is one of my favorite colors. Purple and green, I really like those colors together. Today at work, as I was unpacking art, I came across a painting of some Jimson plants. I bought the art piece for my miniature art collection.
Jimson, aka Datura, and I had a relationship in the distant past. She almost killed me, but we survived those hellish four days. One of our hallucinations was of water in an aquarium which housed a sanatorium that staffed witch doctors.
I wasn't told that Datura was poisonous, but rather that it was mind expanding. I did eat Datura seeds, but not in a salad.
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